The

Issistant

J. Patrick Law

SIMON (S?SCHUSTER
New York London Sydney Singapore

SIMON & SCHUSTER
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters.
places, and incidents either are products of the author's
imagination or arc used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2000 by J. Patrick Law- All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.

Simon tS' Schuster and colophon arc registered trademarks
of Simon & Schustcr, Inc.

Designed by Leslie Phillips
Manufactured in the United States of America

10 987654321

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATAI.OGING-IN-PI B1.1CATION DATA

1SBNO6K4K4261-0

FOR MY MOTHER AND FATHER
sayan assistant; pi., sayanim

Ha Mossad, Ie Modiyn we Ie Tafkidim Mayuhadim the Institute for
Intelligence and Special Operations; commonly referred to as
Mossad, or the Institute.

katsa case officer responsible for recruitment and handling of foreign
agents in designated countries, including the United States.

AUTHOR S NOTE

Although the sayanim exist as an integral facet of the Institute's overall
ability to conduct its operations, the characters in this work bear no relation
to people living or deceased.
Also, certain details about the Israeli embassy in Washington, D.C.,
have been altered or omitted for security purposes.
The
.ssistant
0
ne



t

he unseasonable spring storm crashed down from Virginia's Blue
Ridge Mountains and into the Shenandoah Valley. Its tail clipped
the distant Alleghenies, but it saved its brunt for the city. Black skies,
shot through with green and purple, churned over Washington, D.C., the
lightning cracking and roaring like the voices of dueling gods of some
long-dead planet.
"I am the Mighty Shazzam and you will never catch me!" a deep, ominous
voice called out.
Over a timpani drumroll of thunder, another voice trumpeted, "Yes, I
will catch you. For I am Sir Eimo, a knight pure of heart and noble of
mind!"
Sir Eimo, outfitted in aluminum foil that passed for a suit of armor,
dashed after the sorcerer, caught him by the trailing ends of his black
robe, and sent him tumbling to the ground.
"Where is the Lady Lucy?" Sir Eimo demanded.
"I will never tell you," the Mighty Shazzam gasped. With that he
rolled over and lay still.
'Eimo ... Eimo, is that you?" came the plaintive cry.
Eimo raced across the floor where, in the corner, the Lady Lucy had
mysteriously appeared, leaning against the wall, one hand on her brow.
"Oh, Eimo, you have saved me from the Mighty Shazzam."
And I promise he will never come between us again."
12 J. PATRICK LAW

At which point the Lady Lucy stood on tiptoes and planted a demure
kiss on her hero's cheek.
Benjamin Poltarek let three beats go by, then dragged his right foot
along the floor. A simple construction of string and pulleys slowly
brought down the navy blue curtain on the puppet stage.
Now came the moment of truth. Like any good magician, he had an almost
physical connection with his audience, could feel their awe and appreciation
crackling in his palm. But these twenty-four spectators, seated
in a semicircle around his velvet-draped table, were the harshest critics.
You could walk a giraffe past most adults and they'd never see it. Try that
with this bunch of four-to nine-year-olds and they would hand you your
head.
"Gol-/a?/"
It was the wheelchairbound little girl in the third row, with hair like
spun corn silk and eyes as blue as cornflowers. Her exclamation broke
the spell; all the kids started clapping and yelling for more.
Ben removed his top hat, with the great elmo inscribed in gold glitter,
and, with a flourish, bowed. The hat was the only unusual piece of his
wardrobe. Whether performing for children or adults, Ben always favored
dark, conservatively cut suits that hung perfectly on his tall, lean frame.
They should have because even after custom tailoring, Ben always
added the little touches indispensable to his acts: secret pockets, pockets
that could be tugged open, seams that hid invisible nylon thread, sleeves
that could be stuffed with coins or silks. The teacher who'd introduced
him to the magic arts over twenty-five years ago, when Ben was only ten,
had insisted that he learn to sew. Over time, a "tailor's notch," a groove,
had worn into his left incisor from biting thread. ;
Instead of a regular shirt, beneath his suit jacket he wore a dancer's ;
blouse with a billowy front and puffy sleeves. The sleeves not only al- |
lowed him a wide range of motion, they were necessary to the sleight of I
hand he was performing as he moved among his young audience. Silks-- 1
the more colorful the better--always captivated children. Since uki- |
mately any magic show takes place in the viewer's mind, Ben used his
audience's perception to heighten the effect of his tricks. He stopped in ,
front of a six-year-old boy with braces on his legs, and, using an emerald |
green silk, performed the "Hay poke-through vanish," making it appear
that the material he'd poked into his left fist with his right forefinger had
1HE ASSIS 1ARI 1 15

| disappeared--only to reappear when he slipped his hand around the
bov's head and made the silk come out his ear.
As Ben wended his way through and around his audience, his movements
agile and graceful, seemed totally random. They were, in fact, deliberate.
He stopped in front of a redheaded girl seated in a soft chair,
r with an oxygen tank beside it, and watched her eyes shine as he revealed
' the secrets of his color-changing handkerchief. Two rows away, a boy in a
? .y^o cast was mesmerized when the "breakaway fan" opened one way,
seemed perfectly ordinary, only to fall apart--much to the magician's
embarrassment--when opened in the opposite direction.
"Who wants to help me bake a cake?"
A chorus of "I do!" drowned out the pounding of driving rain against
; the windows.
Ben went over to a second table that he'd set up before the children
I had been brought into the playroom. Since he'd focused their attention
I on the big front table, this smaller one, eighteen inches square with four
| sturdy legs, had been ignored.
E First, Ben removed his hat and set it on its top.
| "Recipes, recipes," he muttered, patting his pockets, finally coming
| up with a piece of paper that he unfolded beside the hat.
| "Now, three eggs." He looked around his audience. "Anyone?" Two
I dozen heads shook solemnly. "Well, let's see. Maybe in this pocket..."
I One by one, he pulled the eggs out of his right pants pocket--where
1 they'd nestled in three individual, carefully sewn sheaths--and deftly
; cracked them over the hat.
"Now we need a little flour." Which came out of a jacket cuff. "And
some milk." Courtesy of a plastic tube taped to the underside of his
forearm. "And . . ." He looked at the kids, puzzled. "Chocolate or vanilla?"
"Chocolater
"Chocolate it is." Squirted out from the hollow of a large cuff link.
"Now we have to cook it."
Picking up his hat, Ben retraced his steps to the redheaded girl.
"V ^ L
lou re hair is so beautiful, just like a rosy campfire. Do you think I
can use it to cook my cake?"
The child giggled. Wo.'"
"Well, I think I can. Let s see."
14 J. PA1R1LR LAW

Humming, Ben moved his hat around and around over the girl's head,
as if he were handling an omelet pan. He peeked inside.
"Oh, yes. This will be delicious. Can you smell it yet?"
The children bobbed their heads enthusiastically.
Geez, 1 hope so. Ben had dropped a few odor pellets--gelatin capsules
filled with chocolate fragrance--down his pants leg, and carefully
crushed them underfoot.
Ben peered into his hat. The ingredients were all gone, having disappeared
into the outer pan of a tried-and-true prop called a Cake Pan.
Nestled in the smaller inner pan was the cake, which Ben had baked
only hours before his performance. Since he had to wear his hat <?«//keep
the cake in it at the same time, the mix of choice was always angel food
or sponge.
"Looks like we're almost ready..."
Ben moved back to the larger table, where a pile of paper plates and
plastic forks had magically appeared. He frowned. Over the scent of
warm chocolate, he caught the hint of another fragrance. The sight of the
woman standing with her back to the door almost made him lose focus.
"One and two and three and ..."
With a nourish, Ben turned over his hat, catching the cake as it slipped
out of the smaller pan. He set it down on one of the plates, produced a
Swiss Army knife, and cut off a small piece to taste.
"I think it's pretty good," he told his audience. "Who wants to try
some?"
The woman at the door was Dr. Rachel Melman and she smiled when
the clamor went up. Watching Ben cut the cake into bite-size pieces and
pass them around on the paper plates, she felt a rush of love. A bachelor,
he was nonetheless a magnet for children and pets, who tended to adopt
him on sight. He had the ability to make every child feel special, as
though he or she was the sole focus of his attention at that moment. It
was this rare gift, above all his other qualities, that had tapped the deep,
almost inaccessible wellspring of her love.
Rachel dropped her hands into the pockets other hospital smock. Her
eyes took in the large, pleasant room, with its cheerful colors, cartoon
cutouts, and finger paintings on the walls, the huge bin of child-safe toys
and games. It was a special place in the Children's National Medical
Center, both to its young patients and to its staff. It wasn't unusual for the
room to stay open after visiting hours and children's bedtime; doctors,
THE ASSISTANT 15

orderlies, and other staff slipped in here for a quiet moment, to
template Barney's goofy grin or absently play with Disney lions, dal- atians, mermaids, a temporary relief from the grim realities just outside

rtfic door.
t" Ben came to the Center twice a month. He did not seem affected by
Sariiat magicians called hospital performances, the Heartbreak Circuit. He
^taid he came to practice in front of a conjuror's most demanding audiS^tice
an audience that, unlike adults, demanded to feel that it was their
I show mostly. Whether silk, sponge ball, cake, or even a simple piece of
iparine, the magic that sprang from the prop was only for their thrill and
l*excitement. Rachel thought that Ben fibbed a little about his reasons.
I* "The Great Eimo wanted me to give you this."
it"- Rachel looked down at the blond girl holding up a plateful of cake.
E "Why, thank you, Cheryl. Will you say thank you for me to the Great
| Eimo?"
I "Sure."
| L "Do you think he'll do any more tricks for you?"
hs Cheryl scrunched up a frown. "They're not tricks. Dr. Melman.
^They're ill-ooo-shins."
'; Rachel shook her head. "I'm sorry. Of course they are. I guess I don't
know enough about these things."
"Well, you should," Cheryl said primly. "Everyone knows you're the
Great Brno's girlfriend."
Having put the pediatric surgeon in her place, Cheryl rejoined the
group.
God help me, thought Rachel. This from a child who, just four days
ago, had been rushed into the trauma unit suffering from heart palpitations.
After stabilizing her, Rachel had discovered that Cheryl Pulaski
had a pinprick of a hole in her heart. Surgery was scheduled for five o'clock
tomorrow morning. Rachel had a meeting later tonight with the
specialist she'd be assisting, who had flown in from Los Angeles.
She looked at Ben, surrounded by faces that seemed to have lost some
of their hospital pallor. Faces that, for the moment, were devoid of the
tear and pain the children lived with but did not understand; faces belonging
to children suffering from AIDS, sickle cell anemia, or leukemia
but who could say only that it hurt here, or there, or all over. Rachel knew
that the end of the show was the hardest time for Ben. It was almost impossible
to make a graceful exit, with the applause created by small
16 J. PATRICK LAW

hands, and eyes that silently pleaded with him to stay. Which was why
Ben always ran over his allotted time.
"Gosh, what's that? Did you see something?"
Rachel did. The movement was almost imperceptible, but then she
knew what to look for: Ben's fingertips in his pants pocket, tugging one
end of the nylon string that had been trailing behind him. Whose other
end was connected to one of the puppets behind the curtain of the marionette
stage.
"It's the Mighty Shazzam," one of the children squealed. "He's aliveF
From behind the curtain came the Mighty Shazzam's deep bass,
thrown by Ben, whose ventriloquism skills startled Rachel even now.
"Sir Elmo. Where are you? We are not finished, you and I."
Rachel watched Ben crouch so that he was eye-level with his audience.

"What should we do?" he whispered.
"Save Sir Elmo!" was the chorus. "Sir Elmo and the Lady Lucy!"
The curtain went up and he pulled all of them into the world behind
it. There was the Mighty Shazzam bearing down on Sir Elmo, the children
shouting warnings at the knight. At the last instant. Sir Elmo deftly
sidestepped the onrushing sorcerer and, as though swept along by the
cheers of his supporters, dashed up the castle steps to await the Mighty
Shazzam's next attack.

» » »

Thirty blocks way, Yossi Tarnofsky clutched the rubber rail of the
escalator gliding up from the Red Line subway platform to Union Station.

Tarnofsky was a young man, twenty-eight, battle tested and very fit.
He could admit to himself that the two bullet wounds, one in the fleshy
part of his right thigh, the other in the lower abdomen, were serious injuries.
He refused even to countenance the idea that he might be dying.
Landau had given him strict orders to the contrary: Nobody dies before
the assignment is complete. Word in the Institute was that if you pissed
off Landau, he would make it his business to follow you to hell, and then
you'd wish the Devil had gotten to you first.
In a burst of savage grief, Tarnofsky wondered if that's where Roth-
man and Bernstein were now, trying to explain to Landau how the Arabs
THE ASSISTANT 17

had managed to shadow the tactical incursion team, drop on it like a
scythe across wheat. Tarnofsky recalled his last image of his two partners
and then he couldn't stand to remember them at all.
Tarnofsky leaned heavily on the rail. He'd always had a problem with
tunnels, even in training. The huge concrete-lined cylinder that linked
the subway to the train station was, to him, a giant sarcophagus. His
breath came in jagged rasps, not so much from the pain of his wounds
but from the fear that he might never again see the sky before he died.
The mission. .. . Tarnofsky pushed the claustrophobia away, pushed
away the pain. He checked behind him. There were five other people on
the escalator, all of whom had gotten off his train. Three office girls, a
businessman, a student with a backpack. None belonged to the Arabs.
He'd have smelled them if they had.
The storm had drenched him so completely that his jacket, sweater,
and pants, dark to begin with, were now black, effectively hiding the
blood that had seeped into the fabric. Passengers in the subway car had
looked at him once, then away. Tarnofsky saw himself through their
eyes: a derelict or an addict, doubled over, clutching his stomach. He'd
hoped there wasn't a good Samaritan in the car and hadn't been disappointed.

The top of the escalator was coming up. Tarnofsky did inventory, starting
with his face. Despite the coolness of the tunnel, his forehead was
hot. Fever and blood loss, a potentially lethal combination.
His right arm was still numb where the Arab bullet had cut through it.
Every team member carried five small army-issue pressure bandages;
Tarnofsky had had to use up three on that wound alone. That had left
two for the jagged tear in his abdomen. From the color of the blood, dark
and rich, he knew that the bullet had, at the very least, nicked his liver.
If the damage was greater than that...
There was nothing Tarnofsky could do about the wound in his thigh,
but he did not curse his luck. The Arabs had been shortsighted using
steel-jacketed ammunition instead of hollow points, which expanded on
impact and created an exit wound the size of a child's fist. The bullet had
passed through fat and muscle without touching the femoral artery. Each
step Tarnofsky took was excruciating, the pain hobbling him, stoking the
mage of his helplessness. But at least he could keep moving. Because
Landau had to know what he knew.
18 J. PAIRILK LAW

The words branded into Tarnofsky's memory were meaningless to
him, but they had been bought at a terrible price, from a man who'd been
quite ready to die rather than part with them. Tarnofsky was certain that
in the end, the man had given up the truth. Now it would be up to Landau,
whose mind was a Rosetta Stone, to decipher the inexplicable and
the arcane. No code, no cryptography, no secret pattern or system yet devised
was beyond his ability to decipher it.
So Tarnofsky willed himself to keep moving, to exist only for that moment
when Landau, the high priest, could make him understand the
meaning of what burned within him like an unfulfilled prophecy.
He saw the Arab just as the steps of the escalator brought him eye-
level with the wide corridor that led to the train station. He was a slim
young man with quick, darting movements. Right now he was standing
at an angle to Tarnofsky, by the tall, heavy doors to the concourse, looking
in the opposite direction. From his vantage point, Tarnofsky could
see the angry welt of a scar that ran from the back of the Arab's jawbone
and disappeared up toward the eye.
It was an immutable law of nature. Landau's law: Arabs never operated
alone. If you saw one, others were close by.
How close? How many?
And how didthe^ know I would be coming to this train station?
The last question unnerved Tarnofsky. After the attack on the safe
house, the butchery, and his escape, he had had choices: to make a run
for the Israeli embassy or to head for one of two other destinations. The
Arabs would expect him to run to the embassy. Tarnofsky didn't know
how many of them there were, but it was a given that they would concentrate
on the embassy, create a gauntlet that even an uninjured man
could not survive. He might get close, but they would tag him and kill
him even as he was within hailing distance of his goal.
Nor had Tarnofsky telephoned the katsa, the senior Mossad officer at
the embassy. That would have gone against standing orders, in effect
since the Pollard affair. A Jewish U.S. citizen working at the Intelligence
Support Center of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, Jonathan
Pollard had been apprehended and exposed as an Israeli spy. Stung by
the incident, American counterintelligence had placed the movements
of all Israeli movements diplomats under close scrutiny. This included
electronic eavesdropping and surveillance. It was still safe to talk within
the lead-lined concrete walls of the embassy itself or on hardened lines,
THE ASSISTANT 19

but no matter how sophisticated the internal communications system,
calls coming in from a pay or cell phone could be picked off as easily as a
sharpshooter drills a bull's-eye.
"Stay anonymous," Landau had said in the briefing. "The Washington
katsa doesn't know about this operation. He doesn't know about you.
Keep it that way. But if you must make contact, do so in person. Don't
even let them know you're coming."
Dragging his wounded leg behind him like a stroke victim, Tarnofsky
moved as the Arab moved, always staying in his blind spot. At the same
time, he kept scouting the entrances to the train station. So far, only the
last straggle of commuters and tourists arriving back from day trips outside
the city. No other Arabs. Yet.
Tarnofsky leaned against one of the massive, polished granite pillars.
The cold stone felt good against his feverish cheek. He had gotten off at
the Union Station stop because here he was virtually guaranteed of finding
a cab. He could not afford to expose himself by trying to flag one
down in the street--not in this weather when taxis would be scarce, not
knowing who might be coming up behind him.
The Arab continued to pace in front of the great glass doors, a sentry
guarding his assigned perimeter. He continued to scan the travelers passing
him but did so in an almost cursory fashion.
He knows what to look for, Tarnofsky thought. Someone who is injured. The
rest don't matter.
But still the question: Why here? Had the Arabs seen him disappear
into the subway at the Takoma station? Possible, though not likely.
Still, the Arabs had managed to find the safe house. Maybe they recognized
the car, too. When Tarnofsky had abandoned that, they had automatically
assumed he would use the subway. So they had contacted the
rest of the team, strung out a picket fence of agents at the most likely
stops. Union Station was an obvious one, as was Van Ness, close to the
embassy. Metro Center, where the lines converged, would be another.
Tarnofsky doubted that the Arabs could cover more than those stations.
Under other circumstances, he might have eluded them, but he was
moving so slowly that they had had time to position their intercepts. Still,
there was always room for luck.
Decide.
Tarnofsky would go through the Arab, no question about that. It was
what came after that he had to be sure about. Landau had given the team
e» ]: iHiRitiR caw

two sayan contacts--names, addresses, telephones. Both were equally
good, places where Tarnofsky could get medical attention, rest, and shelter
until Landau came for him. But the key was to avoid leading the
Arabs to the sayanim. The sayanim were civilians. It was a golden rule that
never, ever were they to be put in harm's way.
Because of that rule, the choice was clear.
Tarnofsky fell in behind an elderly couple clucking about the miserable
weather and used them as a shield to move in on the Arab. His left
hand was in his jacket pocket, fingers curled around the butt of the short-
barrel .38 Smith & Wesson, threaded for a two-inch silencer. The
weapon was American-made, untraceable, as generic as laundry soap.
Tarnofsky felt the hairs on the back of his neck push against his shirt
collar. He was vulnerable and exposed. The Arab was twelve feet away
now, the elderly couple struggling to pull open the heavy door, the
woman looking to Tarnofsky for help.
He ignored her, slipped across the face of the doors just as the Arab
was turning to walk toward him.
"AiwaF Tarnofsky whispered.
The slang salutation made the Arab whirl around. Hearing his mother
tongue, he naturally expected a comrade. His eyes widened and his
upper lip curled back when he saw Tarnofsky.
It was much too late. Tarnofsky reached out and gripped the Arab just
beneath the elbow, squeezing down on a cluster of nerves. The Arab grimaced
and in a reflex action, reached for Tarnofsky with his other hand,
exactly as the Israeli had anticipated. The move left the Arab's chest exposed.
Tarnofsky, his gun already angled in his coat pocket, fired three
quick shots into the Arab's heart.
Tarnofsky shielded the Arab with his body, propped it up against the
wall until he had a chance to glance over his shoulder. The elderly couple
had already gone through the doors. The nearest civilian was more
than fifty feet away, standing on the escalator, reading a newspaper. A
threesome in army uniforms were buying subway tickets from an automatic
dispenser. A pair of giggling teenage girls skipped out from around
the corner, their eyes sliding across him as quickly as water over stone.
There would not be a better time.
Tarnofsky stepped back slowly, allowing the body to slide down the
wall until the Arab was sitting on the floor with his legs splayed. Tarnofsky
walked away, not looking back. He gripped the door handle and
THE ASSISTANT Zl

pulled. When he stepped through, he saw the Arab tilt and collapse to
one side, as if drunk.
The glass behind him exploded, pebble-size pieces showering Tarnof-
sky as he was flung forward. Pain seared through his leg and abdomen
but his training took over, making him roll along the cold stone floor until
he no longer felt the crunch of glass beneath him. He scrambled to a column
and slipped around it.
Tarnofsky heard screams behind him, saw the three servicemen looking
around with dazed expressions. But he couldn't see the second Arab,
the shooter. The bullet had come from behind him, but at what angle,
how far away? Maybe the Arab was a poor shot. Maybe he had been
shooting from too great a distance or from a bad angle. Tarnofsky had
been a slow-moving, unwary target. He should have been dead.
More commotion now as people strolling in the arcade slowed to look.
The three soldiers were hollering for someone to call 911, the transit police,
an ambulance. Tarnofsky knew he still had a chance. With more and
more people crowding into the kill zone every second, the Arab had lost
the advantage of surprise, he could not try another shot without giving
himself away. Tarnofsky picked a knot of onlookers, steadied himself,
and plunged ahead.
"Hey! Hey, buddy. You hurt?"
And another voice: "Geez, man. Is that blood?"
Tarnofsky moved as rapidly as he could, cursing the leg he was dragging.
He used his shoulders to break up the groups of people, felt them
brush him, shrugged them off. He was in the arcade now, stumbling past
brightly lit shops that would be closing in a few minutes. A knife thrust
of pain sent him sprawling against the plate glass of the Great Train
Store. Tarnofsky slapped his palm against it to keep his balance, never saw the bloody streak he left in his wake, like some grotesque rainbow.
His breathing was ragged, each inhalation burning a hole in his chest.
Glimpsing a pair of transit police rushing down the concourse, Tarnofsky
veered into a Sam Goody record store. He didn't comprehend why the
clerk, a pimply youth with tattoos and pierced facial parts, kept staring at
his hands. Tarnofsky glanced down and saw blood welling from between
his fingers where he was clutching his abdomen. The pressure bandages
had been soaked through and had fallen away
"Hey, man, this ain't my scene, you know? Just keep walkin'. Please."
Two things registered at the same instant in Tarnofsky's mind: the
22 J.PATRICK LAW

youth's desperate plea and the movement he caught lki Xin-it in the polished
metal disk mounted in the corner where the wall met the srf^» the ceiling. An antitheft
measure. What Tarnofsky saw wasn't a shoplifter I--~f T^xcr but a figure in a
dark coat, raising one arm. He shifted his weight onto hr-i 0:3010 his bad leg and
went down in a heap just as the Arab fired. The bullet f=i Toilet passed through
where Tarnofsky had been standing and slammed into th^arii <^ the clerk. The Israeli
never heard the boy fall. He had his gun out, firing, n-ri .^rig, his aim compromised by the waves of pain that cascaded over him. Gl-10 . . Glass, stone, and
wood were splintered, but not flesh.
Tarnofsky pushed himself along the floor to the counter--isiri^nter, seeking cover
in case the Arab made a frontal assault through the d<>»ob ^ door. Instead, he
heard more gunshots, most of them coming from iriom heavier-caliber
weapons. Nine millimeter handguns, common American soil ^rican police issue.
The transit officers.
Tarnofsky edged his way out of the record store. The ariT^The firing boomed
down the concourse, followed by a high-pitched scream, .,rne:s>cam, then its echo.
Over the stink of hot loads came radio chatter, one of the aril ~f the officers calling
in a ten-thirteen.
Tarnofsky cursed silently. How could the Americans ha-Bii arms have failed to hit
their target?
Tarnofsky scrambled out of the arcade and into the m-sm ar&ie main concourse.
The vaulted ceiling with its Beaux-Arts dome and rows of to s.vs of stylized Greek
and Roman statues stared down sightlessly at the unfold ^bloti-nfolding nightmare.
Now the giant space was completely deserted. Tarnof;stoniQrnofsky knew that
Washingtonians, like New Yorkers, lived amid random, su uz frrxn, sudden violence.
They recognized gunshots when they heard them, knevwvan^ knew thai the only
thing to do was to take cover and wait until people with H rili^rwith bigger guns arrived.
Tarnofsky picked them out, crouching behind gia^ia brnd giant stone slabs
that passed for benches, using overturned tables belong! «aigno I longing to the Coco
Pazzo Cafe as shields.
Tarnofsky understood that he had almost no time left. ' -Aal -. left. The firing had
picked up again. The odds had shifted in favor of the Aral=JfiiA s»c Arabs taking down
the police instead of the other way around. When that n - fi iBria:hat happened, they
would come back for him.
Tarnofsky looked into the recesses of the main hall. Th- -riT .11^11. The closest doors
were below an enormous half-moon window with an inse'szni nfi inset clock. He estimated we hundred feet of open space. It seemed like mi adil like miles.
The blood from the wound in his abdomen was no long3|nol 010 longer seeping but
THE ASSISTANT 23

trickling. He couldn't feel his left leg above the knee. If he didn't make
it out of there, the Arabs would kill him before any emergency crews arrived.
And if by some miracle he survived, there would be the gun and
the wounds to explain. Since he was working without diplomatic cover,
the Americans would mend him and hold him for as long as they liked.
They would have many questions for him. Too many complications.
Tarnofsky remembered that Landau's loathing of complications was legendary.

Concentrate on the doors. Two hundred feet to the doors. Beyond
them, taxis, cars, a way to get out of here. Without leaving your guts all
over the floor.
Tarnofsky pulled out his gun. A woman who'd been watching him
from behind a cafe table shrank back. He scuttled past her, over to one of
the stone benches, then zigzagged to another. His next goal was a small
information stand. Beyond that, a porter's station. Stepping-stone to
stepping-stone, he'd reach the doors that opened up to the night and the
storm, and from there he could escape, reach a place where he could hide
until Landau came for him and lifted the terrible knowledge from his
heart.

* * *

Ben Poltarek stood under the awning, the rain sluicing down, spattering
the tips of his shoes. In his left hand he held the larger suitcase, containing
the dismantled marionette theater and the puppets; in his right
was a smaller case, scarred leather with tarnished brass hardware, that
held his magic.

"We'll never make it," he muttered. "Never."
Rachel laughed. "The car's right over there. Come on." "She fiddled
with a flimsy telescopic umbrella and finally managed to open it. "On
three. One, two, threeF
Rachel was as tall as he and held the umbrella so that he didn't have
to crouch. On his fourth step he placed his foot squarely into a deep
puddle.
"Shit!"
A gust of wind tore the umbrella from Rachel's grip just as they
reached her venerable, lovingly cared for BMW. Rachel fumbled with
"er keys. The locks popped; Ben shoved the suitcases into the trunk and
jumped into the passenger seat.
U J. PATRICK LAW

youth's desperate plea and the movement he caught in the polished
metal disk mounted in the corner where the wall met the ceiling. An antitheft
measure. What Tarnofsky saw wasn't a shoplifter but a figure in a
dark coat, raising one arm. He shifted his weight onto his bad leg and
went down in a heap just as the Arab fired. The bullet passed through
where Tarnofsky had been standing and slammed into the clerk. The Israeli
never heard the boy fall. He had his gun out, firing, his aim compromised
by the waves of pain that cascaded over him. Glass, stone, and
wood were splintered, but not flesh.
Tarnofsky pushed himself along the floor to the counter, seeking cover
in case the Arab made a frontal assault through the door. Instead, he
heard more gunshots, most of them coming from heavier-caliber
weapons. Nine millimeter handguns, common American police issue.
The transit officers.
Tarnofsky edged his way out of the record store. The firing boomed
down the concourse, followed by a high-pitched scream, then its echo.
Over the stink of hot loads came radio chatter, one of the officers calling
in a ten-thirteen.
Tarnofsky cursed silently. How could the Americans have failed to hit
their target?
Tarnofsky scrambled out of the arcade and into the main concourse.
The vaulted ceiling with its Beaux-Arts dome and rows of stylized Greek
and Roman statues stared down sightlessly at the unfolding nightmare.
Now the giant space was completely deserted. Tarnofsky knew that
Washingtonians, like New Yorkers, lived amid random, sudden violence.
They recognized gunshots when they heard them, knew that the only
thing to do was to take cover and wait until people with bigger guns arrived.
Tarnofsky picked them out, crouching behind giant stone slabs
that passed for benches, using overturned tables belonging to the Coco
Pazzo Cafe as shields.
Tarnofsky understood that he had almost no time left. The firing had
picked up again. The odds had shifted in favor of the Arabs taking down
the police instead of the other way around. When that happened, they
would come back for him.
Tarnofsky looked into the recesses of the main hall. The closest doors
were below an enormous half-moon window with an inset clock. He estimated
two hundred feet of open space. It seemed like miles.
The blood from the wound in his abdomen was no longer seeping but ;
w THE ASSISTANT 23

trickling. He couldn't feel his left leg above the knee. If he didn't make
it out of there, the Arabs would kill him before any emergency crews arrived
And if by some miracle he survived, there would be the gun and
the wounds to explain. Since he was working without diplomatic cover,
the Americans would mend him and hold him for as long as they liked.
They would have many questions for him. Too many complications.
Tarnofsky remembered that Landau's loathing of complications was legendary.

Concentrate on the doors. Two hundred feet to the doors. Beyond
them, taxis, cars, a way to get out of here. Without leaving your guts all
over the floor.
Tarnofsky pulled out his gun. A woman who'd been watching him
from behind a cafe table shrank back. He scuttled past her, over to one of
the stone benches, then zigzagged to another. His next goal was a small
information stand. Beyond that, a porter's station. Stepping-stone to
stepping-stone, he'd reach the doors that opened up to the night and the
storm, and from there he could escape, reach a place where he could hide
until Landau came for him and lifted the terrible knowledge from his
heart.

* * *

Ben Poltarek stood under the awning, the rain sluicing down, spattering
the tips of his shoes. In his left hand he held the larger suitcase, containing
the dismantled marionette theater and the puppets; in his right
was a smaller case, scarred leather with tarnished brass hardware, that
held his magic.

"We'll never make it," he muttered. "Never."
Rachel laughed. "The car's right over there. Come on." "She fiddled
with a flimsy telescopic umbrella and finally managed to open it. "On
three. One, two, three!"
Rachel was as tall as he and held the umbrella so that he didn't have
to crouch. On his fourth step he placed his foot squarely into a deep
Puddle.

"Shit!"
A gust of wind tore the umbrella from Rachel's grip just as they
bached her venerable, lovingly cared for BMW. Rachel fumbled with
^r keys. The locks popped; Ben shoved the suitcases into the trunk and
Sniped into the passenger seat.
24 J. PATRICK LAW

Rachel, already behind the wheel, reached out, her soft, long fingers
cupping his cheek. There was nothing Ben could say or do. She had an
ability to make his world stop completely at the most unexpected moments.
The wash of the anricrime lights sculpted her face in alabaster,
dramatically setting off her thick red hair. He could not let go of her
eyes, blue like a glacier under a full moon. Crusader's eyes, he called
them, for although she had been born in Israel, he liked to imagine that
they belonged to some long-ago knight errant who had made the holy
pilgrimage to Jerusalem and there had lain with a Hebrew noblewoman.
"You're looking at me that way."
"Which way?"
"Like you're going to ask me something and as much as I want to, I'll
have to say no."
Ben pushed levers to get the heater going. "We'll talk on the way
home."
Rachel knew her side streets and they made good time to Connecticut
Avenue. She listened to Ben talk about the show, occasionally stealing a
sidelong glance at the slight ridge where he'd broken his nose as a child,
the full lips she knew had touched no other woman in the last three
years, the long eyelashes and heavy eyebrows that could, in the right
light, lend him a mysterious air.
Which was, she thought, perhaps the greatest illusion of all. For there
was nothing remotely mysterious about Ben Poltarek. Although his
stock-in-trade was mystery, he was utterly without guile or affectation.
When they'd first started seeing each other, she had been on the alert to
discover the real man, the personality that lay beneath the skin and
would, sooner or later, rise to the surface like a brass rubbing. But that
had never happened, and slowly Rachel had come to believe that there
were men other than the kind she'd attracted before. The kind who
loved only to use, whose cool and poise were nothing more than brittle
lacquer over dead nerves and a mummified heart.
Ben Poltarek, on the other hand, was one of those rare beings who
loved unconditionally, needed to change nothing, accepted any gift that
came his way as blessing, not due.
Yet, as much as Rachel loved him, he sometimes gave her pause. The
world had taught her that it could be dangerous to get too close to people.
You might catch their dreams and in the end their dreams could alter
you forever, destroy you.
THE ASSISTANT 25

"Where are your folks tonight?"
"Right about now Sid and Rose should be arriving at the Kennedy
Center." Ben often referred to his parents by name, as if they were old
buddies, which, given the family dynamics Rachel had witnessed, was
virtually the case.
"How are they putting up with you?"
"You make it sound like I'm the houseguest from hell."
"You snore."
"No more than you."
She elbowed him in the ribs.
"The contractors tell me another week."
"That's what they said before you and Sid left for Paris."
"And before that, too."
Ben's townhouse in upper Georgetown, on the fringe of the university,
was in the last stages of remodeling. He'd moved into the Pokareks' spacious
four-bedroom condominium on Connecticut near the National Zoo
for the duration, an arrangement that played havoc with his and Rachels
sex life.
"Have dinner with me tomorrow," he said suddenly.
Rachel was startled by the quiet intensity to his words. There was
something behind them, something she couldn't divine.
"Ben, I have surgery tomorrow. Cheryl. ..." She touched his hand.
"Ben, what is it? Is there something you want to tell me?"
He sighed. "It'll keep, I guess."
"Tell me about Paris," Rachel said, quickly changing the subject.
"What I missed. What you'll take me to see one day."
She loved to hear him describe things. He had the gift of making her
see through his eyes, believe that one day she would see everything he
was describing through her own.
The pleasure she experienced was not without cost. Not in terms of
promises she'd made him and failed to keep, not the experiences she delayed
or deferred, not the time she could not offer him and that could
never be replaced. All these things, Rachel believed, would come their
way one day. It was the tapestry of secrets that kept her postponing that
day.
Rachel had never lied to Ben. Not overtly. True, she had been born
^ an American father and a Sabra mother. The family had returned to
the United States when Rachel was five. By the time she entered col26 J. PATRICK LAW

lege, all vestiges of her Israeli heritage had melded into American Jewishness.

The family's circumstances were comfortable until Rachel's father
died of a sudden heart attack. Poor investment advice quickly depleted
the Melman coffers. Rachel attended Smith on full scholarship, but the
money ran out by the time she was accepted at Johns Hopkins Medical
School.
With student loans falling short of covering tuition and no collateral to
offer banks, Rachel turned to the sponsor of last resort: the government.
Specifically, the army. In return for its picking up the balance of her tab
at Johns Hopkins, she agreed to give them four years of her life after
graduation.
Rachel completed her studies just shy other twenty-seventh birthday.
The next week she found herself at the army's medical training center at
Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Six weeks after that, she was assigned to a
frontline unit with the Bosnian peacekeeping force.
With ten months' experience to her credit, Rachel was rotated back
stateside where she was offered a tour of duty that would knock one year
off her military commitment--if she enrolled in the Special Warfare
Center and School.
Rachel began her twelve months of training at the Fort Bragg medical
lab, where better than half the medics in training washed out in the first
few weeks. Rachel, with childhood memories of kibbutz animal pens
and ritual slaughter, concentrated on the reason why the baby pigs and
goats were wounded in specific areas by a sharpshooter. She and her team
then ministered to these animals, learning to treat combat trauma, practicing
military emergency medicine, even conducting battlefield surgery.
The next day the sharpshooter would shoot fresh animals in different
places and the exercises would begin all over again.
By the time Rachel earned her honorable discharge she'd been responsible
for saving the lives of three Special Forces officers wounded by
friendly fire during training. Off the coast of Sudan, she'd fought to keep
two members of her team alive as the unit evacuated the country after a
successful attempt to free an American diplomat being held hostage. She
finished out her tour at Fort Bragg as an instructor, teaching recruits how
much more difficult it was to hold the human body together than to tear
it apart.
Ben knew all this, even about the Sudan raid, which the Pentagon had
THE ASSISTANT 27

declassified and made the centerpiece of a trumpeting PR campaign. He
knew that she'd finished her residency at Georgetown Medical Center
and then, because of her experience, had been assigned to the emergency
room trauma team. It was there, one night three years ago, that
she'd literally bumped into him as he was on his way to perform for the
children.
Rachel transferred into pediatric surgery, where she could help those
who were most in need other nimble hands, quick mind, and dearly paid
for experience. Once, Ben had said she would make a wonderful mother,
and Rachel hadn't dared reply that the prospect terrified her. Ben saw all
the joy that a child could bring into their lives; she saw only the dangers,
dreaded the day when she would confront something that she could not
defeat. Then a child would die. Maybe her child.
Whenever Ben spoke of children, Rachel felt her guilt most keenly.
There was a part of her life she had successfully hidden from him--
the eight months she'd rolled into her Georgetown residency that actually
belonged somewhere else. It was not a place she often visited, and
she understood that by refusing to take him there she was betraying
him.
But only a little. And for his own good.
Flimsy excuses in the face of the love and trust he lavished on her. Excuses
that were barbs on her conscience.
Sometimes, Rachel asked herself what Ben would do if she took him
down that road. He would be confused--angry, too. Press for explanations
where none could be given. Sickened and overwhelmed, he might
retreat from her life. Rachel didn't think she could survive that, not only
the shame, but because she didn't know of a single way to bring him
back. In the end, it always came down to this: It was better to betray him
than to risk losing him.
Through the rapid motion of windshield wipers Rachel saw the flatiron
building where the Poltareks lived. She turned off Connecticut,
made a U-turn, and parked in the street instead of under the canopy.
"Does this mean you don't want the doorman to overhear you propositioning
me?"
"Propositioning you in your dreams. Come here."
Rachel wrapped her arms around Ben, her mouth finding his, tongue
probing. She kissed him as though she needed to fill herself with him, to
make him remember her, always want her.
28 J. PATRICK LAW

"You know Sid and Rose always go to supper after the opera," he murmured.

"I know Rose eats like a bird and they'll be home a half hour after
that."
"Still leaves us an eternity."
"Don't do that." Ben was nuzzling her neck, just behind her ear, making
her flush. "Honey, please. After Thursday night I'm off for four days.
Do with me what you will."

"Words you'll regret."

"I hope not."
Rachel inched the car into the circular drive and under the portico. A
uniformed doorman opened Ben's door.
"I'll call you tomorrow," Ben said, getting ready to slide out.
"Love me?"
"So much."
She waited until the doorman retrieved the suitcases from the trunk,
then hit the accelerator. The tires spun and the rear end fishtailed, but
Rachel regained control of the car. She couldn't say the same about the
tears that stung her eyes, washing away Ben's kisses.

« * *

The Poltareks' apartment took up the top two floors of the building,
which were connected by a sweeping semicircular staircase.
Ben had taken back the room he'd had as a boy. His mother, for reasons
she never explained, had changed nothing since the day he'd left for
college. Posters of the Four Kings of Magic--Nate Leipzig, Harry Black-
stone, John Mulholland, and Thomas Downs--hung on papered walls.
Bookcases smelling of lemon-scented wax held his collection of conjurors'
texts; award statuettes and framed citations rested on shelves
above his bed. The only thing out of place was the framed law diploma
from Yale, hung to catch your eye as soon as you opened the door. His
mother's small expression of pride.
And the picture of Samuel, his older brother, at seventeen, big and
strapping like their father and even taller. Samuel, who had relished contact
sports, was good enough to have won a Golden Gloves competition;
"the tough son of a bitch Jew," he called himself.
As much a friend as a brother. Samuel had spent hours helping Ben
build his magic props, and though his thick fingers could never quite
THE ASSISTANT 29

master the strings of illusion, he'd been proud of Ben's abilities. Eighteen
years dead, yet as alive today as his last day. Whenever Ben came to
that thought, he carefully folded up his memories and made them disappear
into that secret place in his heart.
"I miss you, Sammy," Ben said aloud.
Ben deposited the suitcases in their proper place in the closet and
padded into the en suite bathroom. He stripped off his costume and
stepped under the hot shower spray. Through the the hot mist and the
shower's glass door, Ben glimpsed the box he'd left on the nightstand, a
small, black velvet jeweler's cube whose contents were immediately obvious.

He'd been doing what amused the French most about American tourists: jogging at first light, when the streets of the First Arrondissement
were still, devoid even of the ubiquitous street cleaners. He was
coming back into the place Vendome, running lightly past some of the
most expensive boutiques in the world, when something caught his eye.
Behind thick shatterproof glass was a jeweler's display case, empty save
for one mannequin hand in the corner, as though it had been forgotten.
On the fourth finger was a wedding band, a small marquis diamond accented
by a pair of sapphires. The sapphires reminded him of Rachel's
eyes.
Now, like found money, the ring was burning a hole in his pocket. He
had come up with and rejected a dozen ways to present it to Rachel. The
place had to be just right, the timing perfect.
Somewhere over the drumming of the shower Ben heard the telephone.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and went into his bedroom.
"Is this Benjamin Poltarek?"
The voice was cool, detached, and unfamiliar.
"Who's this?"
"Detective Priestly, Fifth Precinct. Are you Mr. Poltarek?"
"Yes, I am. Is this about one of our clients?"
"I'm afraid not. It involves your parents."
Ben sat down on the bed. "What about my parents?"
"Mr. Poltarek, I'm very sorry. There was an accident. Happened right
outside the Watergate. Look, this sort of thing is hard over the phone."
"I'll be right down. The Watergate ..."
"No, sir. That is not a good idea. There's nothing you can do here. The
Paramedics tried their best, but..."
30 J. PATRICK LAW

Priestly's sigh whistled through the jagged hole in Ben's soul. "You're
saying they're dead. My mother and father are dead."
"I'm sorry. Death was instantaneous."
Ben knew that police and emergency teams always said that. It was a
gentle lie. Rachel had told him that instant death didn't exist. There was
always at least a split second of consciousness, the awful realization of
what was about to happen, what was about to be taken away.
"I want to see them."
"I understand, Mr. Poltarek. They're being taken to Georgetown
Medical--"
"I'm on my way."
"Sir. Sir! Listen to me. I'm going to come and get you, okay? It's a
lousy night out there. I don't want you behind the wheel. Do you understand?"

Ben was holding the receiver away from his ear. He didn't want to hear
anymore. He said something before hanging up, wasn't sure if Priestly
had heard it, didn't care.
He stood up quickly and was immediately seized by vertigo. He steadied
himself on a bookcase. His eyes found the photo of Samuel.
"They're dead?" he asked his brother. "How can they be dead ?"
Then he remembered that those were almost the exact words his father
had uttered when Ben had told him that Samuel had been in an accident,
that he was dead. He saw himself in the mirror, tried to remember
if his father had looked like that.
-I
Ben dressed quickly and headed downstairs, collecting his wallet and Sj
keys, which he'd tossed on the table in the vestibule. |
The doorbell startled him. It had to be the detective; he'd called from I
his car. I
Ben threw the bolts and the door pushed hard against him as a ngure|
staggered inside. |
Tarnofsky slapped a bloody palm on the wall to keep from falling. He|
turned so that his back was supported by the vestibule table and he wN)
facing the young man who was staring at him, his mouth agape.
"Are you Poltarek?"
Ben took a step toward him, then saw the gun. It waverexi in
stranger's grip as though he could barely hold its weight.
"I'm Benjamin Poltarek. Who are you? What happened?"
"Close the door." Ben hesitated."'Close the door"
THE ASSISTANT 31

"You're hurt--"
Tarnofsky pushed himself off the wall and staggered to Ben, falling
heavily against him.
Ben gripped him ura- der the shoulder, half-led, half-dragged him to the
bottom step of the srai icase. The wounded man leaned back against the
edge of the stairs, bloo<l pooling on the carpet.
Ben made a move fear the phone.
"Don't!"
He turned, saw the fcarrel of the gun. "I'm calling an ambulance."
"Too late. Come here."
"You're bleeding!"'' Ben shouted. "If you don't get help--"
"Closer. Come close; i." Tarnofsky's breathing was very rapid. He could
feel the siren song of h-js life in his veins, feel his heart labor as it tried to
keep pumping what bl ood remained. He knew there wasn't much.
He grabbed the youmg man by the hair, jerked his ear to his lips. "This
is for Landau, only him. Understand?"
"Landau?"
"Tell him they are t> ringing in an American. An American. Landau will
know what to do."
The gun fell from ' 1 srnofsky's fingers, clattering along the steps to the
floor- He couldn't keep his grip on Ben, and now his head rolled to one
side-

"What American? What are you talking about?"
^ "Rothman.... Bern. stein, dead. EI-Banna too, I think. But he talked
|»before they hit us. Bringing in an American." Tarnofsky summoned up
ne last fistful of courage. "Tell Landau it will be an American!"
Tarnofsky began to s-hake violently as his heart skipped and sputtered.
trong arms embraced -him and held him up and he was grateful for the
""fort. He was dyin^ in a land far from his own, but he believed,
ceded to believe, thac these arms would eventually transport him back
»Israel, where there -w-ould be someone to say Kaddish for him.
^Ben ^t Ac blood pa^te his shin 10 his skin. He could not tear his eyes
y "from this strangci-, with his fluttering eyelids, soundlessly moving
^and "P"!. shallow Ireathing. He heard the doorbell again but could
go, hugging and cradling the stranger the same way as, years ago,
j held his brother-
or to the apariment opened and a figure cautiously stepped in.
; w the detective ''S shield hanging over the breast pocket of his
30 J. PATRICK LAW

, -i, whistled through the jagged hole in Ben's soul. "You're
pri(»cf|v S 3&
're dead my mother and father are dead."
saving theylc ' . „
"t. »rrv Death was instantaneous.
I m sorry-1- .
-^at police and emergency teams always said that. it was a
cn Rachel had t°ld him that instant death didn't exist. There was

^en -a solit second of consciousness, the awful realization of
always at 'ea;> , , , ,
hniit to happo"' what was about to be taken away.
what was a00" ' „
"I want to see them-
rand Mr. Poltarek. They're being taken to Georgetown
"I under'"" '

Medical---
'Tmonrnyway.
f I Listen to roe. I'm going to come and get you, okay? It's a

iit there I don't want you behind the wheel. Do you under-
lousy nig"1""
1311
stan holding the receiver away from his ear. He didn't want to hear
„ gaid something before hanging up, wasn't sure if Priestiv
anymore. nc
, ^d it, didn't care.
a i} ud quickly ^d ^s immediately seized by vertigo. He stead-
lf on a bookcase. His eyes found the photo of Samuel.
le . ' ,' e dead?" he asked his brother. "How can they be dead?"
he remembered that those were almost the exact words his fa-
rrered when Be" had told him that Samuel had been in an ac1 er h rhe was dead. He saw himself in the mirror, tried to remember

'iSh'erh^100^'111116111"- 1 a ssed quickly and headed downstairs, collecting his wallet and
. ^ kp'd tossed on the table in the vestibule.
lymrc tVll^"
' a rbell startled him. It had to be the detective; he'd called from

15 h ew the bolts and the door pushed hard against him as a figure

siaeeeredinsidef
kv slapped a bloody palm on the wall to keep from falling. He
that his back was supported by the vestibule table and he was

. .,oune man who was staring at him, his mouth agape.
facingthe; " ,„
.^g you Poltarek.
ok a step toward him, then saw the gun. It wavered in the
'< srip as though he could barely hold its weight.
"""^Benjamin Poltarek. Who are you? What happened?"
^sethe door." Ben hesitated. -Close the door"
THE ASSISTANT 31

"You're hurt--"
Tarnofsky pushed himself off the wall and staggered to Ben, falling
heavily against him.
Ben gripped him under the shoulder, half-led, half-dragged him to the
bottom step of the staircase. The wounded man leaned back against the
edge of the stairs, blood pooling on the carpet.
Ben made a move for the phone.
"Don't!"
He turned, saw the barrel of the gun. "I'm calling an ambulance."
"Too late. Come here."
"You're bleeding!" Ben shouted. "If you don't get help--"
"Closer. Come closer." Tarnofsky's breathing was very rapid. He could
feel the siren song of his life in his veins, feel his heart labor as it tried to
keep pumping what blood remained. He knew there wasn't much.
He grabbed the young man by the hair, jerked his ear to his lips. "This
is for Landau, only him. Understand?"
"Landau?"
"Tell him they are bringing in an American. An American. Landau will
know what to do."
The gun fell from Tarnofsky's fingers, clattering along the steps to the
floor. He couldn't keep his grip on Ben, and now his head rolled to one
side.
"What American? What are you talking about?"
"Rothman. . .. Bernstein, dead. El-Banna too, I think. But he talked
before they hit us. Bringing in an American." Tarnofsky summoned up
one last fistful of courage. "Tell Landau it will be an American!"
Tarnofsky began to shake violently as his heart skipped and sputtered.
Strong arms embraced him and held him up and he was grateful for the
comfort. He was dying in a land far from his own, but he believed,
needed to believe, that these arms would eventually transport him back
to Israel, where there would be someone to say Kaddish for him.
Ben felt the blood paste his shirt to his skin. He could not tear his eyes
away from this stranger, with his fluttering eyelids, soundlessly moving
lips, and rapid, shallow breathing. He heard the doorbell again but could
not let go, hugging and cradling the stranger the same way as, years ago,
he had held his brother.
The door to the apartment opened and a figure cautiously stepped in.
Ben saw the detective's shield hanging over the breast pocket of his
32 J. PATRICK LAW

jacket, heard the sharp whistle of his breath through the space between
his large, square teeth, like Scrabble tiles.
Priestly was moving fast toward him, one hand pulling out his radio.
Ben wondered how his voice could be so calm, how strange his words
sounded: "He never even told me his name."

* *

Ben Poltarek could not have known then that it would be impossible
for him to core out answers to the questions raging within him.
He could not have known that such answers lay not in the broken
body that had plunged into his life, but within himself. Or that the first
thread of the tapestry of knowledge had not been woven there in Washington,
but in an ancient capital five thousand miles away.
Most of all, he never suspected that the truth, and he, were now
caught in the gears of the immovable, implacable law of unintended consequences.
T
WE


T

we weeks earlier, Benjamin Poltarek had faced his father across
the table in the living room of their suite at the Hotel Ritz in Paris.
The tall windows were open to the balcony, and the warm morning air
stirred the scents of breakfast--honey; freshly baked pastries, strong, hot
coffee--which was set out on the table.
Sid Poltarek was built like a drayman, but he had a classically sculpted
face with a Roman nose and a leonine head of pure white hair. His voice
had a low, rumbling quality, like the first faint stirrings of an avalanche.
Also like an avalanche, the sheer weight of his intellect and personality
always followed. Opposing counsel facing him for the first time discovered
such things the hard way.
He nodded toward the InternationalHeralft'Tribunethat Ben had been
reading.
"Anything interesting?"
"Kaiser-Agfa stock was up in Tokyo this morning." Ben tapped the financial
page. "The feeling is that either the lawsuit will be dropped or
the payout will be minimal--with no admission of culpability."
Sid Poltarek grunted, reached for a croissant, and slathered it with
marmalade.
Suddenly, he glanced up at Ben. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
34 J. PATRICK LAW

"Like your mother does when I say yes to a second helping of
dessert."
"It's not dessert I'm worried about. You have a week's worth of cholesterol
in that croissant."
"If it kills me, sue it. In the meantime, let me enjoy. And don't tell
Rose."
Ben popped a strawberry into his mouth. "As if she doesn't know."
"She suspects. That's not the same thing." He stared at his croissant,
then pushed away his plate. "Now look. You made me lose my appetite."
Ben hid his smile behind the sports page.
Sid Poltarek reached for a piece of baguette and dipped it in his coffee.
At sixty-eight he felt as strong and vigorous as a man twenty years
younger. His mind was, if anything, sharper than ever. But he could not
discount the warning that had come in the form of a mild heart attack. No
lasting damage, praise God, but a warning nonetheless. Rose, a woman
whose reprimands about his diet and pipe had once been couched in a
gentle laugh, now turned to more serious chiding. It was time to slow
down at the office, she said. Let Ben start to pick up more of the load, she
said. He was ready, she insisted.
Was she right?
Maybe.
Sid chewed on the soggy bread. "What's on tap for this morning?"
"Plaintiff's counsel wants to raise the issue of when they were handed
over the last batch of discovery documents. They're crying foul."
Sid grunted--or it could have been indigestion. "What do you think?"
"It's a delay tactic."
One of many that the plaintiffs--220 middle-class homeowners in
rural Virginia--had been advised by their lawyers to raise.
Five years ago, Kaiser-Agfa, the third-largest chemical company in the
world, with headquarters in Paris, had been sued in a class action by the
residents of a tract development called Spring Meadows outside Harris-
burg, Virginia. The issue was alleged contamination of groundwater by
the company, which, over a period of two decades, had resulted in an un-s;
usually high number of birth defects. During the period in question, ^
Kaiser-Agfa had been the lead contractor on an air force development to
build the next generation of supersonic interceptors.
Facing a lawsuit whose judgment could run into nine figures, Kaiser-
THE ASSISTANT 35

Agfa made inquiries, then had a series of meetings with Poltarek & Associates.
Ben had sat in on most of the discussions, taking notes, saying
nothing. His contribution began after the firm, with its blue-chip reputation
among defense contractors, had been handed the case.
His son had not disappointed, Sid considered. Ben's intellect was married
to tenacity and an uncanny ability to ferret out the most arcane and
effective precedents. Besides research skills, he had a knack for reading
and evaluating opposing counsel. A Kaiser-Agfa executive who'd
watched Ben operate had whispered to Poltarek that his son was
stealth--the opposition never saw him coming until it was too late.
So maybe Rose was right. Maybe it was time to move Ben into center
court. But Sid Poltarek remained uneasy. Ben was not a gladiator, a gunslinger.
His engine hummed; it did not burn red-hot. He seemed to lack
what a trial lawyer needed most--guts, daring, the desire to tear the
jugular. He was not Sid Poltarek. Nor Samuel.
Sid Poltarek thought himself a decent, even righteous man. But because
he had loved his elder son more--and still did--he knew that he
would never be perfect in the eyes of God.
"Discovery documents." Poltarek said "What's your gut tell you?"
"They're grasping," Ben replied. "You were pounding salt up their ass
for weeks back in Washington. Plaintiffs' counsel needed to get away, regroup.
Someone thought he or she had come up with a bright idea: drag
the case to Kaiser-Agfa's home turf. Bring in a French judge. Maybe get
some sympathy, at least muddy the waters."
"And you think ...?"
Ben leaned forward. "They're ready to settle."
"What would you give them?"
"Give them? Give them nothing."
Poltarek was pleased. "Why not?"
"Because Kaiser-Agfa didn't do anything wrong. Our experts demolished
their experts. We know that Agfa cleaned up after itself and that the
source of the contamination was the company that moved in after them."
Poltarek made sure his tone was casual. "I want you to take the lead
today."
Ben replaced his coffee cup. "Did I hear that right?"
"Why are you so surprised?"
"Because I'm your watercarrier is why."
3» J. PA1R1CR LAW

"You don't have the stones for the job?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what?"
"Agfa is our biggest client right now. They're paying for all this"--Ben
swept his arm around the suite--"because they expect the heavy hitter
to deliver. They want to see you crush Spring Meadows."
"No. They want Spring Meadows crushed, period. They don't give a
damn who does it."

"You want me to do it."
"I'm giving you the chance. If you feel you're not up to it, don't want to do it, fine, tell me."
Ben took a deep breath to still his rising anger. His father had the maddening
capacity to give with one hand, then take away with the other;
pretend to care, then make it clear he didn't give a damn.
But underneath the porcupine quills that studded their relationship,
Ben sensed that the offer was genuine, that in making it his father was
extending him a commodity he guarded like a miser: trust. There was a
choice to make and Ben wanted to choose wisely.
"I can't do this with you looking over my shoulder."
"Looking over your shoulder? I won't even be in the room."
"You're not coming today?"
"If you'd been willing to settle, I never would have made the offer.
But you're not. And in this situation, we can't tag team them; it's a single
player's game. You think you can bring it home, I'll stand by that."
"I've never known you to be gambler."
"I'm not. I bet only on sure things. And if I can't bet on my own son..
.." Poltarek extended his hand across the table. "Go show those hillbillies--and
the French anti-Semites--that Jews can give it to them up the
zudick as hard as anyone else."

* * *

Sid Poltarek bought a white rosebud from a young flower girl and
slipped it into the lapel of his light wool blazer. He moved easily in the
crowds that ebbed and flowed along the boulevard Saint-Michel. The
women pausing for a quick morning coffee on their way to work noted
him as he passed. In his hand-tailored wardrobe, Poltarek cut quite the
dashing figure, with a touch of the roue.
Poltarek turned off the boulevard at the rue Souffloc and proceeded up
THE ASSISTANT 37

the gentle incline to the Pantheon. He walked around this magnificent
sarcophagus that housed Napoleon's tomb and came to the small cemetery
of Saint-Etienne du Mont. There, the bustle of the Latin Quarter,
with its thousands of students, subsided a little. Poltarek slipped behind
the Lycee Henri IV, then crossed the rue Descartes to a small cafe.
The interior was much as Poltarek had expected: wood panels darkened
with age and tobacco smoke, an original zinc counter topped with
scarred, pitted marble, framed theater posters that once had been cheap
decoration but now were worth a small fortune.
The clientele was made up solely of academics from the Sorbonne and
surrounding lycees stealing a few moments of peace, reading journals and
dusty tomes. Poltarek counted no fewer than twelve different nationalities,
three ethnic groups, two genders, and one slim young thing who
could have belonged to either sex. This mix was one reason why the cafe
was Manshur's preferred meeting place: strangers were neither memorable
nor remarked upon.
"Good morning, Mustafa. It's been some time. You look well."
Musrafa Manshur was a small man given to darting, birdlike mannerisms.
His cocoa eyes plucked out customers as they came in or left, then
resumed scanning the various customers he'd already accounted for. His
slightly baggy suit was too heavy for the climate, thus the perspiration
beads beneath his pencil-thin mustache. But the clothes made him look
exactly what he was: a professor who aspired to comfort rather than fashion.

"Good morning to you, Sidney," Manshur said. Poltarek could smell
cloves on his breath, from his cigarettes. "You are looking well, too--and
quite elegant, I must say"
Manshur had learned his English from the British and his speech had
a clipped, singsong cadence to it.
"You're too kind. Another coffee?" Poltarek gave their order to the elderly,
long-aproned waiter, then settled back and studied Manshur. "Tell
me, how is your family?"
Poltarek knew damn well the stare of Manshur's domestic affairs, but
he listened for as long as politeness dictated, then switched to Manshur's
work at the Sorbonne. Technically, Manshur was a visiting professor
of physics from the University of Beirut. In reality, he,
Lebanese-born and -raised, had become a permanent fixture on the
rench academic landscape. Because Manshur was very gifted in his
38 j. PATRICK LAW

field, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs kept renewing his visa regularly
and without comment. In the morning he taught introductory physics
to semibored, listless undergraduates; in the afternoon, in seminars restricted
to individuals who appeared to be a little long in the tooth to
be students, he held give-and-take sessions on the more exotic aspects
of his work, aspects that had military and national security applications.
Poltarek was aware of this because several years ago he had had occasion
to use Manshur as an expert witness. A professional relationship
bloomed into a personal one, then deepened into friendship over games
of chess via e-mail and dinners whenever either crossed the Atlantic. In
such an atmosphere, Manshur eventually let slip that the French were
not the only ones who were benefiting from his ongoing residence in
Paris. Poltarek pretended not to have noticed the comment. He knew
that Manshur wanted to tell him something and that a listener's silence
was the most slippery grease on the tongue.
Manshur kept the mandatory circumlocutions surprisingly brief,
which in and of itself told Poltarek something. When he finally spat it
out, Manshur's wish could be reduced to a single word: insurance.
He was giving the French the benefit of his expertise. But the French
had no reason to suspect that the Lebanese was passing back to various
Arab intelligence organs as much--or more--information that he was
gleaning during his dark seminars. If French internal security ever became
suspicious, or the Arabs decided that the arrangement was no
longer to their liking, Manshur wanted safe haven for himself and his
family. To pay for it, he was willing to share his knowledge of certain Arab
operations, some of which he had personally been involved in, and personnel
he'd had occasion to meet.
This was communicated to Poltarek in a most delicate way. The
lawyer had excellent connections with American defense contractors.
That meant political contacts at a reasonably high level. It followed that
Poltarek might be able to shepherd Manshur's nebulous offer to ranking
members of the U.S. intelligence community.
Poltarek did not disappoint. He did indeed have excellent connections--and
not only in Langley, Virginia. But what Manshur never suspected
was that Poltarek was operating under false flags.
Poltarek had always made good the promises of his mysterious masters--evidenced
by a Swiss bank account in Manshur's name and U.S.
passports for him and his family In turn, the Lebanese had never hesi-
THE ASSISTANT 39

tated to share nuggets he'd ferreted out from the faceless men from
Damascus, Cairo, or Tehran who passed through the French capital to
pick up Manshur's information and leave behind fresh instructions. It
was usually after such fleering visits that Pokarek received innocuous email
whose subtext was a request for a meeting.
Mustafa Manshur eventually completed his rambling discourse on the
demise of French education under the current Socialist government.
"Are you by chance familiar with the name Hafez Jamal?" he asked.
Poltarek pretended to study the intricate scrollwork on the rinplate
ceiling. What he was really doing was trying to stave off another heart attack. Hafez Jamal.
Of course he knew the name.
When he was sure he had his voice under control, he said, "No. Never
heard of him."
"It is my understanding," Manshur said slowly, "that his current
whereabouts would be of great interest to certain people."
Poltarek shrugged as if to say. How could I possibly know such a thing?
"This information is very fresh," Manshur carried on, tearing off tiny
bits of his paper napkin.
Poltarek called up his most engaging smile. "Tell me."

* * *

Sid Poltarek left the university quarter as he'd come, walking down
the rue Soufflot to the boulevard Saint-Michel. There he fought the impulse
to head for the nearest Metro station and take a train to the rue Rabelais
in the posh Eighth Arrondissement. But there was a way of doing
these things and he always followed procedure.
Poltarek squeezed into a busy cafe and, instead of a subway ticket,
bought a telephone token from the bartender. The din created by the patrons
effectively cloaked his brief conversation.
Then Poltarek was moving again, turning right where the boulevard
met the river and proceeding along the quai Saint-Michel. He crossed
a short bridge and found himself in front of the Cathedral of Noire
Dame.
A squad of paramilitary police in navy blue uniforms and polished
jackboots patrolled the perimeter in pairs. Tour buses were angled into
parking spaces, well over a hundred tourists, in three groups, milling
around their guides and interpreters.

There were also the unescorted travelers, generally younger, in pairs

40 J. PATRICK LAW

or by themselves. As he strolled toward the cathedral doors, Poltarek
tried to pick out the man he'd been told would meet him.
His shoulder was bumped. Turning, he saw a young woman in her
mid-twenties, with braided hair, loose comfortable clothes, and sturdy
walking shoes. In her hands she had an unfolded map, which she must
have been studying when she walked into him.
^Pardon" Poltarek muttered and moved away.
"Gabriel sends his greetings."
Her voice was soft, with a lilt, and an accent Poltarek couldn't identify.
He turned around and came back to her, thinking that she didn't look
any more Jewish than Christie Brinkley.
Then again, most of them never did.
"My regards to Gabriel," Poltarek said, completing the simple recognition
phrase.
The girl stepped over to the parapet and shrugged off her small backpack.
Poltarek noticed the red maple leaf emblem prominently displayed.
He severely doubted that she was Canadian.
The girl spread the map out across the stone and placed the backpack
on it to prevent the breeze from snapping it away.
"Come help me find the way to the Eiffel Tower."
Poltarek thought the girl was good. Even if security glanced in their
direction, all they'd see was a prosperous middle-aged man, dressed like
a Parisian, helping out an attractive tourist. The policeman's thoughts
might turn prurient, but there was nothing going on to raise suspicion.
They bent over the map, heads close together, his finger tracing randomly
over the paper.
"Please tell me what Manshur said."
Poltarek had been through this procedure many times. He knew
enough to understand that the person he was speaking to was a human
tape recorder, and that as a backup she was undoubtedly carrying a real
recorder with a sensitive microphone, maybe the Walkman hanging next
to her backpack.
He repeated verbatim what Manshur had told him, annoyed that his
dry, concise recital crumbled under the excitement when he first mentioned
Hafez Jamal. He glanced at the girl to gauge her reaction but saw
that her eyes hadn't moved off the map.
Poltarek's account took less than two minutes. "Is there anything you
wish me to repeat? Sometimes they ask for elaboration."
THE ASSlSlARi 1 41

"No, thank you," she replied politely, already swinging her backpack
over her shoulder, refolding the map.
She gripped his hand and shook it vigorously in the manner of a Scandinavian
woman.
"Thank you for your help. Gabriel will be in touch."
Watching her walk off, Poltarek felt deflated. He had wanted someone
to share his excitement, offer him encouragement. But nothing like this
had ever happened--nor was it likely to. The girl had been exactly the
same as every other go-between he had dealt with--polite, efficient, a
chameleon.
Poltarek did what he did not for money, medals, or glory. He and his
wife had entered this secret world, which lay like a sheen just below their
normal lives, because they were believers. In Israel's right to exist, to defend
herself, and to endure. They did not much care for the right-wing
political parties that were in power in Jerusalem nor for the influence of
the Orthodox rabbis, but to them Israel was a beacon, the ultimate
refuge, the place where, if you came naked and despoiled, they had to
take you in because it was home.

* * «

After leaving Poltarek, the girl continued across the Seine to the Right
Bank. She popped the locks on a Vespa scooter parked near the Hotel de
Ville and proceeded along the rue de Rivoli, headed for the Eighth Arrondissement.

A few blocks from the rue Rabelais, she donned goggles and a cap that
covered her hair. She stuffed the backpack with the Canadian flag into
one of the saddlebags that straddled the back of the scooter. Now she
looked like any one of the thousands of delivery people who crisscross
Paris every hour. The cameras of the Deuxieme Bureau, France's internal
security department, would photograph the nose and lips of someone
who could have been either a young woman or a shapely boy.
The girl got off her scooter, walked up to the guard post at the side entrance
to the Israeli embassy, and placed an envelope on the conveyor
belt. The guard behind the bulletproof glass activated the belt; a fluoroscope
checked the contents of the envelope as it rolled through. The girl
pushed a receipt into the roll-through tray, watched as the guard signed
and returned it.
42 ]. PATRICK LAW
Six minutes later, the tape from the girl's Walkman was being played
in a room dressed up to look like a lounge, with soft colorful furniture,
good art, fresh flowers. Except that this room was forty feet below street

level. Its walls were six feet thick and lined with lead.
The senior Mossad agent, the katsa, smoked three cigarettes while
he listened to the conversation between Poltarek and Manshur. He
switched off the recorder, popped the tape, and beheld it as if it were a

parchment of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
He picked up the phone and dialed the communications chamber.

"Warm up the line to Landau."
"Wait one."
In his mind's eye, the katsa saw the commo officer check the computer,
which tracked Israel's senior civilian and military policy-makers,

for Landau's exact whereabouts.
"He's in the prime minister's office. After that, the two of them are
taking the Sabbath--"
"Pull him out."
"Repeat, please?"
"You heard me: Pull him out of the meeting and get him to the commc

link."
"There'll be hell to pay--"
"Landau will forgive us when he hears that we have a location on Fas

Walker." 3
?

» » *

n lelt the turn-of-the-century office building on boulevard d<
Capucines and proceeded toward the Opera. The sun felt good on h
face. Better still was the glow of satisfaction that put a spring in h

step.
ne ^Positions had gone better than he could have hoped. Attom<^
for the plaintiffs had put on a brave front, but their slash-and-burn tacri
had not innpressed the French referee, a tiny woman who could ha
been Dr. Hurt's twin and who ruled over the proceeding like a nun wj

a sharp ruler.
By noon^ the referee called a break and recommended that the pla
tiffs strongly consider wrapping up the proceedings. She ventured d
their coming to Paris to offer French expert opinion against Kaiser-A
had, at best, been an ill-advised fishing expedition. If they persistel
THE ASSISTANT 43

their course, her report to the American court would include her opinion
that plaintiffs were deliberately stalling.
Before reaching the Opera plaza, Ben ducked down a narrow side
street and checked the storefront windows until he came to La Tour de
Magique.
Like divers, golfers, and chess enthusiasts, magicians have a loose,
worldwide affiliation, guided by the International Brotherhood of Magicians.
A. magician, amateur or professional, can walk into any magic store
in the -world and be assured of a warm welcome, a chance to catch up on
that city's magic community, trade shoptalk and gossip.
Speaking passable French, Ben spent a pleasant half hour with the
proprietor and several clients who stopped by. He purchased biographies
of two of France's most eminent godfathers of magic, Joseph Buatier and
Louis Comte, who in the early 1800s was known as "the King's Conjurer."
Ben signed the visitors' ledger and handed out several business
cards.
Promptly at half past twelve, he entered the Cafe Odeon and was
shown to a table under the striped awning four rows from the sidewalk.
His father was already seated, nursing a citron presse.
The restaurant was full, the waiter impatient to take their order. Both
men chose the plat dujour.
"So? How did it go?"
"Wh upped their collective asses."
"Did you now?"
Poltarek sat back, straining the cane-backed chair. His body language
brought to Ben's mind a potentate waiting to be amused.
Ben sipped his cocktail and leisurely recounted the morning's events.
"Where does this leave us?" Poltarek asked.
Plaintiffs' side will have to hang in there for a few more days--to save
face <7Wrf/justify the expenditure of dragging this thing across the Atlantic.
J But they'll iread carefully, given that the referee is standing on their colective
necks."

El Poltarek raised his eyebrows. The combative, aggressive tone in Ben's
voice was something he hadn't heard before.
"V
«ou want to handle the show tomorrow?"
ure- Why? Do you have something else going on?"
oltarek shook his head. "It would be nice for me to sit and take notes
" ' change."
44 J. PATRICK LAW

The waiter deposited hot plates ofboudin blanc before them.
Ben watched his father slather the tripe with hot mustard. Ever sii
he'd gone into business with his father, not once had Sid Poltarek fai
to have at least a hand in a deposition. He lived for verbal sparring.
en felt his appetite ebb. His father had something on his mind. Sor
thing that, clearly, was important enough to hide from his son.
Ihree

the hadar dafna building, an office tower on King Saul Boulevard
in Tel Aviv, is remarkable only in the severe way in which it
offends one's eye. Constructed of drab, gray concrete, the building's ugliness
astounds.
Inside, Hadar Dafna is spartan, the hanging artwork an afterthought,
the security desk and cameras standard. This is an effective front. The
wall behind the security desk has a large rectangular two-way mirror. Behind
it, twenty-four hours a day, sits a team of two men armed with subachine
guns. They are part of the real security.
Beside them is a scanner, the kind used by airports to screen carryon
luggage. After an employee walks past the lobby security, he has no option
but to turn left and disappear behind the screen. There, whatever
he's carrying is X-rayed and his ID is checked.
Ever since the Institute, the building's sole tenant, moved in, there
have been only three attempts to breach security, all involving Palesnian
suicide bombers. What the would-be killers never saw or knew
jabout was the security outside the building.

At any given hour, a trio of young men and women can be seen loker-
?away the day in the cafe across the street. Each is wired to security in-
Hadar Dafna; each is a walking arsenal; each has a photographic
"ory imprinted with the faces of those who belong in the building.
46 J. PATRICK LAW

Besides acting as spotters of approaching strangers, the trio is also a rapid-
reaction team. Not one of the three suicide bombers even cleared the
doors before the team challenged them, spooked them into revealing
themselves, and mowed them down.
Now the spotters stirred again, but this time their hard expressions
softened into incredulity. Ezekiel Landau was a short, trim man who
glided rather than walked. His features were unremarkable and not distinctly
Semitic. He could pass for an American or a northern European;
with a deeper tan, a Spaniard or South American.
At age fifty. Landau could bench-press two times his own body
weight. He was lethal with his hands and a host of weapons. The exact
number of confirmed kills to his credit was a secret, but rumor had it that
before Landau had become head of the Institute, and so had to leave
field operations, he had singlehandedly eliminated 30 percent of those
whose names appeared on the prime minister's Execution List. At the
time, the List had 104 names.
The spotters in the cafe were taken by surprise. Landau was supposed
to be with the prime minister all afternoon. One spotter radioed in the
likelihood of a snap inspection.
All three watched as Landau mounted the steps, paused, and
scratched the crown of his head. A chuckle circled the group. Few things
were known about Landau, but one fact was legendary: Landau was a religious
man. When he operated abroad, it was impossible for him to wear
a yarmulke. He'd solved that particular problem by carefully shaving the
crown of his head and fashioning the hair into a makeshift cap. If anyone
noticed, it would simply look like a bad hairpiece.
Landau did not break stride inside the lobby, nor did he pause at the
checkpoint behind the screen. He missed nothing and could see that the
spotters had relayed word of his visit. Internal security looked very sharp.
Landau stepped into an elevator that descended four floors and
opened onto a room that very much resembled the katsa} lair in the Paris
embassy. It should have, since it was the blueprint for identical rooms in
Israeli embassies around the world.
"Shalom, Landau. How is our prime minister?"
The speaker was a handsome, fifty-year-old, chain-smoking woman
with hard, intelligent eyes and forearms that could wrestle a Brahman
bull to the ground. Her name was Bella and Landau had inherited her
THE ASSISTANT 47

when he took office. Bella was a fixture because her knowledge about the
Institute was encyclopedic--as it should have been, since Bella was family,
the granddaughter of the Institute's founder.
"Shalom, Bella. The prime minister sends his warmest regards. He
also asked--very delicately, mind you--why you humiliated his brother-
in-law at the fund-raiser last night."
"Because he is a thief--a horny thief at that. He tried to feel me up
under the table." She flicked her wrist and sent a manila envelope gliding
down the long conference table to Landau. "The son of a bitch has
been taking kickbacks, and none too discreetly, either. Our august leader
might want to have words with him before he reads about it in the
Jerusalem Post."
Landau read the one-paragraph synopsis and sighed. "Thank you,
Bella. I'll bring it up at the appropriate moment."
"You mean when you need something from him," Bella shot back.
Landau blinked. "Of course. Why waste it before then?" He nicked
the file back across the table. "So what's this uproar from the Yahalomim?"

The literal translation of the term is "diamonds." In the Institute's
parlance, it refers to the communications department.
Cigarette smoke trailed in her wake like the smoke from the stacks of
a magnificent ocean liner. Bella handed Landau the traffic from the Paris
katsa. She watched his eyes narrow as he read the brief, decoded text.
"Fast Walker," he murmured. "Our old friend Jamal."
"Whose acquaintance you've been wanting to make for a very long
time," Bella observed dryly.
A smile creased Landau's lips. True. Jamal was, in a way, his Doppelganger, an evil twin. For years he'd been head ofAl Fatah's Revolutionary
Council, a splinter group supported by Iraq, Iran, and Libya. While
Yasser Arafat had been busy transforming himself from terrorist to statesman,
Hafez Jamal had been tending his garden of munitions experts,
infiltrators, and suicide bombers. Year after year his crop had been bountiful,
and the soil from which it sprang was continually nourished by Israeli
blood.
To Landau, Jamal was not a only a target, he was a crusade. Year after
year, using dearly paid for intelligence. Landau set forth to prey upon
whatever lair the terrorist was holed up in. From Cyprus to Lebanon, to
48 J. PATRICK LAW

the wastes of the Sudan, as far afield as Morocco and Mozambique, he
struck again and again. But each time Jamal had eluded him. Landau
would bag his lieutenants and field soldiers, their weapons and explosives,
but the quarry he so desperately sought always managed to slip
away.
A month or two after one of Landau's raids, Jamal would announce
himself again, and Israeli bodies would be shredded at bus stops, department
stores, and restaurants.
One time Jamal had even made it personal. He kidnapped three people
whose last names were Landau, bound them with plastic explosives,
and drove them to a public square in Tel Aviv. After pushing them out of
the van like so much garbage, he waited until passersby rushed to their
aid, then calmly flipped the detonator switch.
This from a man who had medical degrees from universities in France
and Switzerland.
"Landau?"
"I was thinking."
"You were salivating. It smells good, doesn't it? Herschel in Paris is
sharp. He would not pass on dreck."
"What about the originator, this Pokarek?"
Bella had the file in hand. "He's been a sayan for over thirty years.
Spotless record. Hasn't turned down one request. And his information is
always CLEAR grade."
Meaning "reliable," Landau thought. Very reliable.
He reached for a TV-type remote control unit and a backlit topographical
map of the Middle East descended from the ceiling. The blue
dots belonged to known terrorist camps; the red, to suspected ones. Landau
went to the map and traced his finger from Tel Aiv, across the Golan,
into Syria, stopping at a red dot next to the small town ofjuba. He tapped
the dot with his fingernail.
"Why Juba?" he said aloud, but speaking to himself. "Jamal has no
history there. He's never used it as a staging ground or refuge."
"Maybe that's exactly why he's going there, because he has no connection
to Juba."
"Is there any supporting intelligence?"
Bella ground out her cigarette. "I thought you might want to handle
the requests yourself."
THE ASSISTANT 49

She was right. Only Landau could pick up the phone and get the leaders
ofAMAN (military intelligence), APAM (intelligence operational security),
and PAHA (Department of Hostile Sabotage Activities) on the
line instantly. Matters would proceed swiftly from there because when it
came to Hafez Jamal, interdepartmental bickering and withholding
ceased.
"The others don't have this information," Landau said abruptly. "I
would have heard if they had."
"Maybe it will come down to how much you believe Herschel."
Landau believed the Paris katsa plenty. Before taking up his post in
the French capital, Herschel Jacobsen had been a squad leader in the
Sayret Matcal, the intelligence reconnaissance group that regularly performed
small miracles like the raid on Entebbe, or more recently, the
spiriting away of six of Saddam Hussein's in-laws.
Bella watched Landau turn back to the map. His eyes burned with religious
fervor as he tracked across the geography, weighing risks, options,
possibilities. Bella imagined the image that must have been fixed in his
mind: a brace of the newest, American-made Apache attack helicopters
descending on Juba like the horsemen of the apocalypse.
She understood that Landau would not flinch from inflicting devastation
even though he knew that innocents, with whom terrorists invariably
surrounded themselves, would also die. He would open the gates of
hell for Jamal and not let them close until Jamal was behind them.
"Contact the Green Man in Damascus. Tell him that Juba is pleasant
this time of year. There are things to hear and see."
Landau said all this in a flat monotone over the beating of a raging
heart. The Green Man was his principal agent in Damascus, the best
Landau had ever recruited. For six years he'd been providing a steady
stream ofclass-A intelligence. Landau had never demanded product that
would put the Green Man at risk, had never exposed him to other, less
secure contacts, or sent him to places where his presence would arouse
suspicion.
But Juba was not that far from Damascus. The Green Man could arrange
a convincing excuse to be absent from the Syrian capital for a day
or two. Jamal was worth the risk. He was worth moving the Green Man
out of his sanctuary.

Bella knew that Landau had one option. She was not surprised that he

50 J. PATRICK LAW

would use it; she was sad. Sometimes she wondered if the people Landau
used as human chess figures--and sacrificed--ever visited him in his
sleep.
"The Green Man," she said, giving him one last chance to change his
mind.

"Yes."
Landau snatched up the phone and began to speak quickly to his opposite
number at the air force. Bella overheard mention of Apaches fueled
and armed, of crews being held in ready rooms, of how much fighter
cover to provide and how to coordinate it. After all these years, even she
was still amazed at how quickly operations took on a life of their own, genies
that could never be put back in the bottle.
t
he road that meanders south from Damascus to Juba continues
all the way to the Fertile Crescent. It was a trade route even be
fore the days of Moses. The Romans had come and laid stone upon it.
Later, the Crusaders had dotted it with religious waystops that stood
until they became tired of fertilizing the desert with the blood of their
warriors and went home.
Juba flourished and stagnated with the vicissitudes of fortune. In the
best of times, its population never exceeded a few thousand. These were
not the best of times. The map of the Middle East had been drawn and
redrawn. Trade was carried by ship, rail, and plane. Decade by decade,
the desert weathered the Roman stone until it became sand and the road
was all but invisible. Driving it today, one might believe it had never ex
isted at all.
Like the stone, Juba's population had eroded to less than four hun
dred. Even with a fragrant oasis, the land could support no more. The
younger men, the few who remained, dreamed of following their broth
ers and cousins to the cities to find work. Tending sheep and goats, grow
ing dates, and pressing palm oil was women's work.
Hafez Jamal had chosen Juba precisely because the rest of the world
had forgotten about it. He had arrived there several days ago via a cir
cuitous route that had taken him from Tripoli to Valletta, on the island of
Malta, on to Beirut, then across the border to Iraq, only to double back
52 J. PATRICK LAW

into Syria. By the time he crossed the Euphrates, Jamal was certain that
neither the Israelis nor the Syrians were aware of his whereabouts. All to
the good. The Israelis wanted to see his head on a pike; the Syrians
claimed he was behind in his payments for the sanctuary they provided.
Landau had said that Jamal had no reason to be in Juba. It was one of
the very few things he was wrong about. Unknown to anyone, Jamal had
kin there, a cousin twice removed. He had kept this a secret because by
definition, a secret remains one only if those who become privy to it also
become dead. Juba was Jamal's bolt-hole, his refuge of last resort, where
he might craft his next creation.
And what a creation it would be! Seated under a yellowing palm tree
at the back of his cousin's house, vacated before his arrival, Jamal cast his
thoughts across time. A hundred plans had been conceived and ultimately
discarded. But he had persevered, toiled in silence and solitude,
shared nothing with anyone. With the blind certainty of the fanatic,
Jamal knew the answer would come to him, perhaps in a vision or a
dream. He would know it was the right one when he felt its awful glow
in the pit of his stomach as it consumed him.
The dream had been long in coming, but it had revealed itself to him
during a restless sleep on a flight from Malta to Beirut.
During his days in Juba, Jamal had crafted and perfected the plan as
meticulously as a glassblower shapes his fragile creations. He was a patient
man by nature, meticulous by training. It was his habit, when he
was lost in thought, to contemplate the calluses on the tips of his fingers,
the result of working with detonator wires the width of a hair. Beneath
the object of his concentration, another consideration was being examined.
Hafez Jamal had fond memories of his time in European colleges ;
and hospitals. But his thoughts about what he could have been invariably ;
made him sad. Then rumination would become the slippery slope of',
anger, and without being the least aware of it, he would plunge into the |
psychosis that threaded its way through his mind like a tapeworm. |
But for the moment the worm was still. The project had been thought |
through. Its framework was very strong, yet as light as an aerialist's ropes.
There had been contingencies, of course, but those had crumbled one by
one under his laserlike concentration.
Then, when it was done, Jamal took a metaphorical step back and focused
his considerable powers on destroying his creation. He found some
minor cracks and details that needed a little shading, but overall the edi-|
THE ASSISTANT 53

fice would not fall. He was ready. The monument to his vision of holocaust
was ready.
jamal had unpacked the smallest of the three suitcases he'd come
with. Nestled in protective sponge was a powerful transmitter married to
an encryption unit. The transmitter operated via a satellite launched by
the Chinese for the Libyans. Jamal had received permission from
Khadafy himself to use it.
The message was capsulized in a microburst and lasted a tenth of a
second. After Jamal repacked and put away his equipment, he settled
down to wait.
The man to whom the message had gone had been expecting it. Even
though he had a wife and child, he would be ready to travel. Two days,
maybe three, no more.
In the interim, Jamal seldom left the house. The woman who cooked
and cleaned for his cousin came and went about her business in silence.
She recognized hard men and was painfully familiar with what they
could do to her and her family. She carried out her chores with downcast
eyes, even when Jamal was outside, his back to her.
Jamal did not think much about his magnificent edifice. There was
nothing he could do to improve it. But he had one last task to perform before
the man and woman arrived. He went to the market and used one of
the two working pay phones. The connection to Damascus was scratchy,
but his words got through. Words that were bait for the traitor he hoped
to snare. He would know soon enough ifit'd been taken. In fact, he was
counting on it, for a traitor's act was to be part of the foundation of his terrible
palace.
Now, sitting beneath the palm tree, Jamal heard only the hum of insects
and the scuttle of small lizards along the stone walls. They enveloped
him as a lover would and lulled his fevered imagination. Still, he
heard the footfall by the front gate, though he pretended not to.
"A/, Hafez. We could have been Jews coming for you."
Issim Hassan was two heads taller than Jamal, with bronzed skin over
cables of sinews, black laughing eyes, and teeth so white that when he'd
fought in the field, he'd had to rub them with charcoal.
Turning to his boyhood friend, Jamal thought. He is the paragon and I,
aw" "ly hairy body and coarse lines, am the dwarf.
Anyone who saw the two men side by side immediately had the same
thought. It did not matter that Jamal was the smarter of the two, the
54 J. PATRICK LAW

learned cosmopolitan who possessed the genius of both saving life and
taking it. Hassan was the charismatic. The gift of leadership is both elusive
and eternal. If a man is born to it, he cannot give it up, no matter how
much he might want to. The standing joke about Hassan was that he was
so handsome that he could have run for a seat in the Israeli parliament
and won. It was also rumored thai the top Palestinian commanders, including
Arafat, were more than a little afraid of Hassan's magnetic personality,
which was why he had never been promoted to the inner
councils.
As he rose to embrace his friend, Jamal knew that none of this mattered
to Hassan. He was not oblivious to his gifts, but neither was he
ruled by them. Once, he had used them to lead men in the field. Now,
he turned their considerable power to politics, to the hard task of
wrestling a Palestinian state out of an increasingly intransigent Israel.
The warrior had become a peacemaker. In Jamal's eyes, Hassan had lost
the purity of his vision, then abandoned it altogether. Jamal believed he
knew exactly when this had happened--when Hassan had become first
a husband, then a father. The two combined to make him a traitor.
Jamal wrapped his arms around Hassan. Beneath his cheek, he felt the .
great muscles of Hassan's chest quiver like those of a racehorse at the
pole. Then he stepped around him, toward the woman who, like a He- :
brew siren from the Torah, had stolen Hassan from the movement. From
his destiny.
"Manar..." ;
The woman was as tall as her husband, but younger. Although she
wore the robe and the veil, her eyes, emerald pools necked with gold, belonged
to youth. Even the garments could not entirely hide her shapely |
figure--and that after a hard birthing.
"Where is the boy?" asked Jamal. "I have a present for him." .
"He will see it later. He is asleep in the truck." I
Jamal thought her voice was rich and throaty, and he often wondered |
what it would be like to lie with her. |
Jamal had had beautiful women, but he had always paid for them. He 3
wondered if Manar, who had beguiled the most beautiful of men, could |
see beyond his misshapen flesh. Was she truly as exceptional as Hassan
claimed? Jamal was counting on that. i
Jamal prepared the table with food, bottled water, and sweet Jordanian |
THE ASSISTANT 55

wine while Hassan carried in his two-year-old son, Naji. The boy, who
had his mother's eyes and light complexion, never stirred as the father lay
him on the couch.
Hassan and Manar were hungry after their long drive, but Jamal ate
sparingly. He already knew what Hassan had come to say, and this had
robbed him of his appetite.
The ax fell after Jamal had poured them sweet Turkish coffee.
"The committee has come to some conclusions," Hassan said. "New
directions."
Jamal nodded but remained silent.
Hassan leaned forward, as though by lessening the distance he could
speak softly and so spare his old friend pain.
"We have been fighting the Israelis for better than forty years. We
have won some great victories but we have also eaten ashes. We have
used up our youngest and finest men until we have had to recruit children.
We are tired, my brother. Who would have thought blood could
weigh so much. But it does, upon the Israelis as much as upon us."
Hassan accepted the cigarette Manar lit and handed to him.
"You and I," he continued. "We have been the stilettos, striking again
and again at the Israelis. Believe me when I say that I do not regret anything
we have done. Our actions, and those of our comrades, were responsible
for herding the Israelis to the bargaining table.
"But now the talking is done. The Israelis have given us their best and
final offer." Hassan pushed across a thick sheaf of documents. "The
American President has promised to guarantee the terms--and our
rights--as soon as we sign."
Jamal's expression did not betray his revulsion. He merely took the
documents, excused himself, and went to the couch. For the next hour,
while he read, he absently reached for Hassan's son, still asleep, and
stroked his hair.
"It seems we have fought long and hard for very little," he said when
he returned to the table. "And these guarantees the American President
is to sign, they are secret protocols, appendices no one will ever know
about. If the Israelis change their minds, if the Americans renege, who
will speak for us then?"
Hassan's nostrils flared as his world-weariness whistled out of him.
"Trust has to begin somewhere, Hafez. For us, the Israelis, the Amer-
56 J. PATRICK LAW

icans. You may not know it, but the Israelis resisted very hard. Only when
the American secretary of state made clear her displeasure did they relent."
Oh yes, my brother. I know how much they relented. But Jerusalem still belongs
to them, does it not?
Jamal touched the documents lightly, as though they might be contaminated.
"Does Arafat agree to this?"
"Arafat would have agreed to less. I, and others, had to remind him
how much blood had already gone into this bargain."
Jamal noted that there was no pride or preening in Hassan s voice.
Certain parts of him were utterly without guile. The idea of taking credit,
even when it was his due, would never have occurred to him.
"And you, Issim. If you had to sign, would you?" Knowing you could enforce
nothing?
"Yes, I would."
Jamal pretended to consider the flame in the lamp between them. In
his heart he had been hoping that his sources in Damascus were wrong.
He had hoped that Hassan would bring him meat, not gristle. He was
neither angry nor disappointed that this had not happened. He was resigned.
A man who has anticipated the worst, who has not been lulled by
false hope, can afford resignation. Jamal was such a man. He could afford
to be because he still had his beautiful, terrible dreams.
When he spoke, it was to both Hassan and Manar.
"Try to think of it as I do. You have been married to a woman for many
years and then one day she leaves you. You cannot, on that day, cease to
love her, no matter the pain. Nor can you turn a key in your heart and
begin to hate her. Until you accept new realities, you live with ancient
sentiments.
"That is how it is for me and Jews. I have fought them and hated
them, and even though I understand compromise, I cannot embrace it.
Accept it, yes. But to come to terms with it, I need time, and your patience
and wisdom." Jamal paused. "I suspect there are many like me,
even among Israelis."
More than you could imagine, Issim.
He felt Hassan's strong fingers around his forearm, saw his tears of relief.
He listened to his assurances and promises, but secretly he was saying
a prayer for him. Hassan believed, but this time in the wrong things.
Jamal rose from the table. "When do you return to Beirut?"
THE ASSISTANT 57

"Arafat expects me the day after tomorrow."
"Have you sent the message?"
Jamal thought he saw the shadow of shame flit across Hassan's eyes.
"All the brigades I command have been ordered to stand down. As of
now, there will be no more retaliatory attacks against Israel--in any
form." He looked at Jamal. "Will you now send the same message to your
fighters?"
Jamal let him wait. "Yes," he said finally, "I shall do this. You have my
word."
"Tonight?"
"Tonight, but later. When we reach our destination."
Manar spoke. "Destination? Where are we going?"
Jamal smiled. "Under the circumstances, this may be an unnecessary
precaution. But old habits ... I never spend more than a few days in any
one place. Here, my time is up. Arrangements have been made in another
place, where I have means to contact my men."
"What is the name of this place?" Manar asked.
"You may have heard of it. It is called Samarra."

* * *

The drive in the aging Land Rover took three hours. There was no
road as such, but Jamal navigated by memory and the stars. Along the
way, the boy, Naji, awoke, and Manar sang songs to him that were lifted
by the night wind to the constellations above.
It was almost midnight when they reached Samarra, nothing more
than a hamlet, forty miles west of Juba. Another refuge awaited them
and, tired by the drive, the three adults and the child quickly settled into
their beds.
Out of habit, Jamal was the last to fall asleep, listening to the night, accounting
for every movement, sound, and smell. When he deemed that
all was secure, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off, hoping
to dream of the green fields and the honey of Paradise, the virgins and
the cool, still waters. After tonight, such dreams would be all he'd have to
sustain him.
F
ive



j

amal's call to damascus did not stay with the first man who listened
to it. Within the hour, its substance was relayed to a second individual,
who in turn dialed Mustafa Manshur's number in Paris.
Placing international calls from Damascus is a treacherous business.
Connections take time, and internal security monitored the lines constantly.
Even a brief conversation, larded with references to recent
surgery regarding a family member, might not fully disguise the essential]
text, and in this case, a name and a place had to be mentioned without
the cloak of code.
Mustafa Manshur was trembling when he replaced the receiver in its
cradle, as much from fear of the risk the caller had taken as by his message.
Hafez Jamal had not survived so long because he was careless. So|
what had possessed him to use an open line to relay the message that he?
was leaving Juba? Manshur would never know and perhaps it was ofndl
consequence. What mattered was that the information he had passed on|
to Sidney Poltarek was now out of date. And God only knew with whortts
the American lawyer had traded or what decisions had already beeril
framed on the strength ofManshur's intelligence. |
Manshur glanced at his watch. Although it was only six o'clock in the
evening here in Paris, there was no answer in Pokarek's suite at the Ritz.
The concierge informed Manshur that the American and his son hai
gone to the Georges V for cocktails.
THE ASSISTANT 59

Manshur called the hotel and was put through to the lounge. Poltarek
sounded jovial, as if he'd had a good day and was looking forward to an
even better evening. His tone changed abruptly as soon as Manshur
spoke.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Poltarek asked.
Poltarek listened to Manshur's desperate assurances.
"Don't get worked up over nothing, Mustafa," he said soothingly.
"I'm glad you told me this, but please, don't worry."
Another fifteen minutes went by before Poltarek finally calmed the
Lebanese. The clock in the lobby tolled the hour and he cursed under
his breath. The Israeli embassy was closed for the day. Yes, he had an
emergency number, but did Manshur's updated information justify using
it? And had the Israelis already done something with what he'd passed
along? Did they need the update?
Poltarek decided. He called the embassy's night number and spoke to
the duty officer. He gave the man his name, asked to speak with a certain
individual, and was politely told that the person in question was unavailable.
Poltarek left the name of the restaurant where he would be dining
and the time at which he would return to his hotel.
"Everything okay. Pop?"
Poltarek was surprised and shaken to hear his son's voice behind him.
"Thai was Marty. Just some crap about the Hensen case. He'll be calling
back. Come on. Let's go back in."
As he followed his son into the lounge, Poltarek thought that the relaxing
evening he'd been looking forward to had proved to be a fool's
dream.

* *

Before leaving for the day, Herschel Jacobsen, the Paris katsa, always
provided the duty officer with three things: phone numbers and places
where he could be reached, and a list of people, who, if they called, the
katsa was to be notified at once.
Sid Poltarek's name had not been added to the list. The katsa believed
that the American sayan} job was finished. As far as he could tell, there
would be no need for further contact, and Landau had said nothing to
change that opinion. He went home for the night.
It was four o'clock in the morning in Tel Aviv, three o'clock in Paris,
when the katsa arrived at the embassy to check for special overnight
60 J. PATRICK LAW

commo traffic he'd been expecting. As he stopped at the duty officer's
desk, he happened to glance at the computer screen showing the call log.
"This one--Poltarek. Did he say what he wanted?"
"Just to speak with you. He left contact numbers."
"Pull up the record."
The duty officer tapped the keyboard. The katsa checked the times
and swore softly. A sayan doesn't leave a telephone trail around the city
because he needs his hand held.
The katsa} first instinct was to call Poltarek at the Ritz. Instead, he
told the guard to have his car brought back up.
Twenty minutes later, the katsa was speaking to the night manager.
Despite his misgivings, he ended up having to produce his diplomatic
credentials before the man would inconvenience a guest. The manager
spent more time apologizing than relaying the message.
Fifteen minutes later, a puffy-eyed Poltarek shuffled into the lobby.
The night manager delivered him to an alcove where the katsa waited.
"I regret waking you up at this hour."
Poltarek was still a little woolly, but he was sure there was no apology
in the katsa} voice. His kind never expressed regret over anything,
Poltarek thought sourly.
Then a cold, bony claw clutched his stomach: What the hell is he doing
here at this hour?
"Something's wrong." It was his first thought and he couldn't help
blurting it out.
"Nothing is wrong, Mr. Poltarek," the katsa said calmly. His voice was
soft, modulated; the eyes were very hard, as if they were restraining
something that was battling to get out.
"You called, saying you had a message for me."
Poltarek remembered Mustafa Manshur's fevered words. Was it possible
that Manshur had known how critical this new twist was to the original
information?
"Do you want me to tell you, here, now?"
The Israeli looked around and shrugged. "We are alone. Now would
be a good time."
Poltarek hunched forward and, dropping his voice, delivered his brief?!
message.

"You are sure that's all that was said?" Jacobsen asked.
Poltarek thought he sounded disappointed. "That's everything.
THE ASSISTANT 61

The katsa leaned forward and squeezed Poltarek's forearm. "Thank
„
you.
He rose and had taken two steps when Poltarek's voice stopped him.
"Was it important? Does it change things?"
The katsa almost took pity on him. A man dragged from his bed in the
middle of the night without explanation deserved something better. Unfortunately,
the katsa was not in a position to give it to him. Poltarek's
words were like a branding iron upon his heart. He had to reach out to
Landau immediately. Maybe it was not too late.
The katsa doled out crumbs. "Change things, Mr. Pokarek? Maybe.
Is it important? Everything is important to someone sometime,
isn't it?"

* * *

At the same time as the katsa was leaving the Ritz, four Apache attack
helicopters lifted off their pads at an air force base south of Haifa. Israeli
military air traffic made sure there was nothing else in the skies, allowing
the helicopters to run without lights. In less than thirty minutes they
were approaching the Syrian border.
In the command and control office in the Hadar Dafna Building, Landau
focused on a backlit, electronic map that currently displayed four red
blips closing in on Syrian territory. To the left of the board was a digital
clock that had started up the second the first helicopter lifted off. The
operation was thirty-two minutes, eleven seconds old.
As was his habit. Landau was alone in the room. He had no need of assistants
or runners. He liked it this way--a tight control over an operation
that was limited to the minimum number of people needed to plan, approve,
and execute it. In this case. Landau, the prime minister, who had
signed off on it without protest or argument, and the four two-man
Apache crews.
At precisely thirty-five minutes into the mission, the helicopters
crossed into Syrian airspace. They were flying low, using a terrain-hugging
navigation system, and were equipped with the best antiradar
equipment available. Those two factors, coupled with the Apaches'
silent-running ability, meant that in order to detect them, the Syrians
would need to actually see them. Since the attack route did not go near
^v Syrian military posts, the likelihood of discovery was minimal.
62 J. PATRICK LAW

At thirty-eight minutes, the red blips veered sharply to the south.
They were now nine minutes from Juba.
Landau sipped his coffee, looked around the C&C. During other operations--Entebbe,
the raid on Iraq's Osrik nuclear reactors--the room
had been full of people's sweat, cigarette smoke, and desperate hope.
Landau preferred the way it was now. The space and the silence made
the room feel larger, allowed him to pace, to hold a quiet dialogue with
himself, some of which actually made it past his lips. Landau's habit of
talking to himself was never remarked upon in the Institute.
"The Green Man ..."
There had been unforeseen problems where he was concerned. The
Green Man had not been able to leave Damascus until yesterday morning,
which meant he'd have arrived in Juba at noon. Precious little time
to scout for Hafez Jamal. Even less to exercise the elaborate precautions
that preceded a transmission to Israel.
Landau wanted the Green Man to confirm that Jamal was in Juba. Not
that he didn't believe the American sayan's account. He was sending nine
men into a combat zone that could turn hot in an instant. Their lives
were his responsibility; ultimately, the quality and veracity of the intelligence
that had sent them there was his, too.
But there was nothing from the Green Man, and the Apaches were six
minutes to target.
The hard line to the commo desk buzzed as if Landaus very thoughts
had conjured up his agent.
"Sir, you need to hear this--now," the commo officer was saying. "It
sounds very strange, but--"
"What's the source?"
"Juba."
"Encrypted?"
"That's just it, sir. The message came in the clear--sort of. It came
over a telephone."
"A telephone."
"Public pay phone in Juba."
"Play it out."
Here was the call, broken up by shards of static, the speaker in Juba arguing
with the international operator in Damascus that he'd been put
through to the wrong party. No, he didn 't want to talk to any camel-fuck-
THE ASSISTANT 63

ing Jew in Tel Aviv. He was calling Samarra. No, there was no one here to
help him. No one here. Couldn't the operator get that through his ugly
skull? Samarra!
Then silence.
The commo officer was back on the line but Landau shushed him.
The voice in Juba belonged to the Green Man. The audacity! For whatever
reason, the Green Man hadn't been able to use his transmitter. But
he'd found out what Landau needed to know, had to get the information
to him. A pay phone. A call to the international operator in Damascus,
rattling off a number. Connections being made. Then the fake outrage as
the commo officer picked up, and hidden in the diatribe, the message for
Landau: Jamal was gone. To Samarra.
Landau jabbed at buttons on the communications console.
The pilot of the lead Apache had Juba in sight, a dark smudge under a
starlit night. He was about to order weapons hot when Landau's words
crackled in his headset.
This was not the pilot's first mission over Syria and he knew something
about such operations. For instance: that they could be changed or
aborted at the last second.
The pilot confirmed the orders, then checked his fuel gauges. Plenty.
Fifteen seconds later, the formation wheeled around sharply and
headed south. In Juba, goats brayed and old men stirred uneasily in their
sleep, as though they sensed something lethal hovering close. Then silence
closed over Juba again. The angels of death had been called to another
appointment.
In the bunker. Landau lit a fresh cigarette and muttered a phrase that
an American Special Forces captain had once used: "Fortune favors the
brave." Ana the lucky.
The phone rang again. Landau glanced at it warily, malevolently. He
did not believe in too much luck.
It was the Paris katsa, speaking rapidly, not wasting a word. The American sayan update on Jamal. Yes, the katsa considered the information
reliable, but he had no supporting intelligence.
"But I do, friend," Landau said gently.
He hung up and turned his attention to the pulsating red dots on the
board. In minutes, the monster would be his.

* * *

64 J. PATRICK LAW

The desert was cool in the minutes before dawn. Manar dug her bare
heels into the mare's flank and gave her her head. The wind whistled
through the thin fabric of her robe and veil, cleansed her of sleep, and
made her heart race. Manar imagined that she could tasie the ocean on
the wind.
The taste was especially sharp because it seemed to melt the dry, fine-
grain sand that, despite her clothing, managed to find its way into her
skin and down her throat. Manar was a child of the ocean, and Samarra
was as far from the sea as one could get. Like Juba, it was built around an
oasis, but it was even poorer and more desolate. Exactly the kind of place
Jamal would pick, she thought dryly.
Not that she held a grudge against Jamal. The journey from Juba had
been hot and tedious but necessary. Manar had been Hassan's wife for six
years; she understood the rigors of security, the need to move often. The
life of the one she cleaved to depended on it.
Manar slowed the mare and turned her around toward the splinter of
light on the horizon. This was the time she cherished. Alone in a wilderness
that had not changed in millennia, she could witness the dawn of
creation. Each new day gave her hope, and of late it seemed that her
prayers had been answered. Somewhere beyond the light, almost in
reach now, was peace. A peace that would return her husband to her, return
him from the wars he had been fighting ever since he was a boy.
Peace for her son, who might grow up in a world where people were not-
torn apart by death from the skies or at the hands of men who came
silently in the night and departed with blood on their knives. Peace for
her, too, who had made her husband's cause her own, who believed his
beliefs, who had plotted and planned with him, but then had to stay be^
hind and wait to see if he would ever return home. j i
Home . . . The word sounded both foreign and delicious at the samc|
time. Sometimes, Manar had given up hope that such a thing might be!
hers. She had vague memories of another place, another time, when!
she'd had a home. But she had been a different woman then, weak an^J
indecisive, timid. Hassan's love had changed all that. She had beeflJ
taught to believe, to fight and sacrifice for that belief, never to let go o(
the vision that one day she and the cause she was wedded to would pre<|
vail. I
Manar slipped some sugar and salt from her robe, reached around, an<|
felt the mare's rough tongue on her palm. Was today the day? she woimj
THE ASSISTANT 65

dered. Or tomorrow? Perhaps not. But the guns were to be laid aside. Soon
the day of peace would come and its promise swelled her heart.
Manar sensed rather than saw the other rider. She scanned the horizon
and picked out a moving dot. Instinctively she dropped her hand to the
automatic rifle in the sheath beside the saddle.
The rider was in no hurry. Manar was looking into the growing light
and could not make him out until he was close.
"A/aw, Manar!"
"Aiwa, Hafez!"
He reined in his mount before reaching her so that the kicked-up sand
would not blow on her, then walked the horse to her.
Jamal whipped off his scarf, threw back his head, and laughed loudly
at the sky.
"A day to behold, Manar!"
Behind her veil, Manar smiled. She had accepted Jamal because of
Hassan's love for him, but in the beginning she'd had difficulty with him.
In a world of secretive men, Jamal was stone. His bulky, awkward body
made Manar think of a frog matted with thick hair. His eyes, always moving,
watching, weighing, unnerved her. There were other moments, too,
when she felt those eyes on her in a different way, examining her as a
woman, not as a competitor for Hassan's affections. It was only much
later, when she had worn away his suspicion, that she appreciated and responded
to his dedication, intellect, even moments of brilliance. That
made it easier to be in his presence. But at the same time, she discovered
hints ofjamal's darkness, saw the vultures and hyenas in the sudden explosions
of his anger. When he sent men to die or received word of an unsuccessful
operation, she glimpsed savage things rising from the well of
his hatred.
Could a man like that ever learn to live with peace? In peace? Could
he bring himself to love and desire it? Her husband said yes. Manar was
not so sure. To her, Jamal was a damaged vessel. His only safe harbor was
violence.
"You're frowning," Jamal said. "I have offended you by intruding on
your solitude."
"No. I was daydreaming."
"It is written that dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet
asked."
Manar was startled. The frog was a poet.
66 J. PATRICK LAW

"We have asked many questions over the wears. We deserve answers.
We deserve our dreams."
"I wish that for you, Manar. For you and your son, and Issim. Who
knows? Maybe he is right. Maybe peace will not elude us this time."
"Do you want peace?" she demanded suddenly.
Jamal looked directly at her. "I want to see Issim grow to be an old
man surrounded by grandchildren. I want your son to bring pride to his
home and name. I want you to watch your son and the other children you
will surely have nourish in the sun. If that is peace, Manar, that is what I
desire."
The horses sensed it first, stamping, jerking at the reins. The eyes of
Jamal's stallion rolled until Manar saw the whites.
"The devil--"
Jamal's words were lost to the shadows that raced across the ground,
then obliterated the sun. The Apaches were overhead, then were gone
before the muted sound of their engines ever touched the sand.
"Hafez!" Manar screamed. She stared after the airships into the glare
of the rising sun. "I can't see their markings."
"They need none!" Jamal shouted back as he jumped back on his
mount. "They're Israelis!"
Manar wheeled her mare around, but Jamal reached out and seized
the reins. "We are too late!"
Her eyes reflected savagery and stark terror. Samarra was a mile away,
a jumble of houses backlit by the sun. Then the sun was consumed by
something brighter and hotter. Manar heard the telltale whistles of the
missiles as they streaked from their pods, the rattle of uranium-tipped
ordnance spat out by Gatling guns, shredding everything in its path.
The four helicopters hung over Samarra like giant, carnivorous crowSI
jabbing and stabbing at a carcass. Then just as quickly as the raid ha<i|
begun, it was over. Three helicopters peeled off and came into form
tion. The fourth continued to hover over the village as the smot
cleared, then turned a lazy circle over its target, sniffing for anything th
might still be alive. Finally, it lifted higher, joined the others, and all foi
disappeared to the west.
Manar broke Jamal's grip on the bridle and whipped the reins aero
her mare's haunches. The wind shifted, carrying black smoke toward he
enveloping her. Somewhere beyond the thunder of hooves she hear
cries and screams. Then, breaking through the smoke, she saw village
THE ASSISTANT 67

rushing out of their homes. There were bodies scattered in the streets,
human and animal, buried among burning cans and wagons thai had
been reduced to kindling.
They cannot be dead. They cannot be dead. They cannot....
The litany shrieked in her mind as she reined in the mare, jumped off,
and ran to the house where she had slept with her husband and child. For
an instant, she thought she was in the wrong street. The house wasn't
there.
She let out a choking wail as she realized that she was wrong. There
was the house, now a pile of rubble, with flames snapping through what
remained of the walls and windows.
"Manar, don't!"
She ignored Jamal's warning, kept pushing her way past the people
crowded in the street. She clambered over rubble, saw an opening, and,
taking a deep breath, disappeared inside.
Racing up to the house, Jamal threw himself to the ground as a wall
crumbled. He staggered to his feet, swaying, thinking that no one inside
could survive. Then he heard a high-pitched scream and pushed forward.

He was scrambling over fallen timber to get to what was left of the entryway
when he saw Manar. She glided like a sleepwalker, oblivious to
the flames that licked at the hem other robe. In her arms she held something
small and black, something that once might have been a child.
Jamal plunged inside, clawing his way past debris, falling, the heat
searing his lungs and the smoke burning his eyes. He staggered ahead
like a blind man, his bleeding fingers tearing at the rubble.
Jamal did not know how long he'd spent inside the ruined house. But
it was only by the guidance of Allah s invisible hand that he found Has-
san.
Gasping, his knees buckling, Jamal emerged into the light, silently
calling on Allah to give him enough strength for one more step, one more
Then he was in the street and Manar was at his side. Jamal fell to his
knees and gently lowered the body of Issim Hassan. He lay on the
ground as though asleep, his features and limbs miraculously untouched
and whole. There was even a hint of a smile on his lips, as though his last
thought had brought him pleasure and peace. Only his head was not
"ght, resting at an impossible angle.
Jamal drew back as Manar reached for her husband. Her fingers trem-
68 J. PATRICK LAW

bled above his eyes and lips, then finally touched them. It was as though
an electric current had galvanized her, and she fell onto the body, wailing,
pounding the earth with her fists, cursing and swearing vengeance upon
a people she couldn't even see.

*

Landau sat very still in front of the communications console. His eyes
tracked the Apaches' return as he listened to the engagement relay coming
in on the encrypted channel.
The pilot reported that the house at the end of the street, the one next
to the olive grove, had been leveled. Nothing could have survived the
barrage. Nothing had.
Landau knew something about the firepower the Apaches carried.
The ordnance from one would have done the job; four would have given
Jamal a prelude to hell.
Which was where Landau hoped the terrorist was now. He pulled out
a cigar.
Landau was so cautious a man as to seem almost superstitious. He
never celebrated victory until it was absolutely certain. Even then, he
first counted the casualties with which it had been bought. He knew that
Jamal was dead, felt it in his bones. Within the hour, maybe sooner, the
Palestinians would broadcast their outrage and grief. The prime minister
would come under attack, both from the domestic opposition and from
the Americans, for having jeopardized the peace process. Landau disdained
politics, but for once there would be a clear, succinct reply: Hafez
Jamal and his terrorist wing had not signed the armistice. They had
vowed to pursue their dream of destroying Israel. They had been condemned,
made outcasts, by everyone who had come to the peace table,
even Arafat.
Landau appreciated the subtleties of the Arab mind. By ostracizing
Jamal, Arafat and the others had pushed him out from under their protective
umbrella. Which in turn made him fair game. To the Arabs, Jamal
was a thorn and an embarrassment, a killer who'd tasted so much blood
that he could not live on anything else. Sooner or later, he would have to
be put down. And if the Israelis got to him first, so much the better. Arafat would carp and scold, but in the end he would be quite relieved
that Jamal wouldn't be coming for him in the night.
The helicopters were almost at the Israeli border. Syrian military traf-
THE ASSISTANT 69

fic was full of questions, but since Samarra was not close to any Syrian
forward staging areas, the interceptors remained on the ground.
Landau drew on the cigar, savored it, mused on the fortunes of war. If
Jamal had left Juba for any place other than Samarra, the operation would
probably have been canceled. But Landau, who knew Jamal better than
any man alive, was aware of the terrorist's connection to the village. Samarra
was the birthplace of Jamal's father. Over the years, Jamal had
made pilgrimages to honor his father's memory. The Green Man had said
Samarra; the American sayan, the same. There was only one place Jamal
would go--to his father's house at the end of the street, next to the olive
groves.
Without warning, fatigue crept through Landau. His body had
stopped manufacturing adrenaline. It was telling him to rest.
Instead, he pulled himself to his feet and headed upstairs to the communications
room that monitored Arab commercial news broadcasts. He
walked like a man sure of himself, with no misgivings. But he wanted to
hear about Jamal from the Arabs' mouths.
uix

hafez jamal did not stop to mourn his fallen comrade and the
child. Nor did he allow the newly stricken widow to do so. His operation
depended on precise timing and a deliberate sequence of events,
the first of which had now occurred.
Jamal pried Manar off Hassan's body and carried it to a small army
truck. It had once served as a frontline Syrian ambulance and still had
stretchers inside and a fading red crescent on the panels and roof. Despite
its appearance, the vehicle had a finely tuned engine and a second
gas tank.
Jamal laid Hassan out on one of the stretchers, then returned with a
blanket for the child. Manar was standing, mute, over the charred remains.
When Jamal knelt down, she brushed him away and wrapped the
blackened figure herself. Only when she was done did she turn away and
let loose her sickness.
After placing the son beside the father, Jamal returned for Manar,
grabbed her by the elbow and half-walked, half-dragged her to the truck.
He was glad she was in shock; it was easier to handle her.
"Where are we going?" Manar asked suddenly.
Jamal pressed the starter button and the engine roared. "To a safc|j
place."
Her next words cut and humiliated him: "This was supposed to be a
safe place."
THE ASSISTANT 71

Under different circumstances, Jamal would have beaten her for such
words. He may have learned the ways of cosmopolitan European society
and aped its mores, but at home, centuries-old instincts prevailed. A
woman was always subservient and deferential. She had no opinions,
questioned nothing.
But this was not just any woman.
"I don't know how the Israelis discovered us. But I will find out. On
my life, I swear it."
Manar stared straight ahead, unblinking. Her voice was thick and
hard. "Keep your life. Others have already paid for what you will find."
Jamal bit his lip until he tasted blood. He could not lose his composure
now. Let Manar insult and savage him. It would serve only to whip her
anger. She would be denied rest or sleep until exhaustion dropped her.
Then, when she awoke to find herself still in the nightmare, the grieving
would begin.
But the anger would remain. Every day Manar mourned, it would
grow, spawning new pustules that would eventually break open, become
the breeding ground for more. Until anger became hatred, which, like
lava heaved out of a volcano, would begin to cool. Cool until hatred became
stone, pitiless and opaque.
Hatred would be the forge in which he would mold her. She would cry
out for, crave, revenge, and he would give it to her a spoonful at a time,
the way one feeds an addict.
He would give her what she most desired--just not the way she expected.

* * *

Jamal drove without pause through the morning and into the honest
part of the day. At the border, he had bribes out and ready for both the
Syrians and the Jordanians. The corpses in the back of the truck were explained
away as relatives being returned for burial.
At the outskirts of Amman, Jamal turned south toward Peira. He drove
until he was within a mile of the ruined capital of the ancient Nabateans
and its archaeological treasures.
At the end of the Gulf War, the Jordanian army fell upon the last reaining
Palestinian camps and herded their occupants to Syria or across
to the sliver of the embryonic Palestinian state that hugged the
Mediterranean. Promoting the country's ruins and temples instead of
72 J. PATRICK LAW

Arab solidarity, the Jordanian monarchy set about the business of n
plenishing its war-depleted coffers. Word spread quickly among trav<
agents that Jordan was open for business--cheap, exotic, and, above al
safe. The baths, markets, and the magnificent treasury of Petra quick!
became important cogs in the money-printing machine.
The Israelis had watched this transformation and were pleased. ;
meant one less potential battlefront to worry about. They never su;
pected that something else might have spirited its way to the ruins on th
tourist caravans.
Hafez Jamal had been the first to recognize that although Jordan wa
lost as a terrorist staging base, it could function very well as a refuge. Pro
vided that the force was small, well disciplined, and independent, il
members could easily blend with the ever-increasing workforce thsl
sprang up around the archaeological wonders. The ruins themselves-i
the minor ones that were too badly weathered or too insignificant to be(
interest--served as perfect places to cache armaments, communication
equipment, and men. Best of all, the suicide squads and machine g
ners were a stone's throw from Israel, facing a border that, over time,,
become porous. And once the killers reached Jerusalem or Tel Aviv,
was to say where they'd come from?
Jamal skirted the hastily constructed apartments, cubes piled
on top of another, built for the tour guides and administrators.
truck bounced madly as he swerved into a byway that was little n
than a rutted path. Now came the shanties and hovels that housed|
poorest of the poor, the excavation laborers who toiled fourteen ho)
day, picking at the mountainsides as if they were decay in giant tt
After them came the stonecutters, and finally the sweepers, until, s
centuries of darkness, forgotten ruins were once again warmed by|
sun. |
There, among the dispossessed, Jamal had built his nest. The wdN
were a silent, peaceful lot who kept to themselves, so visits by the )«|
nian military or security forces were rare. They were also a peopleyl
had developed a very selective eyesight. Jamal and his force of i
fighters who lived on the fringe of the shanties might be strangen
they were also kinsmen.
Jamal parked the truck behind a wooden shack that was biggp
sturdier than most. He was immediately surrounded by his lieute<
to whom he gave a brief but graphic description of the events at Sa
THE ASSISTANT 73

When he spoke of the death of Issim Hassan and his child, the men's
eyes grew moist and their hands dropped to their weapons.
Jamal did not give them the luxury of grieving. He pointed to Manar,
still seated in the truck's cab, and described what had to be done. In minutes,
the women of the camp were clustered around her, cooing as they
led her away to be bathed, dressed in fresh clothing, and plied with food.
After a quick outdoor shower, Jamal retreated to his tent and, from
under his bunk, pulled out a footlocker. Unlocking it, he brought out a
sophisticated laptop computer, which he plugged into an electrical outlet
connected to a gas-powered generator.
The scope of the Internet never ceased to amaze him. There, in a setting
that was several thousand years old, he was able to gather the world
unto himself with a few simple keystrokes.
Jamal sat erect on the edge of the cot, the computer on his knees. He
closed his eyes, saw the letters swirling behind his eyes like cosmic nebulae,
gradually forming whole sentences, complete thoughts, until the
entire message blazed in his mind.
With eyes still closed and a smile tugging at his lips, he let his fingers
fly.

* * *

The hours crawled by and still there was no hard word that Hafez
Jamal was dead.

Landau's fourth cigar, smoked down two-thirds of the way, lay cold in
'the ashtray. The milk in the coffee had curdled, though Landau could
t not have known this because he was dozing. Sleep had come like a sabo-
i teur, ambushed him, as he listened to the news cycles on CNN because
j he was getting nothing from his own people.
| Landau thought he heard someone calling him. He looked around at
, the landscape of his dream but saw no one. Then he opened his eyes,
| blinked at the harsh light, and heard the sound again. The voice coming
| over the speakerphone belonged to the commo officer.
c "vm?" Ll-
'es: Mis voice was raspy.
We have a report on the Syrian news."
"Punch it up."
Landau stood, placed his hands on his kidneys, and leaned back, verbrae
and joints popping.

n one of the television monitors was a dour-faced Syrian anchorman

74 J. PATRICK LAW

staring at the camera, not even bothering to shuffle the papers in his
hands. He was reading the censor-approved text about a savage aerial assault
on a peaceful village, Samarra, that had left three dead and six badly
wounded. The raiders remained unidentified, but army experts who
were examining the shell casings identified them as the kind favored by
the Israeli Defense Forces.
Landau snorted. On "black" sorties the usual American or homegrown
ammunition was replaced by rounds used by Arab forces. Shell casings
would tell the Syrians nothing.
Landau continued to listen as the Syrian droned on. Three dead. Give me
a name. Jama/was important enough. Unless his face was blown off. Given the
damage he saw on the videotape, that was a distinct possibility.
The voice on the speakerphone had to call his name twice before Landau
answered.
"What is it?"
"Turn to CNN, sir."
Landau dreaded the commo officer's hesitant, almost fearful tone.
He'd heard it often enough from countless lips to know that it was the
harbinger of misfortune or defeat.
There was the pretty American anchorwoman silhouetted against pictures
of Hafez Jamal and Issim Hassan. Landau began to feel sick even
before the woman spoke.
"A predawn raid on the village of Samarra, in southern Syria, left at
least three people dead and six badly wounded.
"Positively identified among the dead are Issim Hassan, a ranking
delegate to the recent round of Middle East peace talks, and his two-' |
year-old son, Naji. t
f,
"The third victim was an elderly man, believed to be a lifelong resi|
dent of Samarra." |
Landau had laced his fingers together and was pressing them hard|
against his stomach, as though straining literally to hold himself together«|
Disaster. |
The word tolled like the mournful notes of Kaddish.
An f/where is Jamal? Whathappened'to him?'It's possibleforthe Americansto
identify Hassan so quickly. But his son?

The commentator provided the answer.
"Syrian government spokesmen are on record as saying that only Is-gj
rael had the means and motive to carry out such an attack.
THE ASSISTANT 75

"In Tel Aviv, the prime minister's secretary flatly rejected the Syrian
claim, calling it slander of the worst kind.
"But only a few minutes ago, CNN received information that may
well bolster the Syrian claim.
"The following segment was sent to our Tel Aviv bureau over the Internet
and will be run in its entirety."
Landau's lips curled back when Hafez Jamal appeared on the screen,
very much alive. He sat on a cot, a laptop on his knees. The lighting was
such that nothing of the background was visible. Jamal could have been
in a bedouin tent or in one of Saddam Hussein's palaces.
When Jamal spoke, his words were clear yet somehow heavy, as
though something was dragging them down.
He wants the world to see him grieve.
"People of Israel, people of America, people of the world. . . . This
morning I was witness to an atrocity perpetrated by commandos of the
Israeli Defense Forces against innocent civilians and men of peace.
"This unprovoked attack resulted in the slaying of, among others,
Issim Hassan, a delegate to the peace conference, and his son, Naji, only
two years old.
"People of the world, I savs the Israeli helicopters fly past me. To my
shame, I could not reach my friend in time; I could only watch as his
house was surrounded and, without warning, destroyed.
"This was not war. It was premeditated murder.
"I call upon the nations of the world to condemn the Israeli butchers
who talk out of the sides of their mouths. Today, something more than
flesh and blood died in Samarra. Peace was also a victim.
"We Palestinians have long believed that peace was possible, in our
time, for us and our children. We have made concession after concession
in order to achieve it. We have agreed to put down our weapons and set
free the dove."
Landau heard the phone ring. It was the direct line to the prime minister's
office. He ignored it. Jamal's body language had changed. He was
sitting forward, his fingers gripping the laptop. The lighting caught a thin
line of perspiration along his brow, the flare of his nostrils.
For you, this is better than sex. Landau thought. You have something to tell
us, don't you? Maybe more than you intend.
"Now the dove is no more, slaughtered by the Israelis at Samarra,"
Jarnal continued, his voice rising. "If, before the week is out, the Israeli
76 J. PATRICK LAW

gangsters have not publicly admitted their role in this atrocity, if they do not offer such compensation as is possible, and if they do not recognize the legitimacy
of the Palestinian state, then blood will be spilled again.
"People of America, hear me. I have no wish to anger or hurt you. But
I must have your voice, your help. Use your power so that Israel delivers
unto the Palestinians that which is theirs by treaty and by right.
"But know, too, that if nothing changes, the future will be very different
from what you imagine.

"Praise be to Allah. Farewell."
Even as Jamal's last words died away. Landau was on the line to the
commo officer.
"The prime minister was--"
"Was anyone able to pinpoint the transmission?" Landau snapped.
"No, sir. We've been talking to CNN. The transmission was relayed
halfway around the world on the Internet before it reached their Tel Aviv
bureau. There's no way to determine origin."
Landau tasted ashes in his throat. He had told the prime minister that
this would be an am efes--a no-miss operation. Now Israel was saddled
with a disaster that would cost her dearly.
Landau's legendary victories were like thorns in his flesh. None of
them counted anymore, especially his thirty-three confirmed kills off the
Execution List. It was all worthless because he had accepted promotion
instead of sticking with the job he did best: cleaning up the List.
Landau closed his fists and jammed them into his eyes, the way a
mourner might lose his composure at a grave site. Even if at that moment
he'd been granted absolution, one fact would continue to damn him for*
ever: Hafez Jamal had been number thirty-four on the List.

* * *

Hafez Jamal watched with rapt attention as his image flickered across|
the four-inch screen of the palm-size television. At the last minute, h<S§
had decided to have one of his men videotape his message instead ofjusfl
sending it out on the Net. A camera had been found and lights preparedfl
and Jamal had delivered his address. Now, watching it on each successive
news cycle, he thought it a stroke of genius. He came across as a martJ
wounded and torn, proud and defiant, eager to achieve piece but alway^

THE ASSISTANT 77

prepared to reach for the sword. With a series of keystrokes, he had made
himself the most famous terrorist in the world.
Jamal emerged from the stifling heat of the shanty into the cool of the
night. He inquired about Manar and was told that she was sleeping, worn
out by exhaustion, helped along by twenty milligrams of crushed diazepam
that she didn't know had been mixed into her tea.
"Good," he said aloud. He was pleased that, for a while at least, she
would not intrude on his concentration.
Jamal glanced around the camp. His men were gathered around a large
fire, smoking cigarettes, talking in low, urgent tones. He sensed their impatience,
their need to act. Seeing their leader on television had given
them a new sense of self-worth and resolve. Old passions stirred and ancient
grievances began to chafe.
Jamal called out softly and a boy, no more than sixteen, disengaged
from the group and ran to him.
"Go to el-Banna. Say that I have sent for him and that he should come
at once."
The boy's eyes glowed like those of deer. Jamal watched him disappear
into one of the shanties, then come out with a bag. Now he looked
like any one of a thousand orphans in search of work and shelter, carrying
all his worldly possessions over his shoulder.
Jamal reckoned it would take el-Banna no more than a day to get
there. His chief lieutenant, his eyes and ears in the outside world, had a
thriving nursery in Amman, where he grew big Jordanian roses for the
upscale flower shops of Europe. His business caused him to travel a great
deal, place many international calls. The cover was one of the best Jamal
had ever devised for his execution squad.
Jamal lit a crumpled French cigarette. What he would have given to be
in Jerusalem right now! No price was too rich if it meant he could bear
witness to Landau's shame and defeat.
Jamal considered that the bloody fiasco might end Landau's career,
and with it, the constant threat to Jamal's life. But perhaps not. Landau
had been in the game a long time. He knew how to protect himself.
From his own kind, maybe, Jamal mused. But Landau had no shield
from the Americans, whose wrath, by the time Jamal got through with
them, would be terrible.
Jamal knew that America was slowly disengaging itself from Israel. Al78 ]. PATRICK LAW

ready there were discreet protocols in place calling for a gradual redu
tion in both foreign and military aid.
The Jewish lobby in Washington had marshaled considerable forc(
against these cuts; its fight had been impressive. In the end, the lobt
had succeeded in stemming the bleeding, but not the private opinior
and reservations of a great many American lawmakers.
Jamal had a much more persuasive way to deal with such obstacle
One way, really. That would horrify and infuriate America. Yet retaliatio
would be futile because the man responsible was stateless, belonging a people who did not yet have a nation.
But after ]amal played his hand, they would have that nation. Araf;
and the all the other soft men would be swept aside and forgotten. A n'<
tion can only have one father, and Jamal intended to be it.
As long as the Americans thought along the exact lines that he e?
pecied them to.
As long as their outrage did not cloud their judgment.
As long as they had assurances that their humiliation would never b
paraded in front of the world.
Jamal exhaled smoke, watching as it became gossamer upon the nigh
and stars. Yes, he thought, he could satisfy the Americans on that las
point. :.
s
even



l

andau was admitted into the prime minister's office at half past
nine that morning. After a shower and a change of clothes, he cut
an elegant figure in his quiet tan suit and polished loafers.
The same could not be said of the prime minister. Yakov Admony
looked like he'd grabbed the first clothes within reach and put them on
in the dark, which was almost the case.
Admony was an ex-paratrooper, a big man, who claimed whatever
room he happened to be in. Now his eyes were red with fatigue and
anger, unshaven jowls pulling his face down, close-cropped hair spiked
in clumps. To Landau he appeared unpredictable, even dangerous.
"Coffee, Landau?" The words came out on a burst of cigarette smoke.
"No, thank you."
"Then sit."
The prime minister looked across a desk no less littered than a battlefield.
The image brought memories of his service with Landau, danger-
°us, exhilarating times when things seemed more defined. The fight had
always been righteous. The cause was always the preservation of Israel.
"y contrast, peace and diplomacy were a messy business.
"The American President has been on the hotline all morning." Ad-
niony gestured at his telephone console. "He was not pleased that his
state dinner for the Chinese was so rudely interrupted. He wanted to
8U J. PA1R1UR law

know what really happened at Samarra--and why." Admony waited
beat. "So, Landau. What happened?"

"Hafez Jamal was not where he was supposed to be."
"That much I already know. Why wasn't he there?"
Landau shook his head. "I'm checking. Our intelligence was vei
good on this. Remember, Yakov: tsso sources, one of them being th
Green Man."
Admony was familiar with the Green Man. His information was so e?
ceptional that the prime minister insisted on reviewing it personally. ]
was the reason he'd green-lighted the operation. "Who was the oth(
source again?"

"An American sayan. An old hand. Always reliable."
The prime minister crushed out his cigarette. His words lunged i
Landau.
"So why wasn't Jarnal there? Is it possible that the intelligence becam
garbled, that the Green Man and the sayan thought you wanted th
whereabouts ofHassan?"
"This operation was not put together by spit and shoestring, Yakov,
Landau said quietly. "You saw every piece of information I had befor
you signed off. There were no discrepancies. The fact is that Jamal, nc
Hassan, should have been at Samarra. And died there."
"Instead, we have the corpses of a Palestinian terrorist who saw th
light and embraced peace, his two-year-old son, and an elderly man. Nc
to mention the wounded, some of whom, I'm told, are in pretty roug
shape.
"The Americans are hounding me. Landau. The rest of the world!
not far behind. Across the street, the knife grinders are plying their trad
for my political opponents. If that weren't enough, the peace conferend
is about to collapse and talks designed to hammer out the treaty are i
shambles. With one breath the Arabs call me a murderer; with the other
they wail in mourning."
"Do you want my resignation?" Landau asked. "If that's what it'll talc
to get the hyenas off your back, you have it." "I
"I want answers! Explanations I can offer the Americans. They dor|
want the whole loaf. Landau. They'll settle for crumbs. But right nosj
can't even give them that much." The prime minister hesitated. "I c|
tell them our intelligence was solid--that we had a chance to surgical
THE ASSISTANT 81

take out Jamal and we took it. I'll have to eat a mile of shit, bur the president
might come around to holding the conference together."
"You can tell him that, Yakov," Landau said coldly. "And after using
you for a punching bag, the president would probably herd everybody
back to the table. But you'd be wrong."
"What the hell are you driving at?"
Landau possessed an uncanny ability to compartmentalize disparate
things. One part of his brain might be consumed by fury and remorse; another
would be calculating what had gone wrong; a third would be choosing
the best method of revenge.
Landau had had enough time to turn the facts over and over again, to
play the probabilities and factor in discrepancies. When all other answers
crumbled and fell away, the one left standing had to be the truth.
"We liked Hassan, didn't we? Maybe not enough to break bread
with--not after the Jewish blood he's spilled--but we could do the business
of peace with him. He, not Arafat or anyone else, could guarantee
that there wouldn't be any more suicide bombers strolling in our department
stores or boarding our buses.
"So Hassan was important to us. Which means he was dangerous, or an
obstacle, to someone else. Cui bono, Yakov? Who benefits from his
death?"
Admony's mouth fell open. In a reflex action, he glanced at one of the
television monitors. It was dark but he imagined the face on the screen.
"JamalF
"Yes, Jamal. Who is spinning political gold out ofHassan's sudden status
as a martyr."
"Are you saying that Jamal knew we'd be after him in Samarra and that
somehow he persuaded Hassan to be there?"

"Exactly so."
"Then where was Jamal when the Apaches came?"
Landau spread out his hands. "He told us, Yakov. He told the whole
world: He was watching it all come down, the man who was just a little
too late, a little too far away to help his 'brother.'!"
The prime minister slumped in his chair. "It makes sense. Perfect
sense. But you have no proof. Nothing that I can show the Americans."
"Not yet. But Jamal isn't quite finished. He didn't walk Hassan into
"ie slaughterhouse only to usurp his position among the Palestinians.
82 J. PATRICK LAW

Everyone knows Jamal considered the talks and treaty a betrayal of th<
Palestinian cause. He was the lone holdout among the groups that wen
ready to put down their weapons. No, Hafez Jamal still has things to at
tend to."

"What things?"
"If you can buy me time, if you think you can survive the fallout for;
few weeks, maybe a month, I promise I will find out."
The prime minister brooded. "Can you do this. Landau? Can yoi
bring me proof that Jamal betrayed Issim Hassan?"
Landau became very still. "Let me loose, Yakov."
Silence descended between the two men. Landau counted off thirr
seconds and left, carrying Yakov Admony's wordless answer.

* * *

The tribunal that would sit in judgment over Hafez Jamal's dream as
sembled in a small dusty room in the warrens of Cairo's Department o
Public Works. The raid on Samarra, coming only twenty-four hours ear
lier, was very fresh in their minds.
The two men and one woman were high-ranking members of the Ira
nian, Syrian, and Libyan governments. They had been chosen becaus<
each had the ear of his or her head of state.
Cairo had been selected because it was neutral ground. The Egyptian)
had declined to participate, but they turned a blind eye on proceeding
while providing a suitable, discreet venue. The members of the tribuna
played their part. In spite of their influential positions, each looked an<
dressed like any one of the four hundred clerks who scurried throughou
the building. 1
Hafez Jamal entered the room, followed by a muscular young man il
his late twenties. He was starringly good-looking, with features tha
might have been stamped on a Greek amphora. His thick hair fell il
waves to his shoulders; he walked with his shoulders back, steppinj
lightly on the balls of his feet. In the street, people often mistook him fo
a star soccer player. In fact, he was Jamal's prized assassin, Samir el
Banna. Number 41 on the Execution List. '

"Welcome," said the woman seated behind the desk.
Jamal recognized the Libyan as well as the two men flanking her. The
was not his first time before them. '
THE ASSISTANT 83

But the first time without Issim Hassan.
Previously, Jamal had stayed in Hassan's shadow, mesmerized by his
eloquence, the force of his personality, which irresistibly drew to him all
that he desired. Now Jamal would stand alone. Already he felt nervous
and hot, and despised himself for it.
"Our condolences on your loss," wheezed the fat Syrian. "Hassan was
a great leader. He will be missed."
"A tragedy," Jamal murmured.
"Yet you say it can be turned to our advantage," said the Iranian, a
scholarly-looking man with a trim beard.
"I believe so, yes."
"Please elaborate," the woman said.
"Hassan was betrayed."
Jamal noted the eyes widening in surprise, the exchange of quick
glances.
"The question is, who knew that Hassan, his family, and I would be in
Samarra at that time? I move around a great deal. Hassan and I were in
Juba, where I had already spent several days. Preparations had been
made for all of us to travel to Samarra." Jamal paused. "The number of
people who knew my itinerary and whom I would be traveling with is
small."
"What is the exact number, please?" asked the woman.
"Three. I have gone over exactly what each individual knew and
when he knew it. One can be eliminated immediately because I spoke
with him about this matter in Jordan. A second cannot have been involved
because he was in the presence of my adviser"--here Jamal indicated
el-Banna--"at all times. There was no opportunity for him to slip
away and alert the Israelis."
"The third man ..." the Syrian said laboriously.
"In Damascus, currently under loose but effective surveillance
twenty-four hours a day. He will not be going anywhere, at least not until
he and I have talked." Jamal paused. "Perhaps you want his name?"
"That won't be necessary," the Iranian replied. "But a thought occurs:
How can you be certain that Hassan, not you, was the target? After all,
you would have gone to Samarra whether or not Hassan was traveling
with you, yes?"
Jamal nodded. "The man I believe to be the traitor could have sold me
out anytime. Why not while I stayed in Juba? It is closer to the Israeli bor-
g4 j. PATRICK LAW

-oiiallv 2s isolated as Samarra. The Jews could have sent their he
, ^en. But they didn't. They waited. For Hassan."
"Yes I sec," the Iranian mused. "Still, the Jews were pleased to ha

Hassan at (he peace table. Why kill him?"
"
-...p,, before from Tel Aviv, have we not? First, coax forth y(
a sird»'-&?
my under the guise of reconciliation. Then, when he is plainly <
nosed, destroy him. Why? Because you never really believed that
uld cease to be your enemy. Better to kill him now than wait for an <

notiunitythat might never come again."
The Svrian shrugged, his body language saying that he found the t]
acceptable. The Iranian's expression was openly skeptical. 1

uroroan appeared neutral, uncommitted.
-'Whatever the internal politics, the fact remains that Israel launchc
id in which Issim Hassan was destroyed," the woman said. "You h
come to us with a proposal to remedy, at least in part, this outrage. We

listening."
]amal realized that all his life he had been preparing for this one.)
ment. He had rehearsed his address so many times that the words 10
off his tongue. There were no hesitations or awkward pauses. He ki
exactly which points to emphasize, which aspects to play directly to <
of the ihiee listeners. Jamal was not an orator, nor did he have Hass
charisma, but he delivered his words with a powerful combinatiQ

startling clarity and cool dispassion. ;There was a moment of silence when he finished. The woman sp
"Thank you, Hafez Jamal. Now, would you please wait outside?"
lamal did not "he offense. It was procedure. The tribunal's deq
had to be unanimous. Jamal thought he had convinced the fat man

the woman. The Iranian bothered him. a
In the waiting room where a secretary would have sat, el-Banim
jpg^tie and said, "You were magnificent." ."I
lamal swc^ at the irosied glass set in the door that opened on |
hall Every few minutes, a shadow would flit across the glass as^
workers """led by. ^
"But did I convince them?" ^
"Absolutely." .1
m t. pa dial fii< i u.->

"Even the Iranian? He seemed not to listen."
"He was listening the hardest. Don't worry about him."
The two men stared out the window at the never-ending din and the
traffic that clogged Cairo. The scene reminded Jamal of a giant bazaar
that never closed.
"Can you do it--if they say yes?" Jamal murmured, not taking his eyes
off the street.
"Of course. The preparations are well under way. Damascus and
Beirut can be handled quickly. Paris is a little more intricate, but nothing
to worry about."
El-Banna, with twenry-two confirmed kills to his credit, might have
been discussing a shipment of machine parts.
"America?"
El-Banna's perfect teeth flashed behind his smile. "Did you not
know? I am an Italian flower-grower coming for a month-long business
trip in New York. Visas, letters of potential buyers, everything has been
arranged."

"Let us hope you get the chance to use them."
The two men lapsed into silence. The little room had no air-conditioning
and the window was painted shut. It was better not to speak, to
sit still, with eyes lightly closed. Both Jamal and el-Banna had a great
deal of experience with waiting.
A half hour passed, then a little more, before the door to the tribunal
room opened and the woman silently bade them to enter.
When she was seated, she said, "We have approved your plan in its entirety
subject to one condition: We must see the individual you intend to
use."
Jamal expected nothing less. He nodded to el-Banna, who left the
room and walked to the hotel across the street. He was gone for twenty
minutes.
During that time, Jamal answered questions put to him by the Syrian
and the Iranian. They centered on the issue ofdeniability. The countries
that the tribunal represented had to be shielded by a fire wall from any
link to what Jamal would carry out. The Americans would be outraged.
Every intelligence resource would be marshaled. They would dig deep
snd hard and wouldn't care whose toes they stepped on. If they discov^ed
a hard link between the perpetrator of the act and any country that
"^ight have helped him, the bombers and cruise missiles would fly.
84 J. PATRICK LAW

der, equally as isolated as Samarra. The Jews could have sent their helicopters
then. But they didn't. They waited. For Hassan."
"Yes, I see," the Iranian mused. "Still, the Jews were pleased to have
Hassan at the peace table. Why kill him?"
"Not all Jews were so happy," Jamal corrected him. "I'm sure your
own intelligence will support that. Clearly, the faction that wanted Hassan
dead prevailed and the helicopters were sent in. We have seen such
a strategy before from Tel Aviv, have we not? First, coax forth your
enemy under the guise of reconciliation. Then, when he is plainly exposed,
destroy him. Why? Because you never really believed that he
would cease to be your enemy. Better to kill him now than wait for an opportunity
that might never come again."
The Syrian shrugged, his body language saying that he found the theory
acceptable. The Iranian's expression was openly skeptical. The
woman appeared neutral, uncommitted.
"Whatever the internal politics, the fact remains that Israel launched a
raid in which Issim Hassan was destroyed," the woman said. "You have
come to us with a proposal to remedy, at least in part, this outrage. We arfe
listening."
Jamal realized that all his life he had been preparing for this one moment.
He had rehearsed his address so many times that the words rolled
off his tongue. There were no hesitations or awkward pauses. He knew
exactly which points to emphasize, which aspects to play directly to each
of the three listeners. Jamal was not an orator, nor did he have Hassan's
charisma, but he delivered his words with a powerful combination df
startling clarity and cool dispassion.
There was a moment of silence when he finished. The woman spoke»:
"Thank you, Hafez Jamal. Now, would you please wait outside?" a|
Jamal did not take offense. It was procedure. The tribunal's decisioij
had to be unanimous. Jamal thought he had convinced the fat man andj
the woman. The Iranian bothered him. »1
In the waiting room where a secretary would have sat, el-Banna lit ||
cigarette and said, "You were magnificent." |
Jamal stared at the frosted glass set in the door that opened on to dKlJ
hall. Every few minutes, a shadow would flit across the glass as office
workers hurried by.
"But did I convince them?"
"Absolutely."
h t; aa a i a i ai< i uj

"Even the Iranian? He seemed not to listen."
"He was listening the hardest. Don't worry about him."
The two men stared out the window at the never-ending din and the
traffic that clogged Cairo. The scene reminded Jamal of a giant bazaar
that never closed.
"Can you do it--if they say yes?" Jamal murmured, not taking his eyes
off the street.
"Of course. The preparations are well under way. Damascus and
Beirut can be handled quickly. Paris is a little more intricate, but nothing
to worry about."
El-Banna, with twenty-two confirmed kills to his credit, might have
been discussing a shipment of machine pans.
"America?"
El-Banna's perfect teeth flashed behind his smile. "Did you not
know? I am an Italian flower-grower coming for a month-long business
trip in New York. Visas, letters of potential buyers, everything has been
arranged."
"Let us hope you get the chance to use them."
The two men lapsed into silence. The little room had no air-conditioning
and the window was painted shut. It was better not to speak, to
sit still, with eyes lightly closed. Both Jamal and el-Banna had a great
deal of experience with waiting.
A half hour passed, then a little more, before the door to the tribunal
room opened and the woman silently bade them to enter.
When she was seated, she said, "We have approved your plan in its entirety
subject to one condition: We must see the individual you intend to
use."
Jamal expected nothing less. He nodded to el-Banna, who left the
room and walked to the hotel across the street. He was gone for twenty
minutes.
During that time, Jamal answered questions put to him by the Syrian
and the Iranian. They centered on the issue ofdeniability. The countries
that the tribunal represented had to be shielded by a fire wall from any
link to what Jamal would carry out. The Americans would be outraged.
Every intelligence resource would be marshaled. They would dig deep
and hard and wouldn't care whose toes they stepped on. If they discovered
a hard link between the perpetrator of the act and any country that
"light have helped him, the bombers and cruise missiles would fly.
86 J. PATRICK LAW

jamal took great pains to explain exactly how the operation was corn
partmentalized. Each stage involved a different individual or team tha
would disappear after completing its mission. Further, only Jamal and el
Banna knew the entire sequence of events that was to unfold.
A knock on the door interrupted Jamal. He went over and opened ii
stepping back to allow Manar, the widow oflssim Hassan, to step silenti'
into the room.
Jamal was pleased that the tribunal appeared puzzled. He had ex
pected as much. In Arab lands, the woman walks behind the husband
both physically and metaphorically. It was common knowledge that Has
san had been married, but no one had ever asked about his wife. She was
never mentioned in conversation, nor did she ever accompany Hassan 01
political business. Her photograph had never been taken, at least not ii
the role of his wife. The few who were close to the Hassan clan could b<
trusted to take her real identity to their graves. :
"Hafez," the Libyan said softly, her tone carrying an unmistakable demand
for an explanation.
Jamal turned to Manar. "Show them, please."
Manar came before the table. She reached around and undid the fold)
other robe so that it fell to the floor. Then she stripped away the veil and
finally, the headdress, i
The three tribunal members could not believe it: Before their eyel
the traditional-looking Arab woman had been transformed into a whit<
woman with golden blond hair, looking chic and sophisticated in a nav^
blue business suit. s
Jamal stepped forward. "May I present to you the American I was talkl
ing about." |
Eisht
igi


t

he evening concierge at the Ritz was working on his end-of-shift
log. He heard the slap of rubber on marble and looked up at the
young American walking quickly through the lobby.
He smiled indulgently. "Bonjour, monsieur"
Ben waved. "Bon/our."
The concierge watched his guest go through the revolving door and
disappear outside.
Ben warmed up as he jogged through the place Vendome, lengthening
his stride when he hit the rue de Casiiglione. He caught a green light at
the rue de Rivoli and crossed into the Tuileries Gardens, turning right toward
the Jeu de Paume.
Crushed rock crackled beneath his shoes. He breathed deeply of the
fresh morning air, tinged with the scent of oranges, cooled by mist. A
third of the way into the Gardens, his heart rate reached its optimum
level. His legs became pistons and he felt himself running effortlessly,
floating. The sounds of light morning traffic faded from his consciousess.
He became intensely aware of the lightening color of the sky as day
cleared away the night. Exhilaration poured into him.
With his body looking after itself, Ben thought of Rachel and found
himself smiling. This was the time he missed her most, in the mornings,
88 ]. PATRir,-,.
'^KL LAW

missed the cury^ .., , .
her hair spillexj er l^ next to him, the warmth of her skin, the wa^
gentle in the r^o c=ross th^ pillow in a crimson tide. Love was slow anc

Ben kept h^,. ^ lngs .arv<:! he missed that, too.
toward the pl^^ _, age in ^*'ont of him as he ran the length of the Garden
very much li^ u "^^isel. The image, swaying just out of reach, wa
three years, R^ e ^^an, desirable, coy, not quite accessible. Aft<
and coming a^r" stl11 ^^d himself strolling in the halls of her charact
the power to 5^ &s a twls^ or turn he never knew existed. She always hi
coveries a de^ rF>nse ^i-^ keep him slightly off balance, making his d
ments. ^^able tr^^ ^ ^ offered at the most unexpected rr

Whether ^^
end, it didn was ^^plex or complicated, Ben wasn't sure. In l
Rachel was ^hcs 3atter ^^^"^ he understood that he was a simple m
marry. A lon^ ^ womar^ ^ loved. She was the one he was destinec
provides in t^.-- , s<:fc'> he had read somewhere in the Torah that (
opened his t-i^ an llx 'which ye dwell. God had provided him Rac
or done. ° ^^ and hers to his. Nothing more needed to be

Rachel's -C^,,
as if a gust <^ ,,-oe, ^fore him like a kite on an invisible tether. T
thoughts of ^,. in ^^ snapped the line, she floated away, replace
"^Asiness,
It would l^
ing one last: ^ ^-X day of depositions, with plaintiffs'attorneys

judge, whet. l at l^ expert witnesses. Goad luck. Ben was sure th
3^ now v^. ?
They migh^ ~^ad had her fill, would move things along qt
seen very r^,^ i, c ^ -finished by noon--a pleasant thought. Ben 1
Left Bank ^ ° t^- ^: city on this visit. A half day's wandering acK
It had be& ^ , . ^'"^k^ memories of his first visit here, thirteen yea
was imprir-^ ^ trip outside the United States and the exp<
its mother ^^ upor^ ^^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ gosling ad

traveler vi ^ ^-Sreature it sees, so Ben believed that the firs
He kep^ c '^^es special forever. For him, Paris was that cii
chic cloth. , P t e -^3^ ^ ^ turned off on rue Saint-Honore,
often, he ^,_ . x^'lues, gourmet shops, and wine merchants. I
and-whit^. rc lr^ ^:o the street to avoid the dog shit that the tin

} e '^cuurffc , , , i
A Iew ^ni trucks had yet to pick up.
loped ea^.i . ^ter, Ben saw the entrance to the place Vend
^^-ic ancient square, staying on the sidewalk,
THE ASSISTANT 89

at the polished granite and thick glass cases of the most expensive jewelers
in the world. Something blue winked at him and he pulled up

hard.
Ben bent over, hands on knees, breathing deeply to lower his racing
pulse. He stood erect and cautiously approached the window, just velvet-lined
displays that in a few hours would be decked out with necklaces,
rings, bracelets, and earrings. He'd seen nothing except a trick of
the light.
No. There it was, tucked away in a corner, forgotten either by design
or error. He took one look at the marquis diamond, a queen attended by
two ladies-in-waiting, the sapphires, and imagined that the ring had been
left out for him to see. Because such a ring could grace the finger of only
one woman.
Back in the hotel lobby, Ben corralled the concierge and asked him to
call the jeweler as soon as the store opened and have him set the ring
aside.
Returning to his suite, he stripped, showered quickly, and donned a
freshly pressed navy blue suit. He knocked on the door to his father's
bedroom. Receiving no response, he opened it and discovered that Sid
Poltarek was gone.
"Yes, monsieur, your father departed the hotel twenty minutes ago,"
the front desk clerk informed Ben when he called down. "No, he did not
mention his destination. "There was a hesitation on the line. "How„ ever--"
"Did someone call him?"
"Perhaps, monsieur. However, late last night he received a note by
special messenger."
s Note. Ben hadn't been looking for anything like that.
I He thanked the clerk, hung up, and checked his father's room. Noth'"g
on the desk or night tables. The wastepaper basket was empty.
in his father's bathroom, Ben discovered a damp bath towel, his faer's
toothbrush, bristles still wet, perched in a water glass.
And in the basket under the vanity, a small card, torn in half.
"othing on the card to indicate who the sender was or a return ad placed the two halves of the card on the vanity, pushed them to- L"e^, and read the few words written in elegant penmanship.
90 j. PATRICK LAW

Someone wanted to meet his father at the Gare Montparnasse railroad
station, located in the Sixth Arrondissement, close to the boulevard of
the same name.
Sid had a meeting he'd forgotten to tell him about. Nothing more to it
than that. Ben knew how his father was about clients. He never even
came close to breaching the confidentiality, or on occasion the anonymity,
of his clients.
But that was before Ben had taken the bar oath to uphold that same
trust. From the day he'd started working in his father's office, he believed
he was entrusted with everything that passed through the office
doors. Sid Poltarek had never given him reason to think otherwise.
Until now.
There was something else: The way Sid had handed him the lead in
the depositions. Sid's distracted reaction when Ben had told him the results.
The way he had looked away when Ben asked him if anything was
wrong. Holding back something.
Ben picked up the phone next to the wall-mounted hair dryer and dialed
the bell captain. At this hour, taxis would be hard to come by.

* *

Landau had said it was a priority matter. "Extremely urgent" was how
he'd phrased it. The Paris katsa had heard about the botched raid on
Samarra; the embassy staff talked of nothing else. He could only imagine
the intense pressure Landau was under--for answers, results, corroborating
intelligence. But the katsa had his own problems. In the wake of
the raid, and the Arab outcry, French internal security had tightened
their surveillance of embassy personnel. They did not want their oil-rich
trading partners to think that France would allow Israeli atrocities to be
hatched on their soil.
Whenever he left the embassy, the katsa felt French eyes on him like
a noose. Landau was clamoring for an answer, but the worst thing the
katsa could do now was to allow himself to be followed to Sid Poltarek. It
was a matter of responsibility. Poltarek was a civilian, a volunteer with experience
but no formal training. As astute and intelligent as he was, he
would be no match for French interrogators who, if they snared him,
would eventually trip him up.
Landau was in a hurry; the katsa had to protect Poltarek, himself, and,
THE ASSISTANT 91

by extension, the entire delicate Israeli network strung out across the
country. Landau would have to wait. He would gnash his teeth but he'd
understand.
The day of the Israeli raid, the katsa led his French watchers on a typical
day across the city. In the morning he went shopping for his wife's
birthday present. He arranged to have lunch with a senior official from
the Trade Ministry, an obnoxious fellow who the katsa knew was an anti-
Semite. Good. Let internal security see that son of a bitch breaking bread
with Jews and investigate him. In the afternoon, the katsa attended an intergovernmental
seminar that had been on his calender for months.
That evening, he escorted his wife and daughter to a fundraiser
hosted by the Israeli ambassador at the Hotel de Crillon. Given the number
of guests and the grand size of the hotel, it was easy enough to slip
around the corner into the Ritz.
Poltarek was waiting for him in the hall outside his suite.
"Monsieur Poltarek. It is pleasant to see you again."
Poltarek eyed the man's black tie. He had received the telephone
message to meet that afternoon. He had watched the CNN updates on
Samarra. He hadn't been surprised by the summons.
"Come, let us walk," the katsa suggested.
He did not wish to talk in Poltarek's suite on the slight chance that it
was bugged, or the greater risk that they might be interrupted by his son.
The hallways were not bugged and were not covered by security cameras,
which wasn't the case inside the elevators. This way, they looked
like two men on their way out, talking last-minute business.
"It's about Samarra," Poltarek said bluntly.
The katsa ignored him. "Are you absolutely certain that your source
said it would be Jamal who'd be in Samarra?"
"Positive."
"And you had no reason to believe he was lying? Or perhaps intentionally
misleading you?"
Poltarek snorted. "One and the same, aren't they? The answer is no."
At the elevators, both men murmured good evening to a heavily
rouged dowager with a hideous Pomeranian on a leash. They waited
until she turned the corner, then the katsa touched Poltarek's elbow and
they walked into another wing of the hotel.
"Did your man seem nervous at all? Unsure of his facts? Maybe he
elaborated a little, wanted to impress you?"
92 J. PATRICK LAW

Poltarek shook his head irritably.
"And he never mentioned the name Issim Hassan?" the katsa asl
softly.
"I would have told you if he had. Look, I know the shit's hit the 1
Why don't you just tell me what you want me to do."
To Poltarek, it seemed that the katsa was fascinated by the wallpa
pattern. The man couldn't tear his eyes away from it.
"Yes, maybe that would be best. Do you think you might arrange
me to meet Mustafa Manshur?"
"He's not going to tell you anything different."
"I'm sure that will be the case. Still..."
"All right. A meeting. When and where?"
"As soon as possible. At a location of his choosing."
"He likes the area around the Sorbonne."
The katsa already knew that, but said, "So do I, monsieur." He add
"And please, when you vouch for me, just say that I'm an old trie
yes?"
The two men returned to the elevator. While waiting, Poltarek said
It's not good, is it? That business in Samarra." .
"Things could always be worse," the katsa replied lightly. "Bons
monsieur. I'll expect your call in the morning."
Poltarek stared at the elevator doors after they had closed. Shaking
head, he returned to his suite, thinking he'd had enough of this bulls
Israel he loved; some of its citizens he could live without. ?
Ten minutes later, he had Mustafa Manshur on the line. Poltarek.
sumed a casual, nonchalant tone. Using the pretext of having to les
Paris soon, he asked for another meeting.
"Does this have to do with Samarra?" the Lebanese asked. |
"Mustafa, please. Not over the phone." j
"Tomorrow is impossible. I can't cancel any of my engagements."
"The day after, then. Maybe early in the morning." >i
Poltarek heard the rustling of pages being turned, imagined Mari^
tracing his finger along the lines of his appointment book.
"Very early. Seven o'clock."
"Where?"
^a
"Let me think about that. I'll send a note to your hotel, with OV^
tions."
"Mustafa--"
THE ASSISTANT 93

"I must go now. Tomorrow, Sidney."
Which was how Sid Pokarek came to be sitting on an uncomfortable
stool at a filthy round table outside a fast-food concession in one the city's
busiest railroad stations.
Morning commuters swirled around him like dirty newspaper pages
swept helter-skelter by the wind. The metallic tones of computer-generated
announcements made his head ache. A layer of silky soot and diesel
film seemed to coat everything that he touched.
Pokarek took a sip of his coffee, made a face, and pushed the cup
away. He had bought two cups, an excuse to commandeer a pair of stools.
He continued to scan the crowds, searching for Manshur's familiar
face. The katsa had asked him to set up a meeting. Fine. He would do
that. But he had questions of his own for Manshur. The name of Hafez
Jamal had never been mentioned in conjunction with the casualties at
Samarra. Later in the day, Pokarek had understood why: There was
Jamal, braying to the world about Israeli war crimes that had claimed the
life of his brother-in-arms. Rank bullshit propaganda, but it still hurt Israel.
Pokarek was keen to know how Manshur had committed such a
monumental error. Was it bad information or a deliberate lie, designed to
mislead Pokarek and everyone else down the line who accepted it as
truth?
To clear his conscience, Pokarek had to know. And he sure as hell
couldn't rely on the hard, quiet Israeli to share whatever Manshur might
tell him.

"Sidney?"
Pokarek whirled around to find Manshur standing behind him, blinking
furiously.
"I'm sorry if I startled you, Sidney."
The little Lebanese was much more nervous than usual. His eyes
darted across the faces that swept by. Like a small fish seeking safety in
the reef, he edged up to the table, pressing himself between the stool
and the American.
"What's going on, Mustafa?" Pokarek asked, trying to keep his tone
1'ght. "Going out of town for the day?"
"No, Sidney, nothing like that. Nothing is open around the university
" this hour. This was the only place I could think of."
"Fine," Pokarek assured him, pushing his stool closer.
Manshur's eyes were red-veined with exhaustion, the skin underneath
94 J. PATRICK LAW

them dark and deeply creased. The Lebanese couldn't have gotten more
than a few hours' sleep. He was weak and vulnerable, and Poltarek
wasted neither time nor words.
"Jamal was not at Samarra." It was a statement, not an accusation, spoken
reasonably. Poltarek did not want Manshur to withdraw into himself.
"I don't know what to tell you, Sidney," the Lebanese replied miserably. "He should have been there. My information was good."
"Who gave you that information?"
Manshur wet his lips with a small, pink tongue, like a cat's.

"Sidney...."
"You're my friend, Mustafa. I won't betray your confidence."
"I... I have relatives. In Damascus. Beirut. They tell me things."
Poltarek noticed that Manshur had begun to shred a paper napkin.
"Their information has always been accurate, hasn't it?"
"Oh, yes, Sidney. You know that."
Poltarek shrugged. "Not necessarily. But I take it on faith because I
trust you. Still, this situation at Samarra--it's caused a great deal of embarrassment,
concern."
"I know! I know! But it wasn't my fault."
"I'm not saying it was," Poltarek said soothingly. "I believe you. I want
others to believe you." i
"I know you said you would be leaving tomorrow, Sidney. Maybe yout
could stay an extra day, just until things quiet down." <
The desperation in the Lebanese's voice cut Poltarek. He felt sickj
about the way he was manipulating Manshur. Such things were not hi*
responsibility. *
"I have to return to Washington," he said, then threw the bone. "Bui|
someone I know wants to speak to you about Jamal." I
Poltarek was pained by the hope of vindication that fired in Manshur'sj
eyes. He bulled through the rest of his words. |
"He is an important man, a good man. He is aware of your past contri|
butions. He appreciates them. Now he needs to talk to you himself" *

Poltarek could see that Manshur was torn. He considered Poltarek his|
^
friend. Everything that had ever passed between them was grounded ifl|
that relationship. Now Poltarek was leaving, but at the same time offerj
ing Manshur another contact, someone who represented the same insurj
ance.
"Do you know this man, Sidney?"
THE ASSISTANT 95

"Yes. He is a strong man. I can vouch for that."
Pokarek loathed himself. He felt dirty.
"Then I will see him. I think the cafe by the university would be
best."
"Yes, of course," Poltarek said faintly.
"I will tell him everything I can about my information on Jamal and
Samarra, Sidney. Maybe by then I will have other things, too."
Poltarek couldn't stand this anymore. He pushed back the stool.
"I'm going back to the hotel. I can drop you off."
Manshur shook his head. "I can take the Metro. It is faster."
"Good. Well, then--" Suddenly, Poltarek clamped his hand over Man-
shur's arm. "I want you to call me after your meeting. I want your impressions."

"Of course, Sidney. Besides, we have to continue our chess game. I
have discovered a move that will astonish you."
"I'm sure you have."
Manshur was more composed now, relaxed even. Poltarek had given
him no reason to question his faith in him.
As the two said goodbye, neither noticed the young man who had
been wandering through the concession stands and had just spotted
them.
Ben was fifty feet away, standing next to a large map of Paris mounted
behind scarred plastic. Through the pedestrian traffic he saw his father
embrace a Levantine-looking man, then quickly walk toward the exits.
Ben made to follow him when he noticed another man, with distinct
Arab features, disengage himself from the crowd at the news kiosk and
fall in behind the Levantine as he headed for the subway entrance.
It's all wrong, Ben thought. What's Sidgotten himselfinto?

* * *

Ben did not get an answer to his question when he met his father for
breakfast in the hotel at eight o'clock.
"Good morning. Pop."
Newsprint crackled as Poltarek deposited the Herald Tribune in the
extra chair. "Good morning. You're looking good. Got some color. Did
you run?"
"Uh-huh."
While they ordered, Ben scrutinized his father, thinking that he was
96 J. PATRICK LAW
wound a little too tightly. His voice, which normally carried, was subdued.
It was as though Sid Poltarek did not wish to draw attention to
himself. As if he's afraid.... Ben had never known his father to be afraid

of anything or anyone.
Who is that Levantine you were with? Is he the cause of all this? What were you

doing with him?
But words would not follow the thoughts. Instead, Ben heard himself
say, "Did you sleep all right? You look a little peaked."
Poltarek waved his hand as if he were batting away an annoying insect.
"Fine, fine. I'm just tired." He paused. "I'm thinking that maybe we
should go home early. This afternoon, even. This morning's session isn't
going to go past noon, is it? Be a nice surprise for your mother."

You 're bullshitting me. Pop.
"Yeah, we'll wrap it up by lunchtime," Ben said carefully. "More than
enough time to make the American flight into Kennedy." He waited a
beat. "Provided you don't have anything else to do."
Poltarek appeared fixated on the soft-boiled egg the waiter placed in
front of him. "What would I possibly have to do?" he asked mildly, then
raised his spoon and delivered a sharp rap to the shell. "That you're running
the case so well is the reason I'm bored." He peered over a spoonful
of egg. "That's a compliment."
"Thanks. I got it."
/ also got that you're not going to talk to me about your little rendezvous this

morning.
Over the years, Ben had learned that little if anything was achieved by
confronting his father. Chipping away worked some. Patiently waiting
for him to come around and offer an explanation was always the best

route.
Ben stirred his oatmeal and berries like a fortune-teller seeking answers
in thrown bones. His father was a tough man, difficult to love
sometimes. But Ben never doubted Sid's love for him, could not remember
a time when he would have jeopardized Ben's love for him by a lie.

Let it go. It's not worth the fallout.
Ben thought he could get past his anger. It was Sid's fear that continued
to nettle him, that and the fact that he didn't have enough confidence
in his son to confide in him.
Because I'm not Samuel.

* *

THE ASSISTANT

The Arab's name was Hatem and he was an expfflin trailing pgj
Or tracking them down. Mustafa Manshur was almost too easy, a i
who seemed oblivious to almost everything around him. He n
looked back, stopped abruptly, or suddenly changed direction or sp
He was a sheep that never sensed the thing watching him from the s
ows beyond the pasture.
Hatem followed Manshur up the rue Erasme, up the wide stone'
of the Physics Building, and down the vast, cool halls until Manshuid
appeared into his office.
Haiem pulled out a cellular telephone.
"He's in the pen."
The voice on the other end belonged to a man Hatem knew Well,^*
it still had the power to chill him. The instructions were concise: Saw
with the Lebanese until his guest arrived.
96 ]. PATRICK LAW

wound a little too tightly. His voice, which normally carried, was subdued.
It was as though Sid Poltarek did not wish to draw attention to
himself. As if he's afraid.... Ben had never known his father to be afraid
of anything or anyone.
Who is that Levantine you were with? Is he the cause of all this? What were you
doing with him?
But words would not follow the thoughts. Instead, Ben heard himself
say, "Did you sleep all right? You look a little peaked."
Poltarek waved his hand as if he were batting away an annoying insect.
"Fine, fine. I'm just tired." He paused. "I'm thinking that maybe we
should go home early. This afternoon, even. This morning's session isn't
going to go past noon, is it? Be a nice surprise for your mother."
You 're bulls/lifting me. Pop.
"Yeah, we'll wrap it up by lunchtime," Ben said carefully. "More than
enough time to make the American flight into Kennedy." He waited a
beat. "Provided you don't have anything else to do."
Poltarek appeared fixated on the soft-boiled egg the waiter placed in
front of him. "What would I possibly have to do?" he asked mildly, then
raised his spoon and delivered a sharp rap to the shell. "That you're running
the case so well is the reason I'm bored." He peered over a spoonful
of egg. "That's a compliment."
"Thanks. I got it."
/ also got that you're not going to talk to me about your little rendezvous this
morning.
Over the years, Ben had learned that little if anything was achieved by
confronting his father. Chipping away worked some. Patiently waiting
for him to come around and offer an explanation was always the best
route.
Ben stirred his oatmeal and berries like a fortune-teller seeking answers
in thrown bones. His father was a tough man, difficult to love:
sometimes. But Ben never doubted Sid's love for him, could not remember
a time when he would have jeopardized Ben's love for him by a lie. .
Let it go. It's not worth the fallout.
Ben thought he could get past his anger. It was Sid's fear that contin^
ued to nettle him, that and the fact that he didn't have enough confN
dence in his son to confide in him. ^
Because I'm not Samuel. |

*

the ASSlSlftl^ii fi

The Arab's name was Haiem and he was an expert in trailing people.
Or tracking them down. Mustafa Manshur was almost too easy, a man
who seemed oblivious to almost everything around him. He never
looked back, stopped abruptly, or suddenly changed direction or speed.
He was a sheep that never sensed the thing watching him from the shadows
beyond the pasture.
Hatem followed Manshur up the rue Erasme, up the wide stone steps
of the Physics Building, and down the vast, cool halls until Manshur disappeared
into his office.
Hatem pulled out a cellular telephone.
"He's in the pen."
The voice on the other end belonged to a man Hatem knew well, yet it still had the power to chill him. The instructions were concise: Stay
with the Lebanese until his guest arrived.
N;
me


t

he woman known as Manar opened the shutters, then the balcony
doors, and let Cairo assault her senses. The apartment she was in
was low enough for her to smell the scent of cumin, allspice, and saffron
drifting up from the stalls. The bleating of livestock and the squawking
of fowl mixed with the aroma of grilling meats. Hawkers stirred as the
first caravans of tourists appeared, herded along by guides who would
haggle for them. Manar had once lived in Cairo. She knew there was an
unspoken agreement between the guides and the hawkers: The tourist
would be fleeced just enough for both parties to make a decent profit
while allowing the tourist to brag to his friends that he'd struck a good
bargain.
Manar gazed down at a culture and a people she had embraced as her
own and asked herself if she would ever see any of it again.
"If Allah wills it, you shall."
She turned toward Jamal. He was sitting in the small living room furnished
in Sears Americana, legs crossed, watching her.
When her husband had first introduced her to Hafez Jamal, Manar had
felt uncomfortable in his presence. He had the uncanny ability to appear
where she least expected him. She swore that he could read her thoughts
whenever he wished. She recalled asking Issim if Jamal was a witch or a
demon, and how Issim had thrown back his head and laughed, embraced
her, comforted her.
THE ASSISTANT 99

Who would hold her now? Where could she turn for succor? Not to
Jamal. Never. Manar had come to respect him, but her fear of him never
completely dissolved. She understood how he looked at her, how he desired
her. That he could not hide. But he would never give rein to his
feelings. Jamal had worshiped Issim and would never transgress by coveting
his widow.
But Issim is gone and this is the man who rules my life now.
Manar stepped back into the cool room. Everything about it was
strange to her. She detested the hard lines and sharp angles and the antiseptic
smell. Yet, these things, and others she had all but forgotten,
would surround her in the place for which she was destined.
Manar moved to the kitchen and made tea on a gas stove instead of an
open fire. She put the silly-looking steeping pot on a tray, added the
cups, saucers, and sugar, and carried it to the living room. She was about
to kneel and serve Jamal when he held up his hand.
"No. Serve the way an American woman would serve."
Her lip trembled and her eyes swelled with tears, but she did as he
bade, standing and bending from the waist to give him his cup. She
sipped her tea and almost gagged because the city water made it taste so
foul.
"You must be strong," she heard him say softly. "For Issim."
Manar's eyes flashed. "My husband and child lie in unmarked graves
hundreds of miles away. I have been a widow for less than a week. I have
been denied my grieving. You ask me to be strong, Hafez. You do not
know the strength I need just to take my next breath!"
Jamal said nothing. He was a very astute student of human nature and
behavior. Manar was suffering under an enormous amount of guilt. Her
husband and child had died; she had lived. Because that morning she
had risen earlier than they had. Because she loved to ride into the dawn.
Because no matter how fleet her mount, she could not have outraced the
Israeli helicopters to share her family's fate.
Jamal understood that Manar would carry this pain for the rest of her
life. It would be her Christian stigma, a wound that would never cease to
bleed.
Yet from that same blood he had fashioned his most perfect weapon.
Jamal glanced at his watch. "It is time. Please go and dress. There are
still things to attend to before we leave."
Manar paused before rising because she did not want Jamal to mistake
100 J. PATRICK LAW

her acquiescence for obedience. When she stood, she was tall and proud,
forcing her shoulders back, holding her head high. Nothing less would be
expected from the widow oflssim Hassan.
In the bedroom, Manar removed her robe and veil and headdress. It
would be a long time before she wore them again. She went into the
bathroom and stood under a shower for as long as it look her to spill the
last other tears. There was no room for them where she was going. Tears
could betray her.
Back in the bedroom, she reached mechanically for each garment laid
out on the bed. The bra felt tight and confining; the business suit, the
same one she'd worn before the tribunal, offended her by its new-garment
odor.
She stepped out and gazed straight ahead as Jamal examined her
handiwork.
"Do you approve?" she asked, not looking at him.
"It is not a matter of approval. You must fit in. You do not need
makeup, but some will be helpful. I'm sure that with a little practice it
will be as perfect as the rest of you."
Jamal gestured at the documents spread out on the coffee table. When
Manar sat down opposite him, he pushed across a piece of thick paper,
folded four times, the folds brown with age.
Manar opened it. Judith Nancy Sawyer, born July 12, 1967, Laguna
Beach, California. Kaiser Permanente Hospital. Attending physician: Dr.
James Kendall. Parents: Lester and Joanna Sawyer.
Judith Sawyer. It had the feel of a stranger's name. And why not? She
hadn't used it in almost a decade, had all but forgotten it.
An image darted out from behind the curtain of the past. A skinny little
girl playing on the beach, racing into the surf after friends. Her
mother, wearing huge sunglasses, laughing as her father waded in waist-
deep, picked up his daughter, tossed her in the air, dunked her...
With one finger, Jamal pushed across a thin leather sheath, the kind
that would hold a driver's license or a Social Security card.
Judith's eyes blurred. It was a photo wallet. Pictures other mother, a
formal studio shot. Her father standing in front of a Christmas tree. Without
thinking, Judith turned the photo over: "New York, Xmas 1979."
Had the Lester Sawyer in the photo known that he had only three
more weeks to live? Maybe he did. Because by then the trial was well
THE ASSISTANT 101

under way and the portents were becoming darker with each day's session.

Judith remembered peeking into the kitchen. The wonderful smell of
baking holiday cookies cut by the liquor in the tumbler. Her father sitting
at the little table, her mother busy at the sink, her back to him. Her
husband couldn't see the tears; Judith did, in the reflection in the window
over the sink.
Lester Sawyer was--had been--a vice president in a prestigious Wall
Street brokerage house. He was an honest, decent man, and such men
should never be the ones to stumble upon transgression. In this case, it
was a giant Ponzi scheme run by a handful of senior partners.
Lester Sawyer saw his way clear. He went to the government watchdogs,
gave them evidence and testimony. He was lionized, praised, and
promised his just rewards.
Until the tape surfaced, implicating him, making it appear that he had
been in on the scheme from the start. Then Lester Sawyer was said to
have tried to blackmail his partners. When they wouldn't truck to his demands
for more money, he'd kept what he had and turned state's evidence.

The fabrications were flawless, the logic inescapable. Lester Sawyer
went from accuser to accused. He lost his good name and was vilified by
the same people who had applauded his courage and honesty.
On that cold January day, Lester Sawyer went to the federal courthouse
one more time. He took the stand, prepared to endure the slurs
and humiliation he knew would fall upon him. He let the attorney ask a
few questions, then rose in the witness stand and reached into his suit
coat. It was all one fluid motion--pulling out the gun, bringing the barrel
to his temple, applying pressure to the trigger.
Only at the last second did Lester Sawyer hear the scream and see his
daughter, who he had never imagined would be there. It was either the
relentless momentum of his movement or the shame and horror of seeing
Judith thai made him complete his act.
Lester Sawyer, beloved husband of Joanna, loving father of Judith,
dead by his own hand at age forty-two.
Jamal watched Judith close the photo holder and put it by her birth
certificate. He had been a spectator to the grisly film that had played in
her mind.
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104 J. PATRICK LAW

He handed her a modest purse, along with a new wallet, and watched
her put away the items on the coffee table.
"The last thing," he said, reaching beside him.
There were six thick notebooks, held together by rubber bands. Judith
remembered them from her days at the excavations. Very clever of
Jamal. If anyone bothered to look, the notebooks bore witness to places
she'd been, things she'd participated in. An academic log in her own
handwriting.
But there were also years the notebooks could not account for. She
raised her eyebrows at jamal, who held up a small, hard plastic carrier. He
popped open the lid to reveal thirty computer floppies.
"Cheap technology has enabled even money-strapped archaeologists
to record their notes on disk."
Judith ran a fingertip over the collection. "Someone did a lot of homework
for me."
"You can review it on the plane. The flight is a long one."
Judith didn't think she'd need to, but she nodded. She had many
other things to think about in the time left to her.
Jamal packed her notebooks and the disk case into a carry-on. Two
mildly bruised suitcases stood by the door, bulging with clothes, archaeological
tools, mementos. A lifetime built on falsehood, a lifetime that
had nothing whatsoever to do with what she was abandoning.
The telephone shrilled.
"Your driver is downstairs. Come."
Jamal carried the suitcases to the elevator. Neither spoke on the way
down. A man dressed in black pants and a white shirt stained with sweat
hauled the bags to an ancient Mercedes idling at the curb.
Judith did not bother to ask if the driver was one ofjamal's men. Of
course he was. Otherwise, Jamal would never have allowed him to see his
face.
"Do you have his bracelet?" she asked suddenly.
Jamal had anticipated this, but he was still debating how to respond.
"Yes."
"May I have it?"
"It is a very fine, very distinctive piece of work. People might ask you
about it. Why create such an opportunity?"
"Hafez, I have nothing of his. Not one ring, not a picture, nothing. I
understand why. But a bracelet, it's meaningless to anyone but me." She
THE. ASSISTANT 1U3

paused. "Let me take it. Please. There may come a time when I will
need his strength."
Thai thought had occurred to Jamal. If she'd wanted the bracelet as a
lover's souvenir, he would have denied her. But he understood and believed
in the power of a talisman.
He fished in his pocket and dropped it in her upturned palm.
The chain was cast of soft, yellow gold, the links thin, the clasp almost
invisible. But Judith could open it in her sleep. She dropped to one knee
and secured the bracelet around her bare ankle.
"See. No one will even notice."
Jamal shook his head. "Your loss does nothing to hide that you are a
woman. Remember this and act with discretion." He hesitated. "But it
does look beautiful. I remember the occasion on which he gave it to
you."
"On our fourth wedding anniversary," she said coldly. "Who knew it
would also be our last?"
"Go now," he whispered. "Go and know that you will not be alone for
long. When I get there--"
Jamal was startled when she put a finger to his lips, silencing him.
"When you arrive, everything will be ready. I promise."
He stood rubbing his finger across his lip as she walked quickly to the
taxi. It was as though she'd branded him.
Jamal returned to the apartment and locked the door. From the bedroom,
he brought out a garment bag and a small hard-shell carrying case.
He took the latter into the bathroom and opened it on the vanity.
The carrying case yielded a full theatrical makeup kit that included a
mirror ringed with small but powerful battery-operated lights.
Thick padded cotton strips went on first, around his waist, thighs, and
hips, adding twenty-five pounds to his frame. A very expensive wig gave
him a silver mane. Rubber pads placed between cheek and jowl filled out
his face. Contacts turned his black eyes to a deep brown.
Jamal carefully scrutinized his appearance, made a few subtle alterations,
then put on a suit that would fit over his new, bulky frame. The
last item was a pair of black-framed glasses with thick but clear lenses.
Jamal picked up his suitcase and exited the apartment, leaving the
door unlocked. In less than a minute, men in cleaners' overalls would
come in and scrub down the unit, removing all traces of his transformation.
1U6 j. PATRltJR LAW

The bus ride to the airport took forty minutes. Jamal got off at the international
terminal and made his way to the TWA gates.
El-Banna was in a cafe, chatting up a Swedish flight attendant when
Jamal strolled by.
"You look like a prosperous fig merchant," el-Banna remarked. "Even
I had to look twice."

"What of Manar?" Jamal asked.
El-Banna gestured toward the closed door to the Jetway then out the
panoramic windows where a TWA 747 was pulling back from the gate.
"I watched her board and waited until the gate closed. She had no
problem at check-in, which means the passport was properly handled."
El-Banna knew that Jamal had been worried about the ability of their
embassy contact to obtain the proper magnetic strip. "She had a coffee,
bought two magazines, some perfume at Duty Free, then boarded. At no
time was she approached nor did she talk to anyone."
Jamal was pleased. TWA was one of those airlines that flashed their
passengers' passport numbers to U.S. Customs and Immigration at the
port of entry. Had there been a problem with the passport, American authorities
would have alerted Egyptian internal security. They in turn
would have frozen the flight until Judith Sawyer had been removed,
along with her baggage. As it was, she would now clear customs without
incident. The weapon was en route and safe.
"What about your departure?" Jamal asked.
El-Banna indicated the wide hall that linked the gates.
As they walked, the two men spoke French in soft tones. Details that
had been committed to memory were reviewed one last time, lost in the
cacophony of the airport.
El-Banna stopped at the EgyptAir gate. He gripped Jamal by the
shoulders. "I expect to hear from you soon."
"You shall. When you do, be prepared."
The two men embraced, and el-Banna strode toward the Jetway. He
gave the flight attendant his first-class ticket, along with a heart-stopping
smile, and disappeared into the cocoon.
Jamal hurried along the concourse to the Air France section.
The pretty flight attendant at the ticketing counter glanced from his
passport to his face, stamped the security code on his ticket, and in a mechanical
monotone, wished him a pleasant flight.
Walking to the jetway, Jamal chanced to glance at his reflection in the;
THE ASSISTANT 107

tall windows. He would never deny that he had envied Issim Hassan his
charisma and coveted el-Banna's bedroom charms. Yet there was a great
deal to be said for the plain and unremarkable. Jamal's old enemies had
never seen him coming. Neither would this one.
As Jamal's Air France flight lifted off from Cairo, Ezekiel Landau was
boarding a private jet at the far end of Tel Aviv's Ben-Gurion International
Airport.
The plane belonged to a well-known Israeli electronics firm that did a
substantial amount of business in France. Its designation numbers were
familiar both to air traffic controllers and to French immigration. Flight
61 was always tagged for discreet, courteous, handling.
No sooner had Landau settled himself in than the jet began to roll.
Five minutes later, it was climbing high over the Mediterranean.
Landau got up and went into the tiny galley. There was never a flight
attendant on board when the plane was on loan to the Institute.
Landau sipped orange juice from the Haifa groves and double-
checked the paperwork that Bella had delivered to him at the last
minute. On this occasion, he was the electronics firm's new president of
marketing, a post senior enough to rank the privilege of not flying commercial.
He also had use of the corporate apartment but didn't think he'd
be taking the firm up on that particular perk. He wanted to be back in Tel
Aviv by tomorrow morning at the latest.
The prime minister had given Landau one chance to redeem both of
them for the fiasco at Samarra. Landau had been on a safe link to the
Paris katsa even as he was being driven to Lod. The katsa had assured
him that the American sayan had already set up the meeting with
Mustafa Manshur. The Lebanese was propped to expect a high-ranking
American who wished to know more about Jamal and Samarra.
Landau had passed for an American in places where Americans were
scarce. To the Institute's knowledge, Manshur knew only one American:
Poltarek. Landau would be coming in as someone Pokarek had indirectly
vouched for. Trust should not become an issue.
Landau hoped so--for his sake and Manshur's. Landau needed to
know where Jamal had been at the time of the raid on Samarra, where
he'd disappeared to afterward, where he was now. It would be best if
Manshur accepted Landau's impersonation and gave him what he
needed. If the Lebanese suspected that Landau was deceiving him, if he
hedged or balked. Landau would have no choice but to do it the hard
108 J. PATRICK LAW

way. It would not be pleasant for Manshur, but necessary for Landau.
Landau was convinced that Jamal had sent the man he professed to love
above all others into a deadly trap. What could merit such sacrifice? How
did Jamal intend to capitalize on it? If Hassan's murder had been the
springboard for an operation, how far along was it? Who or what was the
target?
Landau could not afford to leave without answers. With Manshur, he
would try the gentle way first. But if the Lebanese tried to mislead him
or lied outright, Landau would demonstrate what true pain felt like. And
he wouldn't have to lay a finger on the man. Just show him a copy ofA/Ahram, the largest daily newspaper in the Arab world, show him the front
page where tomorrow or the day after, soon, Manshur's picture would appear,
alongside a story detailing his long-standing relationship with and
contributions to the Jewish state.
T.
en


A

r the conclusion of the deposition, Benjamin Poltarek, metaphorically,
neatly folded the hides of the two opposing counsel and
stowed them in his briefcase.
The morning session had been a complete rout. The other attorneys
stayed just long enough to mutter good-bye before beating a hasty retreat.

"I'm heading back to the hotel," Sid Poltarek said as they stepped out
of the building onto the avenue de 1'Opera.
Something in his father's tone made Ben stop short.
"What's wrong?"
Poltarek, who'd gone ahead a few steps, turned around. Ben had put
down his briefcase, the anger in his eyes spoiling for a fight.
Just like his mother.
Poltarek drew his son to the side of a newsstand.
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't use that on me. You never ask a question without knowing the
answer. We took those guys to the cleaners. Kaiser-Agfa will be doing
handsprings. But you're acting like you've just come from sitting shivah"
Don 'tpush me, Ben. Don't force me to lie to you.
But there wasn't any other way.
"I'm tired. Okay? I don't know why, but I didn't have my heart in this
case--at least not this aspect of it. Nothing tragic. You get those feelings
1 1U J. FA1 R1LR LAW

from time to time when a case has been running as long as this one has."
He paused, then added the balm: "Besides, you did one hell of a job. I'm
proud of you, kid. I should have said so before."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Ben said. "I mean, thanks for the
vote of confidence but--"
"Your old man's getting old. Don't make anything more out of it than
that. Now let's get going. Our flight leaves in a few hours. I still have to
pack and make a few calls."
Silently, Ben fell in step with his father. Calls to your strange pal. Pop?
When they reached the place Vendome, Ben touched his father's arm.
"You go ahead. I have something to pick up." He gestured toward the
jewelry store.
"You and Rachel...?"
"You never know," Ben said lightly.
The concierge at the Ritz had been as good as his word: A saleswoman
was expecting Ben. The item was ready for his inspection.
The ring was even more startling up close. Ben accepted the jeweler's
loupe and gazed into a cosmos of brilliant, fiery constellations. It was
done.
While the saleswoman handled his credit card, Ben idly perused the
other offerings in the display cases. His eyes passed over a selection of ,
tiny gold figurines set on thin chains, and suddenly froze. Resting on a velvet display was a small Star of David, Grafted from reddish-hued Rus- :
sian gold. Ben had seen such a piece only once before. But this couldn't
be the same one. The one he was thinking of had been resting on his '
brother's chest when the casket lid closed.
"Is there something else that interests you, monsieur?" ;
Ben glanced up, startled. "Nothing, thank you." j
The woman smiled hesitantly, then returned to writing up the bill. *
Ben could not tear his eyes from the pendant. He shifted to get a bet- |
ter look at it. |
Identical. 1
'S
Images of Samuel lying in the casket assaulted him. Others followed,;
as they always did, grabbing hold and spiriting him away to places wher^
his conscience could never be at peace, pricked and prodded by memories
he could never be rid of. :
The end of summer at a camp in upstate New York where Ben and;
THE ASSISTANT 111

Samuel had been going for years. It was Samuel's last season. He was
seventeen, a senior counselor. After his freshman year at college, he
would be traveling in Europe.
Ben was six years younger, thin and wiry, clumsy at sports, a boy whom
girls had yet to discover. He'd had a fight with Samuel. Ben was not a
good swimmer, but he had practiced hard all season. Two miles from the
camp was a wide river, gentle at the near shore where the beach was located,
swift and unpredictable on the other side, where one had to climb
directly out of the current onto big, slippery rocks. Ben had promised
himself that before going home he would conquer the river.
On the second-to-last day there was a big barbecue on the beach.
While the charcoal heated up, everyone went into the water. Ben
watched as Samuel, who had a drawerful of ribbons in sports, swam effortlessly
to the other side, pulled himself up on the rocks, and lay back
in the sun.
Ben turned to his friend. "Let's do it."
David Perlmutter was Ben's age, just as skinny and inept. The two
were always the last to be picked for the baseball and volleyball teams.
This knowledge that they were not really wanted became a powerful
bond--and an overwhelming incentive to prove themselves. Before the
summer was out, they had vowed that they, too, would bask on the rocks
on the opposite side of the river.
"I dunno, Benny. It looks awfully fast today."
"Chickenshit."
"No, I mean it. Look at Jerry. He barely made it."
"Chickenshit."
Ben saw the hurt in David's eyes. He wasn't old enough to recognize
the fear.
Ben stepped into the water, swirled the mud and wood chips with his
foot.
"If you don't come, I'll tell Michelle you wimped out." Ben paused for
effect. "On second thought, I won't have to tell her anything. She's sitting
right over there." Ben waved at a tall black-haired girl who sat with
her friends, all of them watching and giggling at the two boys.
"You're a jerk, Poltarek," David said miserably.
"Maybe. But I'm not the one who's been pullin' the old pud at night,
thinking of Michelle."
112 j. PATRICK LAW

David crimsoned, balled his hands into fists, and charged after Her
who skipped away, dove into the water, and began doing a reasonabi
facsimile of the Australian crawl. Fifty yards out, he looked over hi
shoulder; there was David, nailing in his wake.
Ben had gone over and over the route he would take. "Never fight th
current," Samuel had drilled into him. "Use it. Start well to the right c
the place you want to end up in, and toward the end, let the current tak
you in."
Except the end was farther than Ben had anticipated. A lot farther. Hi
arms were tiring just as the current was beginning to make itself felt. Hi
redoubled his efforts, kicking hard with his legs. In the center of the cui
rent, he switched to the dog-paddle and thrashed furiously for the rocks
"Ben!"
He jerked his head up, saw Samuel standing on the rocks, staring a
him.
"Ben, what the hell--"
"I'm okay!" he shouted. Yeah, sure. Shut up and keep paddling!
With a last surge of energy he passed through the worst of the current
His fingernails scraped the algae off the rocks before he had enough faill
to reach out with one hand and grab an outcrop. The rest of his body sli(
by but his grip held.
Awirite, bubet You de man.
Arm over arm, Ben pulled himself up, flopped over on his back, and Ie
out a whoop that echoed clear across the river. Which was why he didn'
hear David until the second time he screamed.
"BenF
Startled, Ben almost lost his footing on the slippery rock. Carefully, h<
got to his feet, in time to see David caught in the grip of the current, hi
thin arms slapping down on the water as he tried desperately to Stas
afloat. H
"Ben, help meF ,|
Ben froze. The image of him taunting David to come in the wa(<||
smashed into him. S|
"David, hang on! I'm coming!" ^
Ben took one faltering step, then froze again. The black water surge

just a few feet below him, hissing as it swept through the cracks all
.i crevices of the rocks. I can't do it.
"Ben, don't move!"
THE ASSISTANT 113

He felt steel fingers clamp down on his shoulder and pull him back.
He stumbled and fell hard on his bottom. Samuel loomed over him, the
Star of David swinging on its chain, catching the sunlight.
"Don't moveF he repeated.
Before Ben could say a word, his brother turned and dove into the
river.
David was screaming wildly, trying to heave himself out of the current,
slapping the water as he strained to reach the rocks. Ben watched his
movements become weaker and weaker as the current held him fast,
then sucked him under.
Ben inched his way down the incline until the water was only a few
inches below his toes. He reached out with his arm as far as he could.
David's face flashed by, his puckered fingertips a good six feet from
Ben's. Then the river pulled him under.
Ben screamed, saw his brother surface, and gestured wildly in the direction
where David had disappeared. Samuel jackknifed beneath the
waves.
The midday sun was so strong that it illuminated the water down to
about twenty feet. There was an underwater outcrop, littered with logs,
branches, and debris. Ben saw the glint of a tin can. And something
else--Samuel, kicking strongly toward David, who was tumbling over
and over, like an astronaut whose tether to the capsule has been severed.
Samuel grabbed David's ankle and pulled him close to the outcrop
and then to the cliff face. The two of them hung there, out of the current.
"Come on, come on!" Ben whispered. "What are you waiting for? Get
him out!"
Then he saw it. Samuel held on to David with one hand. With the
other, he reached down to his ankle, caught between the V-shaped
boughs of a huge tree trunk.
Ben watched as Samuel continued to pull, but he couldn't free himself.
Then he drew David tightly against him, and pressed his mouth to
the boy's.
He's giving him air....
Samuel pulled back and sank into a crouch, holding David under his
arms. In one smooth motion, he propelled himself upward.
That's it! come on!
In his mind's eye, Ben saw his brother rocketing to the surface. But
^at's not what happened.
lit J. FA1 R1L.R. LAW

The tree trunk refused to let Samuel go. At the same instant as he was
jerked back, he thrust David straight up.
David came at Ben kicking for all his legs were worth. One arm came
out of the water. Ben reached out as far as he could. His fingertips grazed
David's, then caught, and held. Using every ounce of strength he had,
Ben slowly dragged David out of the current and onto a flat rock just
above the waterline.
"David! David, are you okay?"
David was throwing up, waving back at the water.

"Samuel? Samuel!"
His brother was bent over, both hands working to free his foot. But the
boughs of the tree were either too slippery from the algae or too thick to
be broken.
"Someone help me!"
Other swimmers had heard and seen the commotion on the other side
of the river and were racing across.
Ben stared in horror as Samuel's motions became slower and slower
until the current was the only thing thai caused him to move, back and
forth, back and forth.
A brilliant shaft of sunlight pierced the depths and lit up his lifeless
face, the lips slightly parted, the eyes open wide, unblinking. The sunlight
shifted, wavered over the gold chain, reflected off the Magen
David, and was gone, leaving Ben screaming into blackness.
"Monsieur, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"
Ben pointed to the Star of David. "I'd like that, too."
The saleswoman was struck by the pain in his eyes. "Of course. Per"
haps monsieur wishes something to drink?"
It was too late to hide his tears, but he turned away to salvage what prir^
vacy he could. /1
The anniversary of Samuel's death was next month. This year, instead |
of placing a stone on the marker, Ben would offer Samuel this gift. ' |

* * *

Mustafa Manshur's three-bedroom apartment was in the rue deslrlandais
between the Lycee Henri IV and the Curie Institute. The katsa^
thought it a pleasant enough neighborhood, filled with bookstores, cafes,|
and small, inexpensive restaurants. It reminded him a little of CamTHE ASSISTANT 115

bridge and its Harvard Yard, good memories of his tour of duty in America.

The katsa glanced up at a revolving electric clock over a drugstore's
green-and-white cross. Landau's jet should be touching down at Charles
de Gaulle Airport in less than an hour. Customs and immigration would
be a formality; the drive into the city, at this time of day, wouldn't take
more than forty-five minutes.
The katsa} arrival at Manshur's building ahead of Landau was deliberate.
Sidney Poltarek had vouched for Manshur, and true, in the past the
Lebanese's information had been very good. Although the katsa had a
deep background dossier on the man, he could not smell him. He wanted
to see where the physicist lived, who his neighbors were, what kind of
building Landau would be going into. So the katsa spent a leisurely half
hour checking all the entrances and exits, walking up and down the
streets, pausing to look into shop windows, taking snapshots of the people
around him. The environment measured up to the image the katsa
had had of it. As for the apartment building, it was a standard prewar affair
with half a dozen ways in and out.
The katsa crossed the street to Manshur's building. The normal-size
door, cut into one of two garage-size double doors, was open, so he
stepped in and found himself in a small courtyard with a circular
flowerbed surrounding a small fountain. On his left, the door to the
concierge's small apartment was open. The katsa heard the sports announcer
on television, saw the board with apartment keys hanging from
tiny hooks. The scrape of leather on cobblestone made him turn around.
The man was an Arab--Algerian or Moroccan--the katsa guessed. He wore a blue workman's jumpsuit stained with grease, and a tool belt
around his waist.
"Can I help you?" he asked in a surly tone.
"No. I was calling on a friend."
The workman thumbed in the direction of the foyer.
The katsa} next move was instinctive. He reached for the key rack
and ran a finger over the apartment numbers, hesitating only briefly at 6,
Manshur's flat.
Then something slammed into his consciousness. The workman's
shoes. Workmen wore boots, not thin-soled, highly polished loafers.
The katsa whirled around, his hand disappearing into his jacket for his
life j. PATRICK LAW

gun. But the Arab was well into his attack. The wrench in his hand arced,
cut down, and crushed the soft muscle tissue of the katsa's neck, just
below his ear.

» »

Inside the silent apartment, with its expensive Oriental rugs, Persian
antiques, and riot of potted plants, Mustafa Manshur paced. He stopped
in midstride as the clock chimed the hour, then resumed, working
against the nap of the silk rug, slowly destroying the delicate fabric.
He paused to pluck a cigarette from an inlaid ivory case and snapped a
lighter three times before getting a flame. He inhaled deeply and the
nicotine calmed him for a moment. He tried to reassure himself that
there was nothing to worry about. His wife and children would be out
until dinnerrime. The maid had been surprised and grateful when he'd
given her the day off, with pay. Sidney Pokarek had assured him that his
visitor would be prompt.
Manshur checked the clock again. Fifty-five minutes. He should have
insisted that Poltarek's American boss come earlier. Waiting around like
this was intolerable. Pokarek had said that he'd tried to bring the meeting
forward but the logistics had made it impossible.
What logistics? If the American was traveling--as Manshur assumed
he must be--couldn't he have left an hour or two earlier?
He was crushing out his half-smoked cigarette when there was a
knock on the door. Manshur checked his appearance in the full-length
mirror in the foyer closet. It never occurred to him to check the peep"
hole. Even if he had, he would not have been suspicious.
He flipped the lock and turned the handle. A split second later thc|
door slammed into the smile he'd put on to greet his guest, knocking ouSj
three teeth and tearing open his upper lip.
The Arab in the blue overalls was Hatem and he moved like a dance
not missing a beat. He had his forearm around Manshur's neck and w;
dragging him to a straight-back chair with a padded seat.
Hatem sat Manshur down, grabbed a fistful of hair to keep tN§
Lebanese from toppling over, and reached into his tool belt for the roli'dg
duct tape. Within seconds, Manshur was bound to the chair. Hatem to^jj
off a short strip of tape and glanced at Hafez Jamal, who surveyed th|j
handiwork while a third man, al-Rahim stood by, holding a submachi
gun.
THE assistant \1

"No," Jamal said. "He will want to talk 10 us."
Jamal walked into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water that
he held up to Manshur's ruined mouth. The water turned soupy red and
Manshur gagged as it hit the open blood vessels. A piece of tooth spiraled
down to the bottom of the glass.
"Do you know who I am?" Jamal asked in a conversational tone.
Manshur knew well enough, but he wasn't about to admit as much. He
shook his head.
"I realize you are in pain," Jamal told him. "But it is nothing compared
to what you will experience if you do not talk."
With great effort, Manshur raised his chin off his chest.
"I know of you," he said in a tortured voice, wincing as he cut his
tongue on a jagged tooth shard.
"Always pleasant to hear the truth. There's no reason to for us to have
met before now." Jamal paused. "Because you never tried to betray
me--before now."
Manshur knew he was not a brave man, but he was shrewd. In a blinding
moment of lucidity, he thought he might have found a way to spare
himself torture and even to save his life. He said nothing until he was
sure that his silence had condemned him.
"So you do not deny this," Jamal said. "Good. Tell me, were you acting
alone?"
"No."
"The names of your henchmen?"
"Abdul Muhsain and Wadi Ghusha."
"Yes, of course."
Jamal produced the front pages of two newspapers and held them in
front of Manshur's face. One was the Damascus daily, the other from
Beirut. Each had a prominent story about the horrible mutilation and
killing of two prominent businessmen. The accompanying photographs
induced Manshur to vomit.
Jamal went to the kitchen and returned with a bag of scented cat litter.
He proceeded to pour the contents over the mess.

"Those men were ...?"
"Cousin ... wife's brother."
"Were they the ones who told you I would be in Juba?"
"Yes...."

"Then Samarra?"

li8 J. PATRICK LAW

"Yes...."
"And how did they learn that?"
Manshur looked up at Jamal with limpid eyes of a dog that knows it's
about to be beaten.
"I don't know," he croaked.
Jamal was neither angered nor surprised. It was he who had called
Abdul Muhsain in Damascus. Muhsain, who knew him by another
name--and rank, since Jamal had led him to believe that he, Jamal, was
an officer in Syrian intelligence looking to trade tidbits for hard currency.
As matters turned out, Muhsain had been a prompt and generous payer.
From Muhsain, the information had gone to Wadi Ghusha in Beirut,
and from their to Manshur. Jamal had stumbled across this treasonous
cabal two years ago, but had neither reported it to authorities nor dealt
with it personally. Having a preexisting pipeline might be valuable, if
only for blackmail purposes. As matters turned out, not only had Jamal
been able to use the trio's activities to insure Issim Hassan's death, he
had also delivered proof of their complicity to the tribunal, proof that had
prodded the tribunal to authorize retribution.
Now he also had a souvenir to send back to the tribunal, evidence of
just how right he'd been.
Jamal flicked his wrist. Haiem disappeared and returned, dragging the
barely conscious katsa behind him. He dropped the body at Manshur's
feet.
"Who is this man?" Jamal asked quietly.
Manshur's eyes rolled back, revealing the red-veined whites. "I swear
I do not know," he whispered.
"He knew you, Mustafa," Jamal observed. "He was downstairs, waiting
to come up, when we introduced ourselves."
"Please ... I am telling you the truth."
"Are you?" Actually, Jamal believed that Manshur was doing exactly
that. It was something else that intrigued him.
He pulled out a laminated plastic card and held it up for the Lebanese.
"No." Manshur spoke as if he were being garroted.
"Oh, yes, Mustafa. This pile of dung at your feet is a Jew. A special
Jew. Who works at the embassy. 'Commercial attache,' it says here. But
you know that this is a cover. We have a child-killer here, Mustafa.
Mossad."
The stench of waste rose in the room as the Lebanese soiled himself.
THE ASSISTANT 119

In Jamal's mind, this, more than any protests, spoke to Manshur's innocence.
Truly, he did not know who this man really was.
"Let me speculate," Jamal said. "You were passing information that
your treasonous kin were moving out of Syria. You had a contact. Not this
scum. Someone else. Now, I cannot believe that you would willingly work
for Jews. Would you?"
Manshur shook his head furiously.
"Which means that your contact misled you, lied to you, duped you
because you are a gullible fool." Jamal came very close to Manshur, ignoring
the foul stench. He had smelled far worse. "Tell me, Mustafa,
about the man who came to you. Was he American? British? Someone
like that, yes? Someone you believed could protect you. Tell me, and I
will be merciful. Otherwise, I will trade your wife into slavery and your
children into a harem."
Tears mixed with rivulets of sweat. "I will tell you ... Everything. Just
don't..."
Jamal ran the back of his knuckles along Manshur's cheek, a lover's
gesture. "Tell me."
"His name is ... is Poltarek."
"Poltarek, yes. Please, continue."

* * *

The American Airlines DC-10 was on the taxi apron when Ben noticed
a trim blue-and-white corporate jet touch down on the runway.
"Must be a VIP flight."
Sid Poltarek looked up from his magazine. "What's that?"
Ben tapped the Plexiglas. "That jet. Usually, they shift private traffic
to Le Bourget."
"Maybe whoever's on it thinks this is closer to the city."
Ben studied the aircraft as it taxied by. He had flown a good deal and,
out of boredom, had memorized the international designations of various
aircraft. The numeral 4 followed by the letter X indicated that the jet's

home base was Israel.

» * *

Two men were waiting for Landau when he came out of the immigration
office, quiet, reserved men in expensively tailored suits befitting assistants
to a globe-trotting executive. They opened the back door to the

l^U ' ---- --..

». ^., des sedan. One got behind the wheel, the other slipped into '

fron'tp^"^"6"nn^ere
's Jacobsen?" Landau asked.
..caking out the apartment building," the passenger replied.
He f^'PP^ down the panel that covered the dashboard cavity meant.
, „ -Y^e air bag. The bag had been removed, the interior gutted to ma

f^si the submachine gun.
room i- ^ '"'
"r'c t nlm on the Hne' Landau said.
The agent nipped open his cellular phone. Landau was looking i
, ^lored glass window when the agent said, "I can't reach him. EitI
. hai^^ls dead or he's turned off the phone."
, ^jau's nerves trilled. No, not turned off. Not Jacobsen.

"<»te P on lt' ne sal^"
m.c vehicle had diplomatic plates, so even if a motorcycle cop
, .(/iclined to stop the speeding sedan, issuing a ticket would have
, -->eaningless. The driver was very good, slowing the car only whc
, -, ed into the warren of streets around the Sorbonne. Halfway dowjl
, g des Irlandais, he came up against a traffic jam.
"An ^"^dent," the passenger said.
, fr^nt ofManshur's building? No. That's too convenient.
t ,,<^au was out of the car and walking fast, the bodyguards covering!
,. a^n^. He shouldered through the crowd, saying, "Doctor. I'm a doo-8

i „,- me pass, please." s
tor. Le1 r ' r
"To<7 *ate ^or nlm'" a volce m the crowd called out.
, ^s. Mustafa Manshur lay sprawled in the street, his arms outflung,
,. , g5 at odd angles to his torso. Flies swarmed around the corpse and 3
u^ blood pooling between the cobblestones. |
wrh^ seconds. Landau was in the building's courtyard, flanked by |
,. ft. He ran past the fountain, wrenched open the door to the foyer, |
, ..«o)t the marble steps of the staircase two at a time. Somewhere out- '

-i he- heard the telltale 'hee-haw' klaxon of a police car.
side, he r
^,g door to Manshur's apartment was ajar. Landau and his men ;
Lgd, then burst into the flat. The foul odor made them gag, but nei,
i.yi nor the sight on the rug in the living room slowed them down.
p , f(jom was thoroughly checked before they regrouped, standing

,i-^ fallen katsa.
over tW
.-. fff the men let out a choking sob.
THE ASSISTANT 121

"Not here," Landau said harshly. "We do not mourn here. When we
get him back...."
Landau kneeled and removed Jacobsen's wallet, already halfway out
of his jacket pocket. Like someone wanted to draw attention to it.
Landau fished out the kafsa's commercial attache ID, made sure that
that was all he'd been carrying.
"His gun's missing," one of the agents said dully. "Jacobsen never left
the embassy without it."
Enraged, Landau stared at the red mass. Jacobsen had been his friend,
a fellow warrior when they had been young men. Landau had been Jacobsen's
best man. Now Jacobsen was a heap of raw bleeding meat. The
precise Y incision from sternum to groin had opened him up, then the
skin had been peeled back across bloody tissue, the entrails spilling out
as the knife sliced. Jacobsen had died slowly, in great pain.
Landau clamped his hands on his men's shoulders and pushed them
out of the apartment. Leaving Jacobsen behind, to be gazed at and prodded
by strangers, sickened him. It was no different from leaving a fallen
soldier on the battlefield. But Landau had no choice.
Stumbling, the trio made their way down the servants' staircase and
into the alley where the garbage containers were lined up.
"Bring the car around," Landau told the driver. "Go ahead. Bring it
around."
The klaxons were closer now, caroming off the sides of the buildings.
Landau turned to the remaining agent.
"Jacobsen chose you to work with him because you were the best. I
need to know what he knew--every step he took, every call that he
made, every person he spoke to."
It was a bald lie. Landau could have gotten that information himself.
But he understood that leadership is a coarse gift, often wrapped in deceit.

The agent nodded. "We'll find--"
"Yes, we'll find who did this. You have my word."
Another lie. Because Landau knew who the killer was. That particular
style of evisceration had been Hafezjamal's trademark for years.
Landau was on the car phone most of the way to the embassy. He
spoke carefully and only of those things that would give nothing away. By
the time the car turned into the rue Rabelais, he'd learned that the am122 J. PATRiCK LAW

bassador was attending a reception for the Israel Philharmonic. Good.
Landau did not want to deal with politicians. The Institute's liaison to
the embassy would be saddled with that.
The head of station was waiting for Landau when he entered the underground
bunker.
"We've already heard from the French," he told Landau. "They're
screaming for an explanation."
"Where did they take Jacobsen's body?"
"To the central morgue."
"Send a team to get him. I don't want some French butcher handling
him." Landau hesitated. "And prepare a casket. He will not arrive in Israel
in a garbage bag."
Landau glanced at the big desk, strewn with everything that had once
been in Jacobsen's office. He noticed that the computer was on, gestured
at it.
"We have Jacobsen's itinerary and calender. This was to be his first direct
contact with Manshur."
"Set up by?"
"The American sayan."
"Get Washington on the line. Tell them I want everything they have
on Poltarek in their sayanim register." Landau waited a beat before delivering
his next words. "What do you have on Jamal's presence in
Paris?"
The communications officers at their consoles, the agents at the computers,
the two secretaries who tended to the head of station, all fell
silent, as though Landau had uttered an obscenity in a holy place.
"What?" Landau demanded. "No one knewjamal was here?" ;
The head of station motioned for everyone to return to work. :i
"We had no clue that Jamal might be here," he admitted quietly. "An41
the French couldn't have known either. We have sources. . . . Do yoil|
want a search?" 1
Each head of station maintained an up to date list of locations thai icr^
rorists had used, ones they might favor, the names and addresses oftheirl
sympathizers, ^|
"Jamal is gone," Landau said flatly. "He's done his work and left." ^
"He wasn't here only to kill the katsa," the head of station observer
"Maybe he was looking for the American sayan." '.%
Damn right, maybe. Now, for sure.
THE ASSISTANT 123

Landau understood that Musrafa Manshur would not have been defenestrated
until Jamal had extracted every- piece of information he
could.
Jacobsen would have held out longer, maybe long enough for Jamal to
feel he was running out of time. But then Landau recalled the katsa corpse and knew that Jacobsen had talked, at least a little.
The head of station was very- sharp. He'd been following Landau's
silent reasoning.
"Jamal might know about the American sayan."
Landau did not respond. He had to assume that. Which meant that
Poltarek was in harm's way.
"Do we know where Poltarek is right now?"
The head of station consulted Jacobsen's computer screen. "According
to this, he and his son are on an American Airlines flight to Dulles. It
left an hour or so ago."
Landau nodded. At least for the next five hours, the sayan would be
safe.
"Do you want me to contact Washington and arrange for him to be
covered as soon as they land?"
That's vshat 1 should do. Landau thought. The decent thing. Because it is
part of our code that we do not jeopardize the lives of civilians who help us.
On the other hand, Jamal was still out there. Would he be after the
Pokareks? Were they somehow unwitting players in his plot? If so. Landau
needed to know. If he threw a protective blanket over the sayan,
Jamal would never come close. He'd take one look at the security and
disappear.
But whatever he was hatching would continue to incubate. That vsouldn 'disappear.
No, Jamal had to be allowed to approach the Pokareks unmolested.
He wouldn't kill them--at least not right away. He'd want to talk to them
first. If he took them to a location he thought was secure and did his work
there. Landau could learn a great deal before dropping on them like the
wrath of God.
And if he could take Jamal alive, then he could pry open, eventually,
whatever horror was born in Samarra. Crush it.
"When does the next Concorde leave for Washington?"
"Sir?"

"The next Concorde."
124 J. PATRICK LAW

The head of station was a humane man. It took him a moment to
catch on.
"It leaves Charles de Gaulle in two hours."
"Make sure I have a seat."
"Shall I call Washington and arrange for cover?" the chief of station
said forcefully.
Landau was aware that heads had turned. "No. No protective cover.
Tell Washington to have a car waiting for me."
For a moment. Landau thought that the chief of station would argue--
or even take a swing at him. In his shoes. Landau would have wanted to
do that.
But the impulse passed. The head of station gave the commo officers
their orders, then gave Landau his back.
-LJeven

B

enny! did I mention that Rachel called to say she couldn't make
it?"

Rose Poltarek's mezzo soprano carried all the way up from the kitchen
to Ben's room.
Ben poked his head out in the corridor and hollered back, "Yeah, Ma!
You told me--three times."
It was as if she hadn't heard him. "Come down, for heaven's sake. The
soup is getting cold."
Ben finger-combed his wet hair, then stuffed his shirt into his jeans.
Rachel. Her name drew his eyes to the two little jeweler's boxes on the
dresser. Ben opened the wrong one, saw the Magen David. He glanced
at the picture of Samuel.
"Be seeing you soon, kid," he whispered.
The table was set for three, Sid Pokarek pouring the wine.
Rose, holding a soup tureen in her plump arms, bustled through the
swinging door to the kitchen, pausing just long enough for Ben to give
her a peck on the cheek.
"Love your 'do.'l" Ben said, raising his eyebrows at the platinum-colored
curls that erupted from Rose's scalp. She could have been Little Orphan
Annie's mother.
Rose primped. "Really? The girls say it's me."
"It's you, it's me, let's eat," Sid Pokarek grumbled.
126 ]. PATRICK LAW

Over dinner. Rose peppered her men with questions about Paris. Ben
found it odd that he ended up fielding most of them; his father was the
raconteur in the family.
"Sid? Something wrong?"
Nothing ever got by Rose.
Poltarek speared a kishka and helped himself to gravy, "jet lag."
Rose glanced at Ben with a raised eyebrow.
Mother and son carried on a lively discussion all the way through
dessert. Ben loved sparring with her. Rose had been an economics professor
at Georgetown and a consultant to the governors of the Federal
Reserve. She knew Washington cold, had been--and still was--courted
by some of the capital's most powerful figures. Information is power, and
Rose Poltarek had thirty years' worth of facts, background, and gossip to
mine.
"I'm going to catch up on the mail," Sid announced.
"Fine," Rose told him. "But only one cognac. I want you to get a good
night's sleep so that you can enjoy the opera tomorrow."
"As if such a thing is humanly possible," he mumbled, retreating to his
study.
"What about you, Benny?"
"Going out."
Rose nodded knowingly. "Take your jacket. The nice brown leather
one. It's still cold at nights. And give Rachel a hug for me."
Grabbing his jacket, Ben stole a glance at the velvet box on the
dresser. The ring. Yes? No?
He shook his head. Wrong time. Wrong place.
The perfect moment would suggest itself, probably when he least expected
it.

* * «

Ben Poltarek was not the only one with an appointment to keep that
evening.
El-Banna had arrived on the New York-Washington shuttle several
hours before the Pokareks. Now he was settled in a fine room at the Ritz
Carlton in Tysons Corner, halfway between Duties Airport and the city,
waiting.
El-Banna had gone directly to his room and unpacked his laptop comf- THE ASSISTANT 127

puter. As expected, he had e-mail. But the message from Hafez Jamal in
Paris was not one he'd anticipated.
Jamal wrote that he'd had a lengthy dialogue with M.M. El-Banna
snorted. He could imagine exactly the kind of "dialogue" Jamal had induced
from Mustafa Manshur.
It appeared that Manshur had passed the information regarding the
Samarra raid to an American lawyer, Sidney Pokarek. Poltarek, accompanied
by his son, had been in Paris on business. Manshur used this and
other visits to feed American intelligence.
But Manshur had been duped. Poltarek was working not for the Americans
but for the Israelis.
So that's how they had known where to strike, el-Banna thought. He
was familiar with Mossad's use of Jews around the world. Clearly, this
Poltarek was a sayan. His son, too, probably.
The introduction of Poltarek had caused a complication, Jamal continued.
Minor, but one that had to be dealt with.
Clearly, Poltarek had passed along Manshur's information on the
Samarra raid to the Israelis. But Poltarek had no reason to believe that his
actions might have had unintended consequences for Manshur. If
Poltarek did not already know, he would soon learn of Manshur's death--
and that it had not been from natural causes. This would prompt
Poltarek to contact his Israeli handlers to obtain details. But Poltarek
might have another motive. He might have other information from Manshur
that he hadn't passed along, things that Manshur might have mentioned
about Jamal.
Another possibility was that when the Israelis heard about Manshur's
demise, they might want to have a long, quiet chat with Poltarek to see
what else besides Samarra he and Manshur had talked about.
Either way, Poltarek--as well as those he might confide in, such as his
wife and his son--was a liability if not an outright threat.
Jamal's e-mail closed on the note that el-Banna was extremely successful
when it came to eliminating such threats.
El-Banna smiled at the compliment. However, there was a problem.
His job in the United States was to pave the way for Manar to reach her
target. In order to do that, he was obliged to establish and maintain a discreet
profile. Going after Poltarek ran against the grain.
El-Banna e-mailed back, acknowledging receipt of the message. Then
128 J. PATRICK LAW

he called an Arab bakery in Bethesda and placed an order with the proprietor.

While waiting for delivery, el-Banna found the Poltareks' home and
business addresses in the directory. The work number was listed, but not
the one for the house. No matter.
The Internet is a wonderful tool for one who is curious about the comings
and goings of people in the public eye, which, as el-Banna soon discovered,
the Poltareks were. Husband and wife were active in charity
circles--for both Jewish and non-Jewish causes. Their names appeared
regularly in society and business columns. There was even a small piece
about the son, who was an amateur magician.
El-Banna found that tidbit useless, but there were others. Particularly
about Rose Poltarek's love affair with the opera. She was on the Kennedy
Center committee. There was a gala scheduled for tomorrow night. The
work to be performed was La Boheme, with Freni and Pavarotti, and
Zubin Mehta conducting.
Pokarek had bought a table for the reception afterward. Twelve chairs,
two thousand apiece. Such largesse would guarantee the Poltareks' presence.

El-Banna turned off the computer. For the next hour, he made handwritten
notes on hotel stationery. The plan unfolded with startling clarity.
It had all the necessary elements: simplicity, surprise, speed, and certainty. El-Banna reviewed it thoroughly, playing devil's advocate, but
found no flaws.
When the doorbell sounded, he gathered up his notes and the top
three blank sheets on the pad, tore them up, and flushed them down the
toilet.
El-Banna's guests were two well-dressed men who were often mistaken
for Arab diplomats or businessmen. In fact, they were trusted longtime
associates of el-Banna and Hafez Jamal. By day, they oversaw a
chain of coin-operated laundromats in Baltimore; at night they went
home to their families. On April 15, they paid their taxes.
But on very special occasions, their mundane lives became a little different.
Graduates of el-Banna's school for assassins, they quietly maintained
their skills, never losing their edge, knowing that one day these
talents would be called for.
When they looked into el-Banna's eyes, they realized that such a day
was at hand.
THE ASSISTANT 129

In Washington, Landau, too, was tending to business. Before leaving
the Paris embassy, he had closeted himself in the communications chamber.
Now, the call he had made was bearing fruit over drinks with an elegant
woman at the Four Seasons hotel in Georgetown.
FBI Special Agent Kaelin Recce was in her late thirties, slender, with
hair the color of blond jarrah wood and eyes as gray as the arctic mist. She
had spent fifteen years in the field before voluntarily switching to the Bureau's
administrative side. Currently, she was the number-two person in
the FBI's antiterrorism division.
If Landau had to meet people in public, the Four Seasons cocktail
lounge--a large atrium, really--was the best venue. The tables were
spaced well apart, side-by-side seating on the banquettes allowed a discreet
sweep of the room every now and again.
"It's nice to know you still remember to take a girl out for a drink,"
Reece said. Her voice carried a slight smoker's rasp.
"You were at the top of my list," Landau replied gallantly. "After all,
it's been a while."
"You mean nearly two years."
Landau offered up his most dazzling smile. "I am contrite."
Reece sighed. Landau was a character. Slippery, dangerous, but a character.
And he had taste: the champagne was a rare Louis Roderer. In
terms of information, he gave as good as he got. Reece wondered if that
was true of him in bed.
"You mentioned that this concerns our friend, Jamal," she said.
Landau always couched his intentions in an angel's-hair nest of lies.
"Yes. We're interested in him, given what happened at Samarra."
He knew that Reece had almost as much information on Samarra as he
had. He would dole out additional tidbits as required.
"Your people screwed that one up royally," Reece observed.
"Please, don't spare me. Tell me exactly how you feel."
"For heaven's sake. Landau. You went after a rat with a sledgehammer
and took out a good guy." She noted his arched eyebrows. "Okay, not exactly
a saint, but someone you were at least talking to."
"From the world reaction, you'd think we'd burned Gandhi at the
stake."
"Enough. What's he done? Why are you on his ass?"
130 J. PATRICK LAW

"You don't know?"
"Let me guess: Paris, about sixteen hours ago, one Mustafa Manshur
takes a header out his window. You think Jamal was in on it."
The first of the lies appeared now, delicate and soundless, like a string
of ballerinas gliding along the stage.

"The French seem to think so. They called us."
Recce frowned. She hadn't heard that particular take. But it made
sense: The French toadied up to the Arabs every chance they got. Pissing
them off was bad for business. Better to hand the mess to the Israelis
and tell them to settle it somewhere far, far away.
"And your take is ...?"
"That Jamal and Manshur were in business together." A pause for effect.
"That this business may have brought him over here."
"Recently"
"Very."
Recce stole a glance at the sealed manila envelope on the banquette
beside her. Not yet.

"Any thoughts as to why?"
"Nothing we can put our finger on yet."
"Nothing that would be of interest to us?"
Landau feigned hurt. "I have never withheld anything like that from
you, Kaelin."
That was true--and it was the only reason why she now placed the envelope
on the table.
"Immigration control photos for the last twelve hours, covering JFK,
Dulles, Boston, Chicago, Atlanta, and, on the off chance, LAX. I didn't
see Jamal in there, but like all of us, he's getting older, maybe had a nip-
and-tuck. You'd know better than I would."
"About nip-and-tucks? I don't think so, Kaelin."
"Oh, piss off." Suddenly, her eyes went cold. "Listen to me. If you
spot something in those pictures, I expect you to share. I heard Jamal's
graveside speech like everybody else, except I tend to think more the
way you do."
"And how is that, Kaelin?"
"This son of a bitch is no Issim Hassan. He's not going to change his
spots. I don't think it'd be a loss to humanity if he fell off the edge of the
universe."
THE ASSISTANT 131

"Kaelin, Kaclin. Policy-making is for politicians--"
"Save it for the virgins. Landau. Policy is what gets done after the likes
of you and me have finished." She raised her flute, and Landau thought
that her voice was almost as sad as her eyes. "Shalom, Landau."
When Landau returned to his room, three men were waiting inside.
He was not surprised, merely annoyed that they had raided his minibar.
"Don't they serve dinner on planes anymore?"
Yossi Tarnofsky spoke through a mouthful of peanuts. "Only an hour
and ten minutes from Ottawa. The Canadians have switched to crackers."

Landau embraced each man in turn. In the Institute, the agents were
referred to as Landau's boys and girls. He might send them into harm's
way, demand sacrifices or even their lives. But not for a second would he
hesitate to walk alongside them on the same road.
Tarnofsky and the other two agents, Bernstein and Rothman, slouched
against the walls. Landau put on some jazz for background.
"No trouble coming in?"
The three men shook their heads.
Organizing a Sayret Metcal operation that relied on a three-man tactical
team was difficult even with sufficient lead time. In this case. Landau
had to have the unit on site and ready to move by the time he arrived in
the American capital. Using embassy security personnel was out of the
question. Landau was under no illusion as to the fallout that would ensue
if the Americans, who monitored Israeli movements in the capital,
caught wind of a developing operation.
The only solution lay in raiding the talent in the Israeli embassy in Ottawa.
A few years ago. Landau had deliberately overstaffed his Canadian
contingent for just such an eventuality. His men had the best credentials--partners
in a high-tech firm that did a lot of work with a company
in Virginia. The free trade between Canada and the United States made
the infiltration virtually risk-free.
"Who's the target?" Tarnofsky asked quietly.
Landau passed around photographs and bios of the Poltareks.

"They are sayanim."
Landau had no idea that with these three words he had committed a
terrible error. Nothing in the way they rolled off his tongue alerted him.
Later, as he gazed upon the wreckage, he would try to remember if he
132 ]. PATRICK LAW

had been a little overtired, too anxious to get to the meat of the briefing.

"We think that Hafez Jamal has taken a special interest in them," he
finished.
The mention of Jamal's name hardened the faces of the men listening.
The terrorist had the blood of their comrades on his hands.
Nor did they flinch when Landau described how the Pokareks were to
be used as bait. Morality held no sway here, not if it meant that Hafez
]amal might be taken.
"I'm not sure that Jamal is in the country," Landau continued. He
ripped open the envelope that Kaelin Recce had given him, spilling
black and white 8x1 Os across the bed. "Maybe these will tell us."
Ten minutes later, one of the pictures did.
"El-Banna," Bernstein said in a monotone. "Jamal's prize calf."
The four men stared at the overhead shot of a chic young man with a
ponyiail presenting his passport at the immigration counter.
"The Americans didn't pick up on this?" Rothman demanded.
"They weren't looking for el-Banna." Landau looked at his men.
"And there's no reason to educate them."
The agents nodded. El-Banna's presence in the United States meant
that Jamal was definitely running an operation. If the Israelis shared this
information without knowing the details, the Americans wouldn't wait.
They'd run el-Banna to ground, then let his lawyer cloak him in his constitutional
rights. El-Banna would remain silent until the FBI ran out of
patience or a judge ordered his deportation. Nothing would have been
learned, and Jamal's operation would remain on track.
"However," Landau said softly, "if you were to pluck el-Banna before
he gets near the Pokareks, you might induce him to discuss his current
business. He might even care to share his thoughts on Jamal's role and
whereabouts."
"Do we care about el-Banna?" This was Tarnofsky's way of politely |
asking if, after the interrogation. Landau wanted to haul the assassin's
carcass to Tel Aviv.
"I doubt that even his mother cares about him," Landau replied flatly.
"The Pokareks," Rothman said. "Who is el-Banna most likely to target?"

Landau tossed him another tin of cashews and made stiff drinks for ev-
THE ASSISTANT 135

eryone. The glasses were drained by the time he recounted the events in
Paris, the murder ofMustafa Manshur and the Paris katsa, Jacobsen.
"Sidney Poltarek," Landau said. "He was Manshur's go-between.
He's the one el-Banna will focus on."
"Do we have details on his movements, habits, that kind of thing?"
Tarnofsky asked.
Landau passed him the sayanim register's file on Sid Poltarek that he'd
been handed via the Paris embassy just prior to boarding the Concorde.
"Read."

» * *

The nurse at the admitting desk at the Children's National Medical
Center looked up and waved at Ben as he came through the doors.
"Long time no see, Ben. Still doing the show for the kids tomorrow
night?"
"You bet."
The nurse smiled flirtatiously. "Know where to go?"
"By heart."
Her laughter followed him down the halls, empty now that visiting
hours were over and the children had been put to bed.
Ben passed the physicians' lounge, where a trio of doctors in surgical
greens sat drinking coffee. A fourth doctor was immersed in the bulldog
edition of the Washington Post.
Beyond the lounge were the supply closets, then the changing rooms.
One of the doors was marked with a lightning emblem, indicating that it
was the electrical room. Ben tested the handle, then went inside.
The smell of antiseptic and floor wax was replaced by spice--cinnamon--from
a pair of candles on the narrow shelf above the single bed.
Ben was still getting his eyes accustomed to the dim light when a pair of
arms snaked around his chest, nimble ringers working quickly to unzip
his jacket.
"You're wearing way too many clothes, Mr. Poltarek," a husky voice
whispered.
Ben felt warm breath on his ear. His head was filled with cloying perfume.
His breath came in gasps as clothing fell to the floor
"No. Don't turn around. Not yet."
Ben felt her breasts push against his back, her nipples already aroused.
.TRICK LAW
I S4 J . ,1, »c hair teasing him as she reached

Her thigh slipP^ between hls' her P.^d and fondled him.
around and took him in her hand, care ^^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Slowly, so she wouldn't let him go, ^ ^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^^
eyes, buried his fingers in the masses^^ squeezing, making her
with his. His hands trailed over her go ^^

whimper and gasp until she led him to ^

"I love you, Ben." ,;
"I love you, too, Rachel." ^ her taut stomach, down the in.
His lips slipped over her breasts, a ^ ^^ ^ ^^ ^
sides of her thighs and then back up ^ ^^ ^ himself in the roa

raised her slightly so that he could ta&
that filled his head. ^ at his hair and understood wiM
After an eternity, he felt her tug n ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^^
she wanted. Rachel's legs partedI to ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^
guided him into her, and with a sharp ^ ^ ^ ^^ whispering hi

tightening herself around him, ro^

name to the universe.
* * * .;
,th in Paris." rf
"So, Poltarek. Who'd you sleep ^ ^^ ^^ ^ ^^ ^ ^

Rachel finished hitching up her V1"-'

hands on her hips. „
"Excuse me? ^ things to me you've never dfi

"You heard me the first time. 10 ^

before."
That's so bad? ^ him hard. "Nope."
Rachel leaned forward and kiss ^ ^ ^ming emblem tacked on
On the way out, Rachel "-"^^lem at its designated place beh
door by a Velcro strip. She lett the ^ someone else was sure to
the nurses' station. The night wa-«
the do not disturb signal. ^ p^ ^ ^ey walked down the I
Rachel slipped her arm throug ^ half-moon swirls wherea way. The overhead lights brought

polisher had buffed the tiles. ^ tomorrow?"
"Are you still coming to do At. ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ „
"Absolutely." He paused. M ^^ hide anything from he
She looked at him curiously; r>
THE ASS1S TAKI 1 uj

"A special occasion?"
He reddened. "Maybe."
Rachel laughed. "I'll check my rounds, let you know. Okay?"
They held the kiss even after the elevator doors opened.
"Drive carefully. It's supposed to start raining."
"I'll call you tomorrow."
Ben slumped against the wall of the car, slightly giddy, happily exhausted.
The image of the ring on Rachel's finger burned in his mind.
The admissions area was still quiet. Ben raised his hand to wave goodbye
to the duty nurse when a faint voice got his attention.
Opposite the admissions desk was a reception area with a dozen soft
chairs, coffee tables with magazines, and a wall-mounted television.
Without fully understanding why, Ben was drawn to it. The CNN announcer's
drone became more distinct.
". . . Paris earlier this afternoon, a Lebanese-born scientist. Dr.
Mustafa Manshur, was killed after falling three stories from his apartment
window."
The monitor showed a split screen: the chaotic scene in a Paris street
and a passport-style photograph of the victim.
"Shit, no!"
The man on the screen was the one Ben had watched his father talk to
at the Gare Momparnasse. Ben would swear to it.
"Everything okay, sweetie?" the duty nurse called out.
"Sure. Fine."
According to the announcer, the police were treating it as a robbery
gone bad. The body of another man, presumed to be the assailant, had
been found inside Manshur's apartment.
The station went to a commercial.
Ben felt the nurse's eyes on the back of his neck. He forced himself to
smile as he passed the admitting desk. Outside, he moved off to the side,
away from the light.
Coincidence? It can't be!
Was it really the same man who'd been talking with his father? Absolutely.

Ben had always had a good memory. His training as a magician had
honed it to an excellent one. No question that the man at the train station
and the one on the screen were one and the same.
13t» J. PATRHCK LAW

Does Pop know?
Ben dug into his pocket for his car keys. A cold wind had come up,
pushing heavy clouds ahead of it. Rain was on the way. After starting the
engine, Ben fiddled with the heater.
He drove carefully through the traffic on Michigan Avenue, skirted
the McMillan Reservoir, and made a left on Seventh Street. It wasn't
until the traffic thinned that he noticed the big sport utility vehicle two
cars behind him.
The same one he'd seen out of the corner of his eye as he'd left the
hospital? Ben cursed softly; he should have kept his mind on driving instead
of on the image of the dead man in Paris. It might be the same one,
distinctive because of the rack of roof-mounted floodlights.
Ben turned into the right-hand lane. The truck followed suit.
Ben slowed until he came to the next corner, then made a hard left and
goosed the accelerator. He was halfway down the block before his
rearview mirror exploded with light, momentarily blinding him.
Instinctively, Ben hit the brakes, the rear end of his car drifting left.
Now the lights from the SUV filled the interior. Even with the windows
up, he heard the roar of a custom-tuned engine.
Ben wrenched the wheel to the right, but that sent him into a spin.
Now his car was facing the truck as it bore down on him. Ben threw himself
across the center console and got his feet out of the well. The shriek
of metal shearing metal filled his head. Something snapped, like a rotten
tree limb, and clattered away into the night. A rush of air like that created
by a locomotive rocked the chassis of his car.
Cautiously, Ben raised himself up. The truck was gone, so was one of
his side mirrors, and he was pointed in the wrong direction. Traffic crept
by him, people staring at him through rolled-up windows, mouthing obscenities
he couldn't hear. He got back behind the wheel and pulled into
a handicap parking space.
Slumped over the wheel, a single word reverberated in his mind: carjacking.
He'd heard about it on the news, read about it in the paper, but
had never come close to appreciating the terror it could bring on. It made
sense: The fancy truck--probably stolen--the "follow home" tactic. If
he hadn't spotted the truck, its occupants might have trailed him all the
way to the condo building.
Ben took a deep breath and started the engine. This time he drove
quickly, constantly checking the rearview mirror.
THE ASSISTANT 137

The doorman whistled at the damage. Ben told him he'd been
sideswiped in the hospital parking lot.
The apartment was silent when he entered. Even his father's study
S was dark.
; Tomorrow, he thought wearily. He would ask him about Manshur to|
morrow

L

1 welve

W HERE'S pop?"
Ben entered the country-style kitchen and kissed his mother
on the cheek.
Rose Poltarek, wardrobe and accessories by Chanel, glanced up from
the Wall Street Journal.
"Not even a 'good morning'?"
"Good morning. Where is he?"
"He left early. Breakfast with a client."
Ben poured himself some grapefruit juice and tried to think who the
client might be. His father had cleared the rest of this week, thinking he
wouldn't be back from Paris until the weekend.
"Where are you headed?" he asked.
"Alan wants to have a chat."
Alan was Alan Hirsh, the current chairman of the Federal Reserve.
"Tell him for me that interest rates are too high."
Rose looked at him slyly. "You might want to think of refinancing in
the next month or two."
They left the apartment together. Fortunately, Rose's car was brought
up first, so she didn't see the damage to Ben's vehicle.
Looking at the ugly scrapes along the driver's door, Ben was angry
with himself that he hadn't been quick enough to get the truck's plate
number.
THE ASSISTANT 139

The offices ofPoltarek & Associates were located on C Street near the
tip of the Federal Triangle. Mary, who'd been with Sid Poltarek for
twenty years and ran the business with Teutonic efficiency, hugged Ben
as he stepped out of the elevator.
"Welcome home, honey."
Mary was a full-figured. Earth Mother type, a dervish propelled by
good cheer. She was the closest thing to an aunt that Ben had.
Ben slipped her a flagon of perfume he'd picked up at Duty Free.
"Ooh! This'll make Steve crazy! You're a doll."
"Do we have the International Herald Tribune somewhere?" Ben asked.
"On Sid's desk."
"Speaking of Sid, where did he go this morning?"
"The Martel brothers heard he was coming back early. They were all
over me to shoehorn them in. Something about pending antitrust legislation.
They're talking about it over at the Hay-Adams Hotel."
Ben stopped by his father's office and plucked the Herald Tribune off
the top of an array of newspapers and journals. Settled behind his desk,
he switched on CNN, then began going through the paper.
There it was, on page 4, complete with a picture ofManshur's building.
Ben paused from his reading as the news cycle came on, but there
was nothing about the murder in Paris.
The Herald Tribune was long on speculation, short on facts. The police
had no clear evidence or any eyewitnesses to substantiate that Mustafa
Manshur had been murdered by the dead man, still unidentified, who'd
been found in the apartment. Manshur's wife, resting in a Paris hospital,
had not been able to provide any explanation. The physicist's colleagues
at the Sorbonne weren't aware that Manshur might have had enemies.
A physicist.
What the hell had Sid been doing, skulking around a train station with
a physicist?
Ben mentally ran down the list of his father's friends and acquaintances
around the world. It was a long one and he went through it twice
to make sure he hadn't missed anyone. The name Mustafa Manshur did
not resonate.
Which didn't necessarily mean anything. Given Sid's penchant for discretion,
Ben reckoned there were a lot of characters whose names had
never been mentioned--especially if they worked for governments.
Here was another tack: Manshur had been an academic. Governments
140 J. PATRICK LAW

and private industry often recruited from colleges or had professors on
their payroll, sometimes on a sub rosa basis. If Manshur had been involved
in combined college and industry research, or had been moonlighting,
the French media hadn't made the connection.
Ben tossed aside the newspaper and killed the picture on the monitor.
The connection between his father and the dead man continued to nettle
him, but the stacks of files on his desk beckoned. He had been away
too long.

* *

The morning after he had activated his tactical incursion team. Landau
walked in unannounced and took over the Israeli embassy.
The only warning the officials had was a frantic radio transmission
from the two plainclothes security men who patrolled the sidewalk in
front of the tan brick bunkerlike structure on International Drive.
Ambassadors in the service of Israel knew about Landau's unbending
principle: He did not go to Canossa, a reference to the Italian castle
where Henry IV of the Holy Roman Empire, dressed like a peasant, had
prostrated himself at the feet of Pope Gregory VII in 1077. Meaning he
bowed to no one. When Landau came to an embassy, everyone, from the
ambassador to the janitor, answered to him. The few diplomats who insisted
on querying Landau's presence learned the error of their ways.
The ambassador to Washington was an old hand. He greeted Landau
politely, then left for a meeting at the State Department. Landau proceeded
to commandeer the secure room in the subbasement and had
the katsa bring him three of his best people: a bodel, the courier who
runs messages between the embassy and the Institute's safe houses; a
marats, an expert in languages and dialects; and a communications specialist.

After the three were assembled, the secure room was deemed off-limits.
The communications officer made contact with Landau's hunters in
the field. The marats was standing by to translate or explain any unusual
dialogue the incursion team might come across. The bodel waited in the
wings in case Landau needed to get information or materiel to the team's
safe house.
The house was the best of the Institute's Washington real estate--a
nineteenth-century cottage built offieldstone and timber, in Dent Place,
between Wisconsin Avenue and the Georgetown University campus. Its
THE ASSISTANT l4l

thick walls had been padded with soundproofing material. Inside was a
small but well-equipped medical dispensary, two bedrooms for nonofficial
visitors such as the incursion team, a sophisticated communications
station, and the requisite safe room that doubled as an interrogation
chamber.
The whole cottage was riddled with "slicks"--hiding spots, easy to
reach but hard to spot, where weapons were stored.
"What are the unit members' designations, sir?" the commo officer
asked.
Landau ignited a cigar. "Larry, Moe, and Curly."
There were discreet smiles all around. Landau was said to have a fondness
for slapstick, although this had never actually been verified.
The commo officer sent out his digitally scrambled bursts. The replies
came back instantly.
"The blanket has been secured, sir," he reported.
Landau examined the plume of his cigar smoke. "Now we wait. Anyone
for gin rummy?"
No one dared to refuse even though it was well known that Landau
was a ferocious cheat.

* » »

At noon, Ben put a call into the Hay-Adams. The switchboard operator
informed him that there was a call block to the Manels' suite. Ben
dug their private number out of the files. The secretary who answered
told him that the brothers and Sid Poltarek were in conference and could
not be disturbed for anything short of a genuine emergency.
Ben had had it with the runaround. He'd talk to Sid tonight, before he
and Rose went to the opera.
The first raindrops spattered against the windowpanes. Ben looked at
the files strewn across his desk and asked Mary to call the deli for a tuna
fish on wheat. The rain would create a traffic nightmare. By working
through lunch, he'd be able to leave early. His performance suit was still
at the cleaner's, and he had to make a stop at Wanda's Withcraft and
Magic Shoppe on Vermont Avenue to pick up a cake baking pan.

* * *

Samir el-Banna welcomed the rain. It made people keep their heads
down, mind their own business. It was harder to identify faces and fea-

l42 J. PATRiCK LAW

tures, vehicle tags and models. El-Banna smiled as the dark clouds lined
up on the horizon, comforted by the camouflage and anonymity the rain
would bring him.
It was half past five in the afternoon and he was sitting in one of the
public rooms at the Hay-Adams, with a view of the elevators. The area
had a direct line of sight to the concierge's desk. Not that this mattered
to the assassin. El-Bannas wardrobe consisted of a beautiful, handcrafted
Zegna suit finished off by a Rolex and Gucci loafers. For a prop,
he had a slim black leather briefcase with brass trim.
The sitting area was serviced by the staff who worked in the lounge.
El-Banna had ordered an aged bourbon from a fetching waitress who
turned just so to display a formidable cleavage as she placed his drink on
the table.
El-Banna flirted with her, spoke knowledgeably of the flower business,
and hinted that if the rain canceled his shoot, he might return to the
hotel when she finished her shift.
Satisfied that the waitress's gossip would soon reach the concierge--
and, via him, hotel security--el-Banna enjoyed his drink. There was no
reason not to, since Pokarek had not left the seventh-floor suite he'd entered
early that morning. El-Banna knew this because there was a mi-
crotransmitter in the handle of the fruit basket that had been delivered
to the suite, allegedly compliments of the manager. Across the street, in
a small van parked by Lafayette Park, one ofel-Banna's associates monitored
and recorded the conversation. Had Pokarek been preparing to
leave, el-Banna would have been on him like a cheetah on a peccary.
The pager in his pocket vibrated against his thigh. Pokarek was moving.
|
El-Banna finished his drink, then went to the pay phones at the en|
trance to the men's room. 4
"The wife?" j
"On the other side of the city," the second killer responded. "She is
home. The dry cleaner delivered an evening gown."
El-Banna told him what to do next, then returned to the foyer in ting
to fall in step with Pokarek, who'd just exited the elevator. He watcher
.'^M
the lawyer step into a cab and was close enough to hear the address
gave to the driver.

Unexpectedly, Pokarek was going back to his office.

* * *
THE ASSISTANT 143

Landau's tactical incursion team had picked up Poltarek when he'd
left his condo that morning. They'd followed him to his office and had
just settled down to wait when they saw him reemerge and hail a cab.
There was a terse exchange between Yossi Tarnofsky and Landau until
it became clear that Poltarek's destination was the Hay-Adams.
Landau called Poltarek's office, identified himself as a court clerk, and
learned that the attorney would be out for the rest of the day--at the
Hay-Adams. Landau passed this information to Tarnofsky, who proceeded
to set up surveillance.
The Israeli embassy has a number of vehicles in its garage, all of them
with interesting modifications. The black Lincoln Town Cars driven by
each member of the team were heavily armored, equipped with radio
scramblers and assault weapons. The markings on their bumpers indicated
that they belonged to a livery fleet.
Tarnofsky, Bernstein, and Rothman were dressed in dark, conservatively
cut suits. Completing their chauffeurs' uniforms were visored
caps. They had parked their cars in the street in front of the hotel. In a
city filled with limousines, they drew no attention from the hotel's doormen
and valets or the police who regularly cruised the area.
However, in spite of the team's vigilence, two mistakes had already occurred.

The team did not realize that one ofel-Banna's killers--the one who
had delivered the fruit basket--had already been in the hotel and left.
Because el-Banna was reputed to be a solo player, the possibility that he
might have backup was not considered. Even if the team had been on
the lookout for an accomplice, they had never been shown, a picture of
the terrorist who'd entered the hotel.
The second mistake related to el-Banna himself. The team's primary
responsibility was not to protect Poltarek but to shadow him. The team
knew there were other entrances to the hotel, but they couldn't cover all
of them continuously without drawing suspicion. Luck was running
against them: El-Banna had been able to slip in undetected through a
side street door. The first glimpse the team had of him was when he
emerged through the front doors, a few steps behind Poltarek.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Tarnofsky stepped over to his car. His armed snaked
through the open window and grabbed the radio mike.
A few feet away, Rothman watched the terrorist close in on the lawyer.
"He can kill him right now."
144 J. PATRICK LAW

Tarnofsky had the mike in his hand when Bernstein touched his
shoulder. "No, he won't. El-Banna doesn't like close-in work. He favors
the long gun. He'll follow."
Tarnofsky counted off the seconds. "Bamch hashem!" he whispered,
watching Poltarek get into the cab.
"We can take him now," Rothstein said.

"That would make Landau very happy."
Tarnofsky's call interrupted what would have been another winning
hand for Landau. All thoughts of the game vanished as he listened to
Tarnofsky.
"Everyone stays with el-Banna," Landau said. "If you get a clear shot,
bag him."
And this was the second error, strung like a bead along the string of
failure.
Landau was thinking this way: The safety of Poltarek and the successful
abduction of el-Banna were mutually inclusive considerations. As
long as the team had the assassin in their sights--or better yet, in one of
their trunks--Poltarek was safe. There was no need to further concern
himself about the lawyer.
But what Landau didn't know--because his team had not picked up
on it--was that el-Banna had his own protection. Fifty feet from the
Hay-Adams's valet station, a big sport utility vehicle with a rack of
rooftop lights idled at the curb. Through the metronomelike swish of
windshield wipers, two men watched the black Town Cars swing intd<
traffic after the taxi carrying el-Banna.

* * *

Sid Poltarek entered his office just as Mary was closing up for the daysa
"How did it go?" I
Poltarek waggled his fingers. "So-so. With the Martels, it's always tht|
same. They wait until they get their schwantz in a ringer, then scream fol
help." I
"Your black tie is in the closet. Rose called, said she'll take a taxi to th<
Kennedy Center. And Ben's been looking for you." t
Poltarek stared glumly at the rain sluicing down the windows. "Wh|
can't I just go home, have a nice dinner, make a fire...."
THE ASSISTANT 145

"Don't be such a schlemiel," Mary said.
Poltarek never failed to be amazed by Mary's command of Yiddish.
"When's curtain time?"
"Eight sharp." She handed him the tickets and pointed to the door.
"Give yourself plenty ofritte to get there."
"Thank you, thank you," Poltarek muttered. "What about you?"
Mary shot him a wicked grin. "Steve's taking me to see Showboat"
"Sure you don't want to trade?" Poltarek sighed. "I'll even throw in
dinner."

* * *

"El-Banna is not going after Poltarek," Tarnofsky said into the radio
mike. "At least not now."
Landau's voice crackled through the tiny speaker. "Where is he
headed?"
"Just turned onto Virginia."
"That would take him straight to the Watergate Hotel or the Kennedy
Center," Landau said.
"Do you think--?"
"That he knows the Poltareks will be at the Kennedy Center
tonight?" Landau finished. "Of course."
"How?
"Maybe you can persuade him to share that with you when you have
your little talk."
Tarnofsky was two cars behind el-Banna's cab. Rothman was up
ahead, in another lane. Bernstein found himself right next to the taxi.
"The son of a bitch just looked at me," he reported. "Cold, like a
snake."

"Keep him boxed in," Tarnofsky said.
El-Banna's cab dropped him off under the portico of the Watergate
Hotel. But instead of heading inside, the terrorist unfurled an umbrella
and began walking in the direction of the Kennedy Center. The driving
rain made him appear nothing more than a gray shadow.
"Where's he going?" Rothman asked as the three Town Cars crawled
through the downpour toward the loading-dock ramp, reserved for transport
trucks that ferry in the huge, prefabricated sets.
146 J. PATRJCK LAW

"He has a roost all set up," Tarnofsky said. "If he gets inside, we might
lose him. Bernstein, you stay with the cars. Make sure your engine is running.
We'll be coming out fast."

* *

Samir el-Banna had figured out exactly how he was going to kill the
Poltareks and the method had nothing to do with his formidable skills
with a rifle.
El-Banna entered the Kennedy Center complex through the doors
leading to the Hall of States. He closed his umbrella and strolled past
the elevators where couples in evening dress waited to be whisked up
to the Roof Terrace Restaurant or the Curtain Call Cafe for pretheater
dining.
He took an escalator down to the sublevel, walked past the gift shop,
then stepped on another escalator that carried him to the Hall of Nations.
From there, he went outside and, standing under the protruding roof,
checked the swirl of roads and highways that spun off the E Street Expressway.

He studied the traffic flow for a few minutes, then walked the length
of the Center until he could see the Watergate complex across the street.
Special-event parking was available at either the Columbia Plaza garage
on Virginia Avenue or at the Watergate. The Poltareks were sure to meet
at the Watergate. El-Banna had taken the time to check Poltarek's car. In
the bottom left corner of the jaguar's windshield was an orange Water-
gate parking sticker. ;
Which meant that the Poltareks would have to cross the street between
the Watergate and the Kennedy Center, an artery thai carries traf- |
fie off Rock Creek Parkway, a busy, dangerous intersection. |
El-Banna spent fifteen minutes watching the increasing traffic flow»|
looking for and finding the exact spot where he wanted his men to posi|
tion themselves. Then he pulled out his cell phone and made a brief call»|
giving nothing except coordinates and everyday markers--a trash can, a
flagpole. He spent a little more time describing the crosswalk and exactly
how long the light held up traffic for pedestrians. ^
El-Banna was about to make a second call when a gust of wind sprayer
him with rain, forcing him closer to the white marble walls. He neve|l
heard the splash of footsteps in the puddles behind him. ;
El-Banna's phone dropped from his hand as a hammerlike blow para
THE ASSISTANT 147

lyzed his arm. A second caught him just below the left ear, causing his
knees to crumble. Someone grabbed a fistful of hair and shoved his head
forward. EI-Banna felt a needle prick the back of his neck. Then he went
limp.
Tarnofsky scooped up the phone and jammed it into his pocket. The
syringe disappeared into a plastic tube which also went into his pocket.
Rothman had el-Banna propped up against the wall. Tarnofsky
glanced around. There were no passersby near them. Even if someone
was watching them from a distance, all they'd see were three men trying
to stay out of the rain.
El-Banna's head rolled back against the marble. Tarnofsky gripped it
with one hand; with the other he checked the killer's eyes. They were
glassy, but the pupils were not dilated. The drug, a synthetic paralytic
similar to curare, was working perfectly. Tarnofsky also checked the
pulse at el-Banna's carotid artery and listened to his breathing.
With their arms under el-Banna's, Tarnofsky and Rothstein half-carried
the terrorist down the exterior staircase that led to the tour-buses
pickup and drop-off area. Bernstein saw them coming and skidded forward
thirty feet, the trunk already open. El-Banna went in like a sack of
potatoes and Bernstein sped off.
As Tarnofsky hurried to his own vehicle, he felt exultant. Inside the
car, he waited until his heart stopped racing before reaching for the telephone.
Landau was going to be very pleased.
Even if Tarnofsky hadn't been thinking of Landau, it was unlikely
that he would have noticed the sport utility vehicle trailing him a few
cars back on Virginia Avenue. The rain, the gathering darkness, the
SUV's height, all meant that it could maintain a discreet distance between
itself and the black Lincoln. Which it did, all the way through
Georgetown, up Wisconsin Avenue, and into the warren of streets to
Dent Place.
Th
irteen



t

he ash on landau's cigar glowed like a rocket's afterburner.
"That was Tarnofsky," he announced to his little group. "We
have el-Banna."
Exclamations and congratulations filled the air.
"Will you be conducting the interrogation, sir?" the boael asked.
Landau grimaced. There was nothing he'd like more than to sit down
and have a long chat with Samir el-Banna. But that pleasure would have
to wait. Tarnofsky was an expert interrogator. He would crack open the
terrorist at least as quickly as Landau could.
There was a second consideration: El-Banna's presence in the capital
meant that Hafez Jamal was close by. Tarnofsky had said that el-Banna
had made a call just before he'd been taken. Among other features, el-
Banna's cell phone had a last-number-redial feature. Tarnofsky had said
that the call had gone to the Willard Inter-Conrinental.
Who would el-Banna have been calling at a hotel that was less than
two blocks from the White House?
Hafez Jamal.
And what would Jamal be doing so close to the seat of American
power?
Landau's blood ran cold just flirting with the possibilities.
Landau picked up the phone and spoke to the katsa. He explained
about el-Banna's call.
THE ASSISTANT 14V

"It went to the switchboard, not to a particular room. Get a team over
to the hotel. Make sure each member has seen Jamal's photograph. Send
one man inside to make discreet inquiries, the other two hold back in
cover positions."
"How hard do you want our man to press?"
"Not hard enough to make him memorable. Ifjamal was in the hotel
when the call came in, he's certainly gone by now. More likely the call
was picked up by a cutout."
"And if we do get a specific room for the call?"
"Position your men by the door and tell them to wait for me."
As it turned out. Landau was half-right. Jamal had been at the Willard
Inter-Continental, but not as a guest. El-Banna's call had been routed
into the bar where Jamal was still sitting. The second call had not come
through the switchboard, but directly to his cellular phone. Now Jamal was in the hotel's spacious lobby, watching himself in an enormous gilt-
edged mirror, making sure that his expression remained absolutely neutral.
Given what he had to listen to, it was a difficult feat.
Samir el-Banna, Jamal's best, had been taken. But el-Banna's shadows
had followed the Israelis to their lair. That was something.
If Samir fights the drugs, dwsn 'f talk...
It was a vain hope, because the man who won't talk under torture,
eventually, has yet to be born.
Still, something could be made of this. Jamal had firsthand experience
with Israeli interrogation techniques. If Landau's men stuck to procedure,
it would be a while before they went to work on el-Banna in
earnest.
And why not wait? The Israelis were in a safe house; they believed
they had nothing to fear. El-Banna's two men had been smart not to
hang around in sight of the house once it had been positively identified.

Jamal thought he had some time. He would put it to the best possible
use. The Poltareks still had to die. Jamal was all but certain that the
lawyer had talked to his handler about Manshur. In the Hadar Dafna
Building in Tel Aviv, alarm bells must have sounded when Manshur's
body was found--along with that of the Mossad handler. Landau would
have wanted to know why the killings were necessary. It was logical that
he had turned to Poltarek.
And'made him the goat!'Jamal thought suddenly. Of course. That's how
13U J. PATRICK LAW

Landau would do it--bait a trap and see who came to take a sniff. That's
the way Jamal would have arranged matters.
Were you hoping that I would come? The thought must have been very exciting
to you....
But Jamal had not survived this long because he took foolish chances.
If another man could do the job, why not send him? Pity that it had to be
el-Banna.
El-Banna's accomplice had finished his report. Jamal replied softly in
Arabic, using a code that referred to airline schedules. The connection
was broken.
Jamal looked around at the prosperous, pampered people who crisscrossed
the lobby. Since it was not yet the tourist season, most of them
were Americans. A savage hatred boiled up in his blood. These self-satisfied
fools, who believed they could dictate terms to the rest of the
world, needed to be taught a lesson in humility. Jamal was very glad that
fate had chosen him to be the teacher.
The Americans no longer feared the long-range missiles and bombers
of other nations. It was the single man with a device in a suitcase that
they were terrified of, someone who could plant a nuclear or biological
weapon in the heart of a great city and be three thousand miles away
when the device went off.
Yes, it would be a single man. But not the way the Americans thought.
To destroy a city meant to unleash the kind of revenge the world had
never seen before. The man who committed such an act would be
hunted for the rest of his days. No government would protect him, no
cause or movement would hide him.
But to humiliate America, that was something else. To force her to
change decades-old policies would be better than a thousand victories
on the battlefield. Jamal would do what no other Palestinian or Arab had
yet achieved: he would give birth to a new nation. America, rich,
bloated, would be compelled to act as midwife. And once the knot was
tied, no dagger would ever be able to sever it. The new nation would
endure. America would guarantee its existence and prosperity because
she knew that if she did not, what was about to happen once could happen
again.
"Bigger than Arafat, bigger even than Hassan had he lived ... I shall
be bigger than all of them."
"You say something, sir?"
THE ASSISTANT 151

Jamal's head snapped up. One of the bellboys was standing a few feet
away, his expression uneasy.
"Do you need something, sir? I heard you say--"
Jamal shook his head. "No, thank you."
The young man shrugged and walked off.
Had he said something aloud? Was his vision so powerful that it had
forced its way between his lips? Jamal smiled. In the desert, visions and
talking to the wind were hallmarks of great men confronting and embracing
their destiny.
Jamal would have felt grievously insulted if someone had told him that
these were also manifestations of madness.
In the gathering darkness, Jamal left the elegant hotel, a dollar bill in
his hand for the doorman who would hail him a taxi.
In the north end of the city, Benjamin Poltarek placed his magician's
case on the passenger seat and ducked behind the wheel, on his way to
the Children's National Medical Center.
In the stone cottage in Dent Place, Samir el-Banna, still groggy, heard
a voice say, "He's ready for us now."

* * *

A dim light snapped on. El-Banna squinted at the fieldstone wall,
dark with moisture. Something scurried in the dark corner, tiny claws
scrambling along metal. He shivered and realized how cold he was. A
cellar.. ..
The face of the man standing a few feet away was cast in a hood by the
angle of the light. He wore a short-sleeve shirt. Now el-Banna knew it
was the drugs that made him so cold.
His arms were bound around the back of the chair, his legs fixed by
chains to the chair legs. He tried to pull his wrists apart and felt the plastic
fasteners, the kind airlines use to attach baggage tags. Except these
had razor teeth embedded in the plastic. The harder he pulled, the
tighter the fasteners became, the deeper the razors bit.
El-Banna knew then who had him. He shuddered and almost choked
on his terror. He had killed many Jews and he had sent other men to murder
even more. All his successes had cloaked him in a sense of invincibility,
lulling him into the belief that he was too clever, too ferocious, for
the Israelis even to try to take him.
152 J. PATRICK LAW

Now that they had him, el-Banna was terrified, not so much of what
secrets he would be forced to part with, but by the awful certainty that
the interrogators would take great pleasure in breaking apart his beautiful
face. His only hope was that his men had witnessed his abduction and
had managed to follow the Israelis to this cave. If that were the case, then
Hafez Jamal would have been alerted. Hope stirred in el-Banna as smoke
curls from a bed of leaves.
He never sensed that there was someone behind him. The burlap sack
came down over his head with great force. At the same time, a drawstring
tightened the rough fabric around his neck.
El-Banna screamed until he realized he could still breathe. There
were jagged openings cut into the burlap for his nose and mouth. He realized
too that no one had struck him. That meant his screaming didn't
matter. No one would hear him.
But it was not over yet. Hands fumbled with the zipper on his pants.
El-Banna shrank back in the chair as coarse-skinned fingers curled
around his penis and testicles and pulled them out.
El-Banna heard the unmistakable sound of a knife being unsheathed
and screamed again. He rocked as much as he could, felt his private parts
swinging back and forth.
"Feeling comfortable?" a guttural voice called out. Laughter followed.
"Maybe if you're a good boy, we'll send you a shepherd to suck your
cock." ;i
Something cold and hard struck his penis. For one terrible instant, el- Banna thought it was a blade. The image of his severed manhood, of
blood pouring out of the stump, made him faint.
Later... ^
An hour? Two? El-Banna could not say. When he regained conscious-l
ness, he understood that he was still alive. Maybe his penis hadn't beeal
severed after all. I
' S
El Banna's lips were pricked by the sharp burlap threads as he move^j
them in silent thanks. i|
"Talking to Allah?" The voice could have come from anywhere in thj||
room. "Samir el-Banna. I am addressing you. Are you praying?" ||
"Yes," el-Banna managed, ;||
"Because I have not cut off your dick? And don't lie to me. I will kn(^
it if you do."
The admission made el-Banna nauseated. "Yes. For that.
^
THE ASSISTANT 153

"Good. As long as you tell the truth, you will keep your dick. Does that
sound fair to you? Don't lieF
"Yes ... It is fair."
"Are you thirsty, Samir el-Banna?"

"Yes."
"Drink. No, drink. It is not poison."
Tarnofsky thrust the straw of a plastic sports bottle between the terrorist's
lips. He did so roughly, to make el-Banna believe that this gift was
given grudgingly.
Carrot, stick. Carrot, stick. The principles of interrogation were as old
as the Institute's biblical motto: "By way of deception, thou shalt do
war." Tarnofsky would give his prisoner sweet water in return for something
sweet from him. If used properly, the method was virtually foolproof.
Time was always on the interrogator's side. To the prisoner, it
seemed like an increasingly fast current that he had to keep fighting.
El-Banna was a strong man, physically. But he had never spent time in
Israeli hands, had never even been arrested. He knew captivity in theory,
but not in practice. Plus, his psychological profile indicated a very vain
man.
Tarnofsky believed in time; he believed in profiles. But he was in a
hurry and so placed most of his faith in the two hundred milligrams ofhydrocodone
bitanrate he had dissolved in the sugared water.
In concentrated doses, the drug could drop a robust ox. The way
Tarnofsky had mixed it, the effects would creep up on el-Banna. Little
by little, he would start to feel good about himself, his chances for survival.
He would put this down to his prowess as a warrior. He would feel
very, very "up."

And then he vsill talk, Tarnofsky thought. He won't be able to help himself.
He jerked away the sports bottle, making el-Banna dribble his last
mouthful into the burlap. Now the fabric would chafe even more. Good.
"Do you like white women? Blond, white women?"
El-Banna was surprised to hear himself laugh. The water was refreshing
and tasted perfectly normal, so ice-cold that it was sweet.

"Of course I like white women."
"Good-looking man like you, you must pick them up at hotels all the
"me, hmm?"

"Hotels, sure."
"What about your pals? You share with them?"
154 J. PATRICK LAW

"Scraps. That's all I give them."
The drug was working faster than Tarnofsky had anticipated. He kept
the conversation light until, twenty minutes later, he felt the chemicals
had saturated el-Banna's brain.
"The Willard Hotel, Samir. Is someone you know staying there?"
To his horror, el-Banna heard himself say, "Not anymore. Hafez--"
"Yes, what about Hafez?" Tarnofsky saw el-Banna's lips press together
so tightly that they were white. "Samir. You and Hafez have come such a
long way. Come now, tell me: What is it that brought you to this wonderful
city? Come, Samir, share with me."
Outside, a hard spring shower had turned into a bitter storm, although
there was no way Samir el-Banna could be aware of this.
Sid Poltarek, on the other hand, realized it all too well.
"I should have parked in the Center," he said gloomily, staring at the
rain through the glass doors of the Watergate complex, where he had met
his wife.
Rose tapped his arm in a tut-tut gesture.
"It's only a few steps. The umbrella is big enough for both of us. We'll
be fine."
Her soft tone made Poltarek ashamed of his grousing. Looking at his
wife, so splendid in her evening finery, stirred both love and lust in him.
With Rose, everything was always fine. It could not be any other way, had
been that way ever since they'd met. Each day, she reminded him that
gratitude for what one had, and humility in the face of one's good fortune,
were two of life's sturdiest pillars. Fortune and fame might crack
and splinter, but the goodness two people brought to each other, that
could move mountains.
"Sid?"
"Sorry. Daydreaming. Come on. Let's go."
Rose smiled. After forty years of marriage, she knew exactly what her
gruff bear had been thinking.
The Pokareks were not the only ones who had parked across the
street. The Watergate courtyard became a field of swaying black mushrooms
as couples took a deep breath and stepped out from under the
overhangs and awnings. Everyone kept an eye on the traffic signals so
thai they wouldn't catch a red light at the crosswalk.
Poltarek hunched his shoulders to keep the umbrella low so that it
covered his wife. With Rose keeping a tight grip on his arm, they
r THE ASSISTANT 155

reached the corner just as the orange blinkers cautioned motorists to
stop.
All but one did.
The driver of the big sport utility vehicle had been parked in the Wa-
tergate turnaround. The doorman had made a fuss until a hundred-dollar
bill shut him up. The driver did not care that the doorman had seen his
face. He would be out of the country by midnight.
The windshield wipers had swept back and forth methodically, giving
the driver a clear view of the Poltareks standing behind the glass walls of
the Watergate lobby. The husband had said something; the wife had
smiled, responding. The husband had undipped the snap on the umbrella,
the concierge stepping out from behind his desk to push open the
heavy glass door.
The driver lost them for an instant, when Poltarek unfurled the umbrella.
There they were again, both looking in the direction of the crosswalk.
He read their thoughts perfectly, shifted gears.
The Poltareks were on the sidewalk on his right side. The sidewalk
paralleled the exit driveway, both of which dead-ended at the street. To
get to the Kennedy Center, the Poltareks had to cross the street. The
driver had a choice of turning left or right.
He noticed the couple had stepped up their pace, and added a tiny bit
of pressure to the accelerator. Now his light was turning red. The dual orange
crosswalk lamps began to blink, indicating that it was safe to cross.
The Poltareks believed the lamps. They stepped off the curb.
The driver dropped the SUV into first gear and mashed his foot down
on the accelerator. The pounding rain drowned out some of the engine
roar, and the roof-mounted halogen lights froze the Poltareks when they
finally looked up.
The grille-mounted bull bars were not the tubular type but sharp-
edged. One row hit Rose Poltarek just above the breastbone, almost severing
her head at the neck. Because he was taller, Sid Poltarek took the
brunt at center chest. He was dead even before he was flipped in the air
and, in a gruesome twist, came down as the truck swerved, its fender
shattering his left hip.
It was over before anyone could scream. Only the black umbrella,
miraculously unscathed, pursued the fleeing SUV, tumbling over and
over like some mad avenger.

* * *

156 J. PATRICK LAW

At the Children's National Medical Center, the young audience oohed
and aahed as Benjamin Poltarek, to the drumroll of thunder, presented
his magic cake....
Six miles from the Center, Yossi Tarnofsky stared into the crazed eyes
ofSamirelBanna.
Had the chair not been bolted to the floor, el-Banna would have lifted
it and himself off the floor. Tarnofsky had ripped off the burlap cover, but
there was nothing he could do about the greenish white sickness dripping
from el-Banna's mouth. Whether an allergic reaction or an accidental
overdose, Tarnofsky couldn't say. Whatever it was, he could not lose
el-Banna now. The terrorist's last words had frozen his heart.
They are bringing in an American.
What American? Who were 'they'? Jamal? Of course! But someone else
as well, working with Jamal. When? Why?
Tarnofsky wiped away some of the mess and drew back his fingers just
as el-Banna's teeth snapped at them.
I'm going to keep you alive! Tarnofsky promised silently. You're going to
tell me everything about the American--
This last thought was severed as the explosion buckled Tarnofsky's
knees, pitching him forward.

* *

Hafez Jamal had carefully considered which explosives to use.
After arriving at Dent Place, it did not take him long to spot his killer,
almost invisible behind the dark windshield of the sedan. The Arab told
Jamal that no one had come out of the stone cottage since the Israelis had
hauled Samir el-Banna inside. Jamal was not surprised. He imagined the
Israelis were quite busy.
The storm and the darkness were Jamal's allies. They kept people off
the sidewalks and reduced traffic to nothing. Jamal suspected that the
stone cottage was not as innocent as it appeared. There would be cameras,
motion sensors, and lights. But he did not have to get that close.
There was enough light from the sodium arc city lamps and the occasional
fork of lightning for him to see what he needed without leaving
the sidewalk.
There was news when he returned to the sedan.
"It is done," the Arab told him.
Jamal's eyes glinted like wet stones as he listened to the all-news
THE ASSISTANT 157

radio station. Here was the announcer talking about a hit-and-run
that had occurred a short time ago near the Kennedy Center. Two people
were presumed dead. Police and emergency vehicles were on the
scene.
Ten minutes later, the big SUV nosed down the street, jamal softly
congratulated the driver on his execution, then explained what he believed
to be the situation inside the house. There were at least three Israelis.
They would be armed. But the raiders would have the advantage
of surprise, because the Israelis would be preoccupied with el-Banna.
The details were quickly outlined and the weapons readied. Then Jamal
made his call.
Twenty-five minutes later, a rattletrap Honda fishtailed up to the
stone cottage and double parked, blinkers winking. A young man, probably
a student, slipped out holding a hot pack that contained the large
pizza Jamal had asked be delivered.
The delivery boy jogged up the short walkway and rang the bell. He
thought he heard something rustling in the bushes, but put it down to
the wind.
Inside, Rothman heard the bell. He had one hand on his gun, the
other pushing away a corner of the curtains that covered the bulletproof
picture window. He saw the double-parked car with its triangular neon
ad on the roof. He knew damn well that no one had ordered a pizza.
Then he checked the closed-circuit security monitor and saw the boy,
drenched, holding the pizza in one hand.
"What is it?" Bernstein called out.
"Pizza delivery. The schmuck has the wrong address."
Rothman used the intercom to tell the boy to go away. He wouldn't. If
he didn't get paid for the pizza, the cost would come out of his pocket.
"Come on, man. I'm drowning out here."
Rothman looked at Bernstein, who shrugged. "I could eat."
Rothman buzzed the electronic lock, then threw the deadbolt. He was
holding his gun with one hand, behind his back; in the other was a
twenty-dollar bill.
Bernstein was in the parlor with the submachine gun, out of sight but
with a clear view of the door.
Rothman pulled back the door a few inches. For a split second, he saw
a face before the bullet from Jamal's silenced automatic blew apart the
delivery boy's head. He heard but never saw the concussion grenade
158 j. patrick LAW

eing ossed into the parlor, bouncing and spinning as its timer counted
off two seconds,
ernstein's fi,^ tightened around the trigger, but the burst from the

submachine gun went wild as the force of the blast exploded his eardrums.

Sfkd the two Arabs were inside. Rothman was taken down first,
by a bullet into his throat. The fact that he continued to thrash saved Bernstein s life, momentarily.
e ^aeh had plenty of experience with stun grenades. He clawed
& ie shock, grabbed the submachine gun and unleashed a devasS "rage. One Arab was torn in half, but Jamal and the other took
cover behind armchairs and returned fire.
s eln Wsvery tough. He had a bullet lodged near his spine and
Y o reach for his spare clip. Still, his fingers found the commando |
cited into his boot. As the Arab charged, Bernstein swung his arm J
in a wi e arc. The blade sliced through fabric and flesh and into the||
warm, wet nest of the Arab's abdomen. |
s e i n was still carving when Jamal ran around and shot him in thftj
lnce ^Arab was alive but beyond saving, he left him curled up|
on the carp»et .3
El-Bann^. ,
fee of (he concussion grenade had done no more than to kno<?
Tarnofsky down and make him realize that something terrible had ha(
pened upstairs. He'd grabbed his gun and pounded up the steps, list
& ° e barrage. Then suddenly everything was quiet. And he stc
opened the door.
Jamal v^as in the short hallway leading to the kitchen, cursing sik
'^e stone cottage had so many doors. Any one of them o
lead to the basement. He did not have time to try them all.
e ld ri 'f have to. He saw the door beside the kitchen sideboard |
open. he band of a gun appeared, then a hand, finally a questing }
Jamal forced himself to wait until the Israeli was halfway out the i
poised to r-ace for cover by the refrigerator.
larnofs^y released his coiled muscles and sprang into the room
never heard the first bullet that struck him, on the inside of his
when he as ^ mid-flight. But the other two registered, microse
r e 'felt the searing pain in his abdomen and across his arm.
arnots.liy f^ firing, the nine-millimeter slugs gouging out we
THE ASSISTANT 159

plaster. In a reflex action, he shot away the lock on the back door, then
laid down a fusillade into the hallway.
A chip of plaster screamed across Jamal's cheek, drawing blood, cutting
off the adrenaline rush. The last gunshot echoed away before he
dared snap a glance into the kitchen.
And saw the open back door being batted by the wind.
Hafez Jamal dashed out into the lashing rain, staring around wildly.
The Israeli had vanished.
Now lights on back porches and patios began coming on. Even the ferocity
of the storm hadn't camouflaged the gunfire from the stone cottage.

Jamal hurried back inside and locked the door. He clattered down the
basement steps and froze at the sight of Samir el-Banna chained to the
chair. One look at his comrade's face, frozen in a psychotic rictus, told
Jamal that el-Banna was beyond redemption.
"They shall pay!" he whispered as he stepped behind the prisoner. "I
promise you they shall pay."
Then he fired a single bullet into the base ofel-Banna's skull.
Upstairs, Jamal sifted through the pockets of his slain gunmen. He
didn't think they would be carrying anything that could identify them,
but he had to be sure. Besides, one of them had something that he
needed.
A moment later, Jamal was at the front door. He hesitated just long
enough to set the timer, then tossed the phosphorus grenade onto the
couch and bolted. By the time he was inside the sport utility vehicle, the
stone cottage parlor was ablaze.
Jamal eased the SUV into the street. The roof-mounted lights lit up
bushes and trees, but not a running man. As he drove, Jamal dialed a
number that, after bouncing off two satellites, rang in the heart of the
embassy of the United Arab Emirates. When a soft voice answered,
Jamal identified himself by code and explained exactly what it was he
needed in order to find a wounded, probably dying man.

* * *

"rael is not the only Middle East country that keeps a well-trained
inty force capable of operating incognito in the American capi''ver the years, Arab nations have learned much from their his
enemy and have themselves become quite proficient.

160 J. PATRICK LAW

The United Arab Emirates enjoys a polite and comfortable relationship
with its host government. Since it is a tiny nation, with no armed
forces to speak of but a great deal of oil to protect, it relies on the kindness
of strangers--in this case, the United States. And because the WE
is so small and dependent, it does not cast even a blip on America's counterintelligence
radar. Thus, it is the perfect home for a team of highly
trained Palestinians who live within ics walls and who are tolerated as the
shark tolerates its ramora.
Fifteen minutes after Jamal's call, three limousines pulled out of the
WE embassy garage. This traffic attracted no special interest from the
occupants of the D.C. police patrol car who were accustomed to seeing
Arabs drive off in groups.
The cars traveled at a sedate speed, discreetly dropping off competent-looking
men in foul-weather gear at various locations around the
city.
Jamal had a huge advantage that now came into play. The missing Israeli
was hurt, perhaps badly. Since he was probably unaccredited personnel,
and wounded, he was not likely to go to the police or a hospital.
There was, in fact, only one safe place for him--the embassy.
Following Jamal's instructions, five of the Palestinian commandos
were dropped off in the immediate vicinity of the Israeli embassy. If he
came that way, the running man would find himself facing a gauntlet he
could not possibly survive.
The rest of the team was let off at the major stops along Washington's
Metro system. It was possible that the Israeli did not have a car near the
safe house. Or else his wounds would preclude him from operating one.
In which case, his only alternative was the subway.
Calls filtered into the SUV as Jamal drove the back streets of Georgetown,
his lights probing and poking into dark corners. One by one, the
men reached their destinations: Van Ness, Metro Center, Union Station.
The idea that the Israeli might have an alternative destination to the
embassy never even occurred to Jamal, not even when he heard the urgent
reports about the shooting at Union Station.

* *

Train stations all over the world share one common feature: It is always
possible to find a taxi nearby.

THE ASSISTANT 161

Yossi Tarnofsky staggered through the downpour and wrenched open
the door of the first cab in the line. The ceiling light went out even as the
driver turned around to look at him.
"Hey, brother. You all right? Wet out there, huh?"
Tonight everybody is askingme if I'm all right. The thought struck Tarnofsky
as absurdly funny.
"Connecticut," he rasped. "Up to Woodley Road. I'll tell you where to
stop."
Tarnofsky picked up the odor of an inferior grade of marijuana.
"Connecticut it is, my man." The driver edged out of the line and
made a slow turn. "Say, you know what that fuss was all about inside?
Sounded like people screaming."
Tarnofsky felt his insides slosh around as the cab hit a pothole. He was
grateful for the darkness. The driver wouldn't see the blood seeping onto
the plastic-covered seat.
"Don't know," he mumbled. "Just having a drink. Too many
drinks. . . ."
"Amen to that," the driver replied. "You just settle back. I'll get you
home okay."
The driver's singsong voice lulled Tarnofsky. The passing lights were
like giant exploding galaxies. He felt himself floating, floating.
He must have lost consciousness because the driver, turned around in
his seat, had his hand on Tarnofsky's shoulder. Only the Israeli's instant
realization that he was not in any danger spared the driver's eyes.
"My man, you /&/have a few too many," the driver said, drawing back.
There was something in his passenger's eyes that made him nervous,
the terrible angry pain of an animal with its leg caught between the steel
jaws of a trap.
"Woodley," the driver said. "Like you wanted."
Yes. Tarnofsky could see the distinctive wedge shape of the condo
building. Carefully, he reached into his pants pocket, leaned forward,
and jammed the crumpled bills into the driver's hand. When the driver
looked down to peel the bills apart, Tarnofsky quickly got out of the cab.
The driver lowered his window and called out, "Hey! Hey, man, you
gave me all twenties."
Tarnofsky didn't bother to turn around but kept walking up Connectiut. One foot in front of the other, one in front of the other.... The way he'd
, j. p^TTM - P.^'^ law ,nds. AlULU he had to do

' ^n^-rt. ,n^ry, hundreds of ^^ his ^ooasis, his new
^s oo .=us oughts of the buudmg. 1'

^ focus ^ support^-ned one half of
)et:sale^^°?l^ heavilv agamst the pulat^the driveway.
Ta ^.^u^^es that guarded the entree un:nniforn,ed door- lh£w;:u^^ bla.ng -h Ughts. The^ ..let dashed out fro.
;T;:-^^ ^S^^proceeQ:cded to rol1 the
round th^ ^ bd *£»(;, hopped behind in

^^o^. ^ Thepounding
^fsl^n^^ he would have only th^ was w, very, very cold.
^ ^.^N^ay the last ofh.s stren^ lights, ..s, the doorman.
[aln was ». w^ nt^. way was >mpossible, wut ^s the .., only option.
^^^*^ ,n the lobb.W,,urche..ed after the .

Tsh^ ^^ escaped ^"Te ^^e^' ^ fo
n- hrs i,rf3^ehts»"^dan. At the top of the ind ^. He . s lay there fo
tallg J Lr^ALn through the yawn.. ^door^ closing.
ing' t ^entrikc heard the clatter of the ^,nd e^exhausi fume
^Y^^ -m, smemng of ^ ^k ^ ,el,o..pa^
^l5:^d along the walls, duc^pand m.^ ^
T"^ ^Uv/,..es^^eard the valet approach,. _ ^
hov6 fo.o^'sfoo"'M>ed away. ,/'""' and the ^
^^o^^W^^ to the elevatT ^^"^P611 i^ ^
^ ^^^-^s^'"wasdiscQV!
ne^^^^^-^^^^^
so ^jt Th^r did not stop until u rea^narble.Me foyer tal
^ T ^.rawled out of the car ^ carpeted ha.M
J^^^.oh.feei.Hewh^ ___^

'^"^^reached the number h<^l,^edb^|
,^l^h then mashed his pal^ ^ed th-thihe door had

gro^o7sro^^^
^.^ceo^gel.L.^^^
LtO o,nrinto*cfo<er, bracing himself aga^

ma^-^fn rna'1
--A" "Ai"«upoltarek?"
.Fourteen

YOU DON'T KNOW HIM?"
The homicide detective. Priestly, had pined tackle for Geae^S111
Tech. His ruined knees cracked when he crouched
Ben Poltarek was slumped in one of the two Louis XV chair^-s A31
framed the equally ornate secretaire in the foyer. Helooked across s at the
body, felt hot bile churn up his throat, and turned away.
"You're sure you don't know him?"
Ben looked down at the detective. Priestly's eyes were a washes sd-011'
blue, his thick nose sprayed with freckles, steered left, the cartilage s fr^ile
as chalk from countless punches. His words reached Ben on pu i_iff5^
nicotine.
"I told you, no."
Ben wondered how long Priestly could stare at him without bliIl_K1118
" ^s an uncanny ability.
Mr. Poltarek, try to see it from where I'm standing." Priestly's '» vo^
s was Taxing, almost cloying. "I come through the front door of you n r P^
I nis apartment and find you sitting on the staircase with a dead m.^n1'1

jyour arms. A man who, I figure, has at least three bullet wounds in btlii"1
K "vj
inow, you don't smell like you've fired a weapon, but you'v<s»^ gii
^ all over you-"
"His blood!"
162 J. PATRICK LAW

done it in the infantry, hundreds of miles. Thousands. All he had to do
was focus on the lights of the building. It was his oasis, his new
Jerusalem.
Tarnofsky leaned heavily against the pillar that supported one half of
the wrought-iron gates that guarded the entrance to the driveway.
The portico was blazing with lights. There was the uniformed doorman
opening the car door for an arriving tenant. A valet dashed out from
around the corner, hopped behind the wheel, and proceeded to roll the
car into the garage.
Move!
Tarnofsky knew he would have only this one chance. The pounding
rain was draining away the last of his strength and he was very, very cold.
Going in the front way was impossible, with all the lights, the doorman,
the inevitable concierge in the lobby. The garage was the only option.
A short, bitter cry escaped Tarnofsky's lips as he lurched after the red
taillights of the sedan. At the top of the incline, he slipped, lost his footing,
and rolled down through the yawning entrance. He lay there for a
moment until he heard the clatter of the steel-barred door closing.
The garage was warm, smelling of concrete and exhaust fumes.
Tarnofsky slipped along the walls, ducking behind thick yellow-painted
pipes when he heard the valet approach, getting up and moving after the
boy's footsteps died away.
Tarnofsky staggered to the elevator, jabbed the button, and the doors
parted. He checked the lighted panel, pressed p and slumped into a corner.
If the elevator stopped at the foyer, it stopped. If he was discovered,
so be it. Tarnofsky had no strength left to care.
The elevator did not stop until it reached the penthouse level.
Tarnofsky crawled out of the car and used the marble foyer table to
haul himself to his feet. He whipsawed down the carpeted hall like a
drunk.
When he reached the number he was looking for, he uttered a
grotesque laugh, then mashed his palm against the lighted buzzer.
Tarnofsky thought that the young man who opened the door had the
face of an angel. Am I dead? Tarnofsky reassured himself by staggering
into the foyer, bracing himself against the wall, beseeching the young
man.
"Are you Poltarek?"
F
ourteen


YOU DON'T KNOW HIM?"
The homicide detective. Priestly, had played tackle for Georgia
Tech. His ruined knees cracked when he crouched.
Ben Poltarek was slumped in one of the two Louis XV chairs that
framed the equally ornate secretaire in the foyer. He looked across at the
body, felt hot bile churn up his throat, and turned away.
"You're sure you don't know him?"
Ben looked down at the detective. Priestly's eyes were a washed-out
blue, his thick nose sprayed with freckles, steered left, the cartilage fragile
as chalk from countless punches. His words reached Ben on puffs of
nicotine.
"I told you, no."
Ben wondered how long Priestly could stare at him without blinking.
It was an uncanny ability.
"Mr. Poltarek, try to see it from where I'm standing." Priestly's voice
was coaxing, almost cloying. "I come through the front door of your parents'
apartment and find you sitting on the staircase with a dead man in
your arms. A man who, I figure, has at least three bullet wounds in him.
"Now, you don't smell like you've fired a weapon, but you've got
blood all over you--"
"His blood!"
164 J. PATRICK LAW

"Okay, okay. I know you're not hurt. But like I was saying, if/was the
one holding the guy and telling you I didn't know him, would you believe
me?"
"I don't know who he is," Ben repeated after a moment. "Now, I want
you to tell me what happened to my parents."
Priestly leaned heavily on the secretaire, leaving a sweaty palm print
on the fruitwood when he lifted his hand.
"Let's stay with this for a minute, okay?"

"No, it's wo/okay! I already told you--"
"You're sure he wasn't a client?"
"No!"
"Maybe a recent one? Someone you wouldn't have met yet?"
Ben shook his head. "I would have known."
Ben was not consciously lying when he said this. Part of it was true:
He'd never seen the man in the law offices. But his thoughts were too
scattered for him to recall that Sid Pokarek had always had his secrets.
The doorbell sounded, followed by the staccato roll of knuckles rapping
on wood. Priestly opened the door and Rachel Melman burst in.
Ben rose and was rocked on his heels when she flew at him, her arms
hugging him tightly. Her tears were hot on his cheek.
"I heard ... I heard on the radio on the way home. Then you called."
For an instant, Ben was puzzled, then he remembered: Priestly had let
him make a call.
"Ma'am?"
Rachel looked over her shoulder. She did not release Ben until she noticed
the badge draped over Priestly's breast pocket. She wiped her eyes
and rummaged in her bag for her hospital ID.
While Priestly examined it, she turned back to Ben. "You're not hurt?"
He shook his head. Rachel looked at the body. "Who's that?"
"That's what we're trying to find out," Priestly said, handing back her
ID.
Rachel stooped and pulled back the throw rug, grimacing when she
saw the wounds. "He's lost a lot of blood."
"Which obviously isn't here," Priestly said. "But that doesn't explain
how he got here."
"He's been out in the rain," Rachel murmured, ignoring the detective.
"Soaked ..."
"What are you getting at. Doc?"
THE ASSISTANT 165

"He would have died from exposure if he hadn't made it this far."
But that's not what she meant at all. Rachel knew that the man had
fought enormous pain to get to the Pokareks' home. Why?
"Yeah," Priestly said. "One of the other things that bothers me is how
he got up here. For sure he didn't stroll past the doorman and the valets."
"The garage," Ben murmured. "He could have gotten into the building
if the doors were open for a car." When Priestly raised his eyebrows,
he added, "It's a security problem that was brought up at the last owners'
meeting."
He looked at Rachel. "I need to see Sid and Rose. Tell him I have to
do this."
Rachel cupped Ben's face in both her hands. "Give me a minute."
She put pressure on his shoulders and made him sit back down in the
chair. Priestly caught her slight nod and followed her around to the other
side of the staircase.
"The bodies. How bad?" When he hesitated, she added, "I'm a pediatric
surgeon. I've seen kids come in who've been pulled from car
wrecks."
"It'll have to be a closed-casket funeral."
Her eyelids fluttered. "No question it's them?"
"You think we would've released the names if we weren't sure? I
know, I know. You had to ask. But listen, the kid's in no shape to see the
remains." He paused. "Did you know them?"
"Very well. If need be, I'll make the positive ID." She paused. "Ben's
in shock--..."
Priestly shook his head. "I still need to talk to him."
"I imagine you already have."
"Dr. Melman, I don't want to butt heads here. I'm asking for your
help. Your friend says he hasn't a clue who belongs to the body. Now, I
don't think he murdered this guy in a bathtub, then dragged him out to
the hall so I could trip over the two of them. But that doesn't change the
fact that I have a homicide on my hands. The gunshot wounds you saw
were not exactly self-inflicted."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Talk to him. You're his friend--"
"Fiancee."
"Even better. Ask him what happened. I need to know. Meantime,
I've got to get the crime-scene unit up here."
166 J. PATRICK LAW

"Ben will still want to go to the hospital. Even if he doesn't view the
bodies, he'll want to take their personal things. That's the only way he'll
really know it was them."
"Your call. But when he steps out that door, you're responsible for
him."
For a moment, Rachel was puzzled. Then she recognized Priestly's
gruff kindness. He could have insisted that a detective accompany her
and Ben to the hospital.
Rachel drew Ben into the kitchen. She poured orange juice and made
him drink it.
"I want to see them," Ben said flatly. In spite of the juice, he felt a
metallic coating on his tongue.
"Ben, listen to me. It was a very bad accident. You don't want to see
them like that."
"Like what? What're you saying, Rachel? That they're all broken up?
I already know that!" He drew himself up. "I need to do this."
Rachel knew that she could fight him--and win. Ben was like a boxer
who'd taken ten too many punches. He was blocking out everything else
because he had only enough strength to focus on one crucial thing: seeing
his parents. This need was all that sustained him. But she also understood
how weak he was, how persuasive she could be.
Instead, she said: "All right. We'll go together. Where's your jacket?"
"In my room."
"I'll get it."
While Rachel went upstairs, Ben returned to the foyer.
"We're going to the hospital," he said. Priestly, sitting in one of the
chairs, nodded absently. "I want you to believe me. He didn't tell me
anything."
The detective shifted. "I'm beginning to think he didn't. But that
doesn't mean my job's done. This guy belonged to someone. We'll run
prints, see where that gets us. Thing is, he didn't come here to harm
you--at least I don't think so. Depending on what we find--or don't
--I'll want to look at your father's records, calendar, talk to his secretary."

Ben nodded. "Client records are confidential, but I'll help where I
can."
"That won't be necessary, if the computers do our legwork for us.
Maybe they will." Priestly pulled out cigarettes. "Do you mind?"
THE ASSISTANT 167

"Yes," Ben replied sharply. "My parents don't allow smoking in the
house."

« * *

Landau's first hint that something was wrong in Dent Place came
when Rothman missed his hourly update from the safe house.
A few minutes later, the embassy's commo office, which routinely
monitored the police channels, called down to report that D.C. units
were responding to calls of shootings and possibly a fire at Dent Place.
Landau raced out of the bunker, heading for the garage where a car,
driver, and security escort were waiting.
The safe house was a third of the way down Dent Place, which was
blocked off by police cruisers at both ends. Landau had the driver park
far enough away so as not to attract attention. He turned up his collar
against the rain and sloshed his way to a white minivan with a roof-
mounted satellite dish and a local television station logo on the panel. A
young female reporter, holding an umbrella, was moving her lips while
she reviewed her notes.
Landau sidled up to her, flashed a smile. "What's going on?"
The reporter sized him up and dismissed him as a lookie-loo. "Sorry.
I'm busy."
Landau held out a business card. It identified him as the director of
business affairs for CNN at the Atlanta headquarters. Landau had a number
of such cards, each one different.
He kept smiling pleasantly. "Shall we start over?"
The reporter cursed silently. A guy from the CNN tower was someone
worth knowing, especially since she was looking to move.
"Look, I'm really sorry," she simpered. "It's just with the rain and all.
»»

"I know. Why don't you fill me in."
Landau kept his smile even as the reporter's words pumped dread into
his heart. The rain had helped the firefighters with the blaze. They had
found four bodies. According to the coroner, two looked Arabic, the other
two--who knew?
"I heard there was shooting," Landau said. "What was that all about?"
According to her police sources--which were very good--there must
have been one hell of a firefight inside. Shell casings all over the place.
The cops were thinking a drug deal gone sour.
168 ]. PATRICK LAW

Landau knew better, but he had to ask, "Are you sure the count was
four? I heard there might have been five."
The reporter inched closer.
"Listen. This is my exclusive, okay?"
"Absolutely."
"I mean, if CNN wants in--"
"You call me first thing, day after tomorrow."
The reporter smiled; the deal had been struck.
"Okay. There vsas one other guy. They found him in the basement
chained to a chair, hands tied up with plastic, his dick hanging out. Someone
had blown away the back of his head."
El-Banna. Jamal had been here. He could not take el-Banna with him so he
killed him.
"I like your style," Landau told the woman. "You'll go places."
Back inside the car. Landau got on a scrambler line to the embassy
katsa. He watched the expressions of his driver and escorts mottle as he
outlined what had happened at Dent Place.
"We have one man out there," he told the katsa. "Since he hasn't come
in, assume that he's wounded. I want security to sweep the embassy
neighborhood. If they spot Arab watchers, we'll know they're looking for
him, too."
"What about the watchers?" asked the katsa.
"Leave them alone. We don't need to alert them." :
Landau continued, ordering that agents be standing by when he got;
back to the embassy. He had pictures to show them.
Bernstein, Rothman, Tamofsky? Which one of you survived? ,
A thought occurred: "It's possible our man may be headed for a sayan"i
The katsa's voice was hard with disbelief. Protocol demanded that he|
be informed of any sayan activity on his turf--Landau or no Landau. |
"Who would that be?" |
"Sidney Poltarek." |
Silence on the other end of the line, broken only by the faint ticking|
of the scrambler sending pulses into the ether.
"Poltarek," the katsa said heavily. "Have you not heard?"
"Heard what?"
"He and his wife were killed by a hit-and-run driver outside the
Kennedy Center earlier tonight."
THE ASSISTANT 169

The hospital committed to police emergencies in the Kennedy Center
area is the George town University Medical Center. Rachel held out
her hospital ID for the guard and brought Ben in through the employees'
entrance.
Ben had been silent during the drive. Images of his mother and father
kept tumbling through his mind like cards falling in slow motion.
He could not stop them, could not pluck out a particular one from the
deck.
"You should'think refinancing in thenextmonth ortwo."
Were those really the last words Rose had said to him? He couldn't remember
any others.
And his father, squirreled away all day at the Hay-Adams. That morning,
gone before Ben had had a chance to ask him about--
Manshur.
The image of the Lebanese drifted through Ben's mind, then disappeared.
Manshur was not important now.
Tears welled in his eyes as Ben thought that the last time he and his
father had spoken was at the dinner the day they'd arrived home from
Paris. So little had been said, nothing meaningful. Then Ben had left to
go see Rachel....
The last words of Rachel's question hung in the air. Ben scrambled to
remember what they were.
"Yeah, okay," he said.
She looked at him curiously. "You understand that I'll make the decision.
If they're too badly hurt--"
"I said I understand. And they're not hurt, they're dead. Let's go."
The morgue was in the basement. Rachel had phoned the pathologist
from the car, but she still rook him aside, leaving Ben in the viewing
room, a small barren cubicle of painted cinder block and linoleum tile.
The pathologist was a tall, thin man, balding, with a hyperthyroid condition
that made his eyes bulge. He reminded Rachel of a predatory
stork, yet his voice was very soothing.
"Is the son here?" He indicated the one-way viewing window, which
^s, for the moment, covered by a flower-patterned curtain.
170 J. PATRICK LAW

"Yes. May I see them, please?"
The pathologist stepped over to two ceramic tables rolled side by side.
He lifted the sheet that covered the first body and folded it neatly at the
base ofSid Poltarek's chin. Then he did the same for Rose.
Rachel was struck by how peaceful they looked. Then she looked
closer, discovered the faint brush marks where the pathologist had
scrubbed away the blood and touched up the skin with pancake.
"Thanks" she said.
"It was nothing." He handed Rachel a sealed brown envelope. She
didn't have to ask what was in it.
"He may want to see more."
The pathologist frowned. "I wouldn't."
He drew Rachel's attention to the terrible scar at the base of Rose's
neck, hidden by her artfully arranged hair. The head was barely connected
to the torso.
Sid Poltarek's body was in even worse condition, if scales for judging
such things existed.
Rachel rook a moment to compose herself before returning to the
viewing room. Ben was standing in front of the window, his hands
clasped in front of him.
"Ben?"
"I'm ready"
Rachel tapped on the glass and the curtains parted.
They look fine.
This was Ben's first impression and he did not consider it absurd. He
even thought he detected the ghost of a smile on Rose's lips.
Then he realized that truly they were dead and that his first reaction
had been relief because they hadn't been disfigured. It never occurred to
him to ask to see the entire corpse.
He turned to Rachel. "Okay."
She was very close to him, filling him with her scent. She rapped on
the glass again and the curtains were drawn together.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"They'll stay here until that detective--Priestly?--says they can be
released."
"Priestly is in homicide. Isn't an autopsy required?"

Rachel had missed that. It was true: If death occurs under suspicious

THE ASSISTANT 171

circumstances, an autopsy is mandatory. She finished her thoughts
aloud.
"Why would a homicide detective be involved in a hit-and-run?
Maybe Priestly knows--or suspects--who did it."
"If so, he never mentioned it to me."
"Or he might have been the closest cop to the scene." Rachel paused.
"There's really no need for an autopsy. The cause of death is clear. An
autopsy won't add to what Priestly already knows--or doesn't."
Ben took her hand and started for the door. "I don't care about Priestly.
All I know is that he's not going to desecrate my parents to help along his
investigation."
What Ben didn't add was that his mention of Priestly's being in homicide
stirred up questions. Could it be that the death of his parents wasn't
an accident? Priestly had never raised that possibility. Nor had he
dwelled on the still-anonymous driver.
He asked a lot of questions, but told me jack shit!
That idea angered Ben. Yes, he had been overwhelmed by events, but
he was an experienced attorney. Somehow, somewhere, he should have
summoned up the concentration to ask Priestly questions that needed
answers. He would do that very soon.
They were back in the bowels of the hospital's physical plant, ducking
pipes and fittings. Ben was glad when they reached the harshly lit corridor
that led to the employees' canteen.
At the door, Rachel took Ben's arm and pulled him aside. She tugged
out the brown package the pathologist had given her and held it out to
him.
Things metallic clinked as Ben hefted it. He knew then what the
package contained.
When he started to open it, Rachel said, "You don't have to do it here."
He stared at her. "I don't know if I'll be able to do it later."
Ben sat on a battered couch next to a row of vending machines. He
tore open the flap and slowly poured the contents of the envelope into
his lap. Watches, rings, wedding bands, bracelets, a billfold, keys--the
mundane and the meaningful.
Ben let his fingertips graze over the golden metal and calfskin leather.
He felt like a pirate who'd just opened a treasure chest but was fearful of
raising vengeful ghosts by disturbing the contents. So delicately was he
172 J. PATRICK LAW

approaching his duty of going through his parents' effects that he never
heard the doors to the street open, nor Rachel's soft gasp as she turned
and saw Landau standing there, like the devil the storm had blown into
her life.

* * *

"You outta here. Jack?"
Priestly was struggling with his overcoat, heavy because it was soaked
through and through. He gave up, draped the coat over one arm, and
turned to the chief of the Crime Scene Investigation Unit.
"I'Less you need me for something."
"How about the guy who found the stiff." The chief jerked his thumb
in the direction of the corpse, which had been rolled into a body bag.
"Might help if I could have a talk with him."
"He doesn't know squat."
"Come on. Jack. You know better than to cut loose a material witness."
"I didn't cut him loose. I let him go to the hospital to see his parents--
what's left of them."
"And where's he going next?"
"You mean spend the night? Probably with that doc, his fiancee. I sure
as hell wouldn't come back here." He paused. "Don't worry, I know
where she lives."
The two men moved out of the way as the coroner's assistant rolled;
the body into the corridor. The photographer followed, saying he had]
all the video and stills he needed. The fingerprint team was putting
away its brushes and powder into hard-shell cases that resembled fishing-tackle
boxes, with plastic pullout trays divided into small compartj
ments. ,]
"Do me a favor, would you. Jack?" the chief was saying. "Get me a re1
port and make the guy--what's his name, Pokarek?--available in case l|
need him." |
"I should have let Burke take the squawk," Priestly replied sourly. |
"True. But you're too good a cop to do that." f|
"Keep blowing smoke up my ass and you'll see just how good." ;|
Priestly felt the weight of the night on his shoulders as he leanedj
against the elevator wall. When the doors opened on the lobby, he sawR
the doorman, valet, and evening concierge gossiping. ^
THE ASSISTANT 173

"Don't bother," Priestly said when the doorman made a halfhearted
turn toward the doors.
Standing under the portico. Priestly lit a cigarette. He took two deep
drags, then walked swiftly to his car. He eased the vehicle into the
turnaround, then turned into the street and made a left. A big sport utility
vehicle, lights out, swung in behind him.
The storm was dying. Priestly didn't have to turn around to hear the
rumble of the SUV's engine. He kept driving up the street, one hand on
the wheel, the other reaching for his shoulder-holstered gun.
Without warning, the rack lights on the SUV came on. The truck
roared around Priestly's sedan and cut him off, forcing him to swerve and
brake hard. When his sedan stopped rocking. Priestly found himself
wedged between the SUV and a parked car.
A door slammed and shadows wavered in front of the sedan's headlights.
Priestly flicked on the brights, braced his arm on the steering
wheel, and trained his gun on the man emerging through the sheers of
rain.
The window of Priestly's sedan had been lowered about an inch to
allow the cigarette smoke to escape. He had no trouble hearing the voice
over the rain.
"You won't be needing that, detective."
Priestly had the gun pointed at the passenger window, beyond which
loomed a figure in a dark jacket. If the situation warranted, he could put
a hole the size of a melon into the son of a bitch.
"Your truck's blocking me," he said through the opening. "Tell your
bozos to move it."
The man came around, slapped the roof of the SUV, and it roared
away.
He then walked around the front of the sedan and calmly got into the
passenger seat.
Not bad. Priestly thought, looking at him. The man wore a heavy
weatherproof jacket with a high, turned-up collar. A seaman's woolen hat
was stretched over his scalp, hiding his hair. Large wraparound sunglasses
concealed the upper half of his face; a thick beard and mustache,
undoubtedly fake, covered the rest.
Priestly could swear in the confessional that he would never be able to
identify the man.
174 ]. PATRICK LAW

"There has been a great deal of commotion. Detective Priestly,"
Hafez Jamal said. Rubber pads used to puff out his cheeks also helped to
thicken his speech. "Perhaps you would care to enlighten me?"
"The money first."
It was in a letter-size envelope, given over by a gloved hand to avoid
leaving fingerprints. Priestly knew it was bad manners to check the count
in front of the buyer and couldn't have cared less. He wet his thumb.
Priestly didn't know this man and didn't want to. Over the last six
years, he'd met a dozen like him, each one different physically, but identical
in terms of his job description. Priestly had been born and raised in
Belfast. He knew something about terrorists.
It was an Irishman who'd recruited him. By the time Priestly realized
that the Dubliner had been a stalking horse--someone who recruited,
ensnared, then disappeared--it was too late. There were certain investments
that Priestly could never adequately explain. He was in the Arabs'
pocket, like it or not.
At least the Irishman hadn't lied about the one important thing:
Priestly never had to take risks or put his job on the line. The Arabs used
him only when they were certain that he could deliver without giving
himself away. Like tonight.
Earlier in the day. Priestly had received a call from someone who, after
supplying the appropriate code word, suggested that Priestly be very
close to the Kennedy Center at a given hour that evening. Other, more
detailed, instructions followed. Priestly didn't ask questions, made sure
he was in position, and when the hit-and-run squawk came, he picked |
it up. 1
He followed procedure, telephoned the victims' next-of-kin, then!
went up to interview Ben Poltarek. Finding the kid holding a body was |
not what he'd expected. j|
Priestly finished counting the money and put it away. j
"The commotion, detective?" ]amal asked.
"As soon as the victims were positively identified, I called the Poliareks' home number," Priestly recited in a monotone. He outlined
the scene that he'd walked in on.
Jamal held up his hand. "The dead man, the one the boy was holding.
Can you describe him?"
Priestly did, adding as a disclaimer, "He was pretty badly shot up."
"just so, detective," Jamal murmured, "just so."
THE ASSISTANT 1/5

The description was close enough to fit one of the Jews his men had
seen kidnap el-Banna. That made three for three.
"And this man was still alive when he reached the apartment, yes?"
"That's what the kid told me."
"The question is, did he tell the kid anything?" Jamal's mimickry of
Priestly was quite good, but Priestly didn't pick up on it.
"Poltarek says no. I tend to believe him."
"I'Tend,' detective?"
"Poltarek was in shock. You'd be, too, if a dead man drops out of the
sky on you."
1 might surprise you, detective.
"Anyway, what I am sure of is that Poltarek had no idea who the guy
was--and still doesn't."
"But impossible that he may have said something to Poltarek."
"Possible, but unlikely."
How unfortunate for young Mr. Poltarek.
"By the by, who was the corpse?"
"No one important."
Priestly snorted. "In that case, you've overpaid me."
"On the contrary. Your duties regarding Mr. Poltarek are not yet complete.
I must ask you to keep an eye on him for the next little while. If
you would report any and all contacts, I would be grateful."
"I won't be able to tail him," Priestly warned.
"Not to worry."
"Right. What about his fiancee? She'll probably end up baby-sitting
him."
"Are they close? Very close?"
"Like white on rice."
"Then if she happens to be present when you do your follow-up interrogatories
with Mr. Poltarek, I would like to hear what she contributes
to the conversation."
Jamal caught Priestly's hesitation. "Yes, Detective?"
"This ... situation. It's not like the others. You've got a dead body on
Woodley and five more in Dent Place. All in the same night. That's a little
too much, even for D.C."
"What are you saying. Detective?"
"That this thing could get very hot. If that happens, the feds will want
in and they'll edge me out."
176 J. PATRICK LAW

"That is not likely to happen," Jamal said, making a move to get out of
the car.
"But if it does, I want you to know it wasn't my fault. That I didn't let
down my side."
Jamal smiled at him. "Such a thought would never cross my mind
where you're concerned. Detective Priestly."
r ifteen

except in his imagination, Landau had not set eyes on Rachel for
three years. Looking at her across a space that smelled of antiseptic
and stale fatigue, he thought she appeared even more beautiful than
he remembered her in Israel. A time when he had known her so well. A
time when, after she had returned to the United States, he had used her
so effectively.
Until the Howe affair.
The canteen swelled with traffic as a new shift drifted in, doctors,
nurses, and orderlies stopping for gum or a snack. Coins jangled in the
vending machines as the outgoing exchanged greetings with the incoming.

Ben was oblivious to the people around him, his fingers gently examining
the objects in his lap. He opened his father's billfold and was slowly
going through its contents when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Excuse me for a minute?" Rachel was saying. He thought he saw her
nod in the direction of the washrooms. "Will you be okay?"
"Fine."
"Don't go anywhere, all right?"
"Where's there to go?"
She glanced back at him, sitting lost in a world of exploding memories.
Ben would be okay. But Landau had disappeared. She couldn't
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"I HE aaaia s:;:. the
raid. Pokarek turned out to be in danger after he returned home. I
had three men on him. Even they couldn't prevent the Pokareks from
being killed."
"You're lying. A squad of terrorists couldn't get past three of yours.
They would have died pushing the Pokareks out of the way at that crosswalk."

"They died anyway," Landau said, using harshness to evade her accusation.
"They got their hands on the cell leader, were interrogating him
before they were ambushed. Two died quickly--"
"The third survived long enough to reach the Pokareks' apartment."
"Yes, he did. In fact, his body is resting in this hospital. Since he
was not carrying any identification, it will be delicate work getting custody."

Hope spiked Rachel's heart. "Is that what you want me to do, help you
get the remains out of here?"
Landau looked at her with what another person would have mistaken
for genuine regret.
"Would that it were that simple, Rachel. No. You see, we knew that
our man on the run would go to only one of two places."
^Sayanim," Rachel whispered.
"Yes. He had been given your name and that of the Pokareks."
"But he was one of the people watching the Pokareks. He'd have
known they were dead--"
"Not necessarily. He wasn't watching the Poltareks."
Rachel's throat tightened as she realized what Landau was intimating.
If the Israelis were around the Pokareks but not watching over them,
that could only mean that Ben's parents had been bait.
"Bastard. . .."
"One man got out of the safe house alive, Rachel. He was wounded,
frightened. He had no way of knowing that the Pokareks were already
dead. That's why he ended up at their apartment."
Landau paused. "And the door opens, a face my man doesn't know,
but which he's certain must belong to a sayan, appears before him. You
can imagine the rest. It was in your young man's arms that my agent died.
€ "Woo^ Benjamin Poltarek for his father. Yet Benjamin was not one of
eln- I doubt that his parents ever shared any details of their . . . ex- ^acurricular work with him.
ISO J. PATRICK LAW

"Unfortunately, my man probably lived long enough to say something
to Benjamin. He had come a long way, in a great deal of pain. He
wouldn't have done that just to find shelter. He had something that had
to be shared before he died."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I told you, my people had gotten hold of the cell leader. Circumstances
lead me to believe he disclosed information--"
"He was tortured," Rachel said flatly.
"--information that my man thought was vital. If he had just wanted
sanctuary, Rachel, he would have run for the embassy."
Landau slipped in this little lie and saw that it was swallowed.
"I need a minute," Rachel said, and without waiting, walked back into
the hospital.
Ben was still sitting on the couch next to the vending machines, absorbed
by what looked like a letter.
Rachel returned to Landau. "What do you want? Tell me quickly."
"What do you know about the events at the Pokareks' apartment?"
Rachel told him what the detective. Priestly, had talked to her about:
questioning Ben, Ben protesting over and over that he didn't know who
the dead man was.
"Did Poltarek admit to being told anything?"
Rachel's eyes flashed. "No! Priestly was after the same thing. He
wanted to know why a dying man would come knocking, whether he'd
told Ben who he was, or why he was there."
"Did the detective believe Poltarek?"
"Why shouldn't he?"
"Do your
Rachel stepped very close to Landau. "Yes, I do. And I want you to
leave him alone!"
Landau appeared completely unfazed by her words.
"Listen to me, Rachel. The terrorists who were after my man? You had
best assume that they know exactly where he ended up. I would. Which |
means they know about Poltarek. Even if they hadn't trailed my man to |
Woodley, they would have surmised that the son was involved. After all, |
they had just murdered the parents."
Landau looked at her keenly. "Sad to say, but Arabs think the way I
do. They suspect my man lasted long enough to tell Poltarek something"
"Why? Why should they suspect that?"
THE ASSISTANT 181

"The Arabs--this one in particular--are no fools. We snatched one of
theirs. They appreciate that not even the bravest or the strongest can remain
silent in the face of certain chemicals. They will believe that whatever
he said, my man passed it on."
Landau paused. "Jamal has an operation running in this country,
Rachel. What you should fear is that I do not know what it is. Maybe
Poltarek has an inkling, maybe he has more. Maybe he's suffering from
shock and can't remember. Maybe he's deliberately hiding something.
"I know you don't give a damn about me, Rachel. But you're keen on
Poltarek. So know that as of this moment, he has a bull's-eye on his chest.
Find out, for his sake, if he knows anything. If he does, you can get me at
this number, anytime."
Landau leaned forward as if to kiss her. Instead, he murmured a number,
then suddenly drew back. He kept looking over his shoulder as he
walked into the night, and she after him, until he disappeared in the rain
and blackness.

* * »

"You were gone for a while."
"I needed to be alone. I thought you did, too."
They were in Rachel's car. Ben held the envelope in his lap, his fingers
tracing the stiff, rough fiber, moving over the ridges and valleys created
by the objects inside.
"I don't want to go back to the apartment," he said quietly. "I can't."
"I'm not taking you there. We're going to my place."
She took his silence for acknowledgment and felt a little better. She
wanted to do so much for him, to take away the hurt and the horror, to reverse
destiny and give him back his family, to confess and beg his forgiveness.

But tonight she would settle for standing watch over his sleep.
The hiss of tires on wet asphalt coiled around Rachel's thoughts, drawing
them and her to that black hole she skirted only in her nightmares.
Four years ago ... a time before Ben.
She had her army discharge in her hand and tickets to Israel. She had
always wanted to go because she took the phrase "Next year in
Jerusalem" literally. When she got there, Jerusalem captured her soul
and a quiet, handsome stranger her heart.
The first time Rachel saw Landau was in the atrium of a cafe in
182 ]. PATRICK LAW
Herzilya Street in Tel Aviv. She was sitting alone, drinking lemonade,
her feet aching pleasantly from the morning trek around Masada. He
walked in off the street, saw her, then stopped and took off his sunglasses
to get a better look. He asked if he could join her, and Rachel heard herself
saying yes.
They had lunch and, that evening, dinner. Landau, who insisted that
she call him by his surname, knew exactly where to lake her, offering her
a smorgasbord of tastes, seems, music, and people. He was a conjurer
who could distill the essence of a place and offer it to her one golden drop

at a time.
When they went out the second night, Rachel let herself drink a little
too much wine. They ended up at a beachfront cafe, dancing until they
were the only ones on the floor. They, a sleepy guitarist, a half-empty
bottle of brandy, and a moon so full that its bone white reflection on the

Mediterranean hurt Rachel's eyes.
Landau's apartment was nearby and Rachel didn't see much of it until
the next morning. Sleepy and sated, she padded toward the kitchen for
juice, but never got there. Framed photographs, agonizingly graphic in
their intensity, covered the living-room walls. The horrors, triumphs, and

defeats of war were so raw that she could almost smell the blood.
She jumped when Landau came up soundlessly behind her and said,

"Israel." As if what was on the wall was a simple, self-evident truth.
Later that morning, he took her to the Hadar Dafna Building and revealed
who he was and what he did. Shaken and more than a little awed,

Rachel accepted everything he said.
"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked when they were in his of

fice.
"So that you know exactly what it is I do and why I cannot give yo

more than I did last night."

"I didn't expect more."
"I thought I owed you more. Besides, I would feel offended if y<

considered me just a one-night stand."
Rachel smiled at his gentle attempt at humor. "And how should I c<

sider you?"
"I know little about you, Rachel Melman, except what you have t
me," Landau said. "Before we go any further, I need your permissiol
do a background check."
THE ASS1S iai^ i ib=

"For?"
"For the possibility of offering you a job."
Rachel was stunned.
"It's not what you think. And certainly not in Israel. That's all I can say
for the moment."
"What if I don't give you permission?"
"Then I hope you will let me buy you dinner before you leave."
Rachel had never understood why the words came so easily: "By all
means, check."
They did not sleep together that night, but the next morning, at
dawn, Landau picked her up and took her to the beach. They spread
out a blanket, ate fruit and warm breads, and drank a thermos of coffee,
while Landau's bodyguards kept their vigil between the surf line and
the boardwalk.
"You are a remarkable woman, Rachel Melman. Your army record is
exemplary."
"Thank you. Does that mean you're offering me a job?"
"It means I will tell you things. You decide if you want to hear the
offer."
Landau explained about the sayanim, the kind of people they were,
the roles they played. He went on to describe a slightly different "friend
of Israel," an individual who takes a more active role in operations, who
might be called on to serve for a longer period of time, weeks or even
months.
"I understand the principle," she replied. "Tell me where I fit in."
It took a long time for Landau to do that. When he finished, he said:
"Thai is the job. No pay, no fringe benefits, but you make a contribution,
a difference. The kind very few people could make. What say you,
Rachel Melman."
"I say yes."
A week later, Rachel was back in Washington starting her residency at
Georgetown University Medical Center. Four days after that, she had
her first "brush."
Like the other "friends of Israel," Rachel was not privy to any derails
concerning the individual she serviced. She did not know the person's
Bge, appearance, occupation, nationality, not even gender, although she
assumed it was a man.
184 J. PATRICK LAW

Landau was very patient when he walked her through the tradecraft;
his quiet consideration made it seem that he did not repeat himself.
Rachel was aware that he did, but his manner was so smooth and understated
that she did not take offense. Still, her imagination stirred occasionally.
She pictured the invisible, anonymous man somewhere in
the pell-mell of Washington, a foreigner, probably an embassy worker or
official, most likely an Arab, for what other national could be so important
to Landau? Yes, an Arab diplomat, with a quiet demeanor and a soft
smile, beads of perspiration along his hairline and palpitations of the
heart every time he stole whatever he stole, then walked it out of the
embassy, carrying bounty for Landau along with his own life in his
hands.
The first month, Rachel made two brushes, picking up an envelope
that was waiting for her either on top of a trash bin or behind a stone, usually
close to a Washington landmark with a good deal of tourist traffic.
Landau had told her that the brushes would never take place inside
buildings, even though the Smithsonian and the Air and Space Museum
had plenty of nooks and crannies. Guards in such buildings were more
suspicious of unattended packages than of visitors.
By the fifth month, Rachel was up to three brushes per month. The
exercise had become routine, her movements and actions automatic. Although
she meticulously obeyed the protocols Landau had laid out, the
sense of anticipation and adventure, the frisson of possible danger, had
melted away. Rachel felt as though she were on a long, comfortable train
journey, the destination unknown and mysterious, but the scenery beginning
to blur into monochrome. She had no inkling that the flashing
pinpricks up ahead were warning lights.
Howes first name was Jezekiah, although in his thirty-eight years no ^
one had ever called him that. He was good of' Jesse, who had a joke for |
any occasion, who always bought the first round at the Black Horse Tav- j
ern favored by navy personnel stationed in Washington. He was rumored |
to have charmed the pants off two admirals' daughters, both of whom j
still pined for him. He was said to be a perfect gentleman and something
else between the sheets.
What was never said of Jesse Howe, or even suspected, was that he
might be Jewish and a spy.
All-American in appearance, Howe worked for the Intelligence Support
Center in Suitland, Maryland, a branch of the Naval Criminal Ini
THE ASSISTANT 185

vestigarive Service. He also had duties at the Antiterrorist Alert Center in
the NCIS's threat analysis division. In his head, he carried a great many
things that would be of interest to a great many people. Instead of reaping
a small fortune, Howe passed his secrets on to Israel. He was Landau's
greatest creation--a high-level, virtually undetectable mole.
Landau had planted Howe in America when he reached college age.
He deftly nurtured Howe's career, steering him into the paths of men
whose patronage could assist his progress. It helped that Howe was
charming by nature and very, very bright.
Howe provided Landau with intelligence that Israel could not have
gotten any other way--information that was withheld even though the
United States shared more intelligence with Israel than with any other
nation. It enabled Israel to continually peek into the secret lives of its
Arab neighbors, to update and alter her plans for first strike and retaliation.

And Howe was only in the first stages of his career. There was no end
to the ranks he might achieve. In his private moments--but only to himself,
for he shared Howe with no one--Landau wondered how he might
fashion Howe into a presidential candidate. Such thoughts were not altogether
idle speculation.
Landau handled Howe as he did no other agent. No Mossad personnel--not
even the katsa--was aware of, much less had any contact with,
Howe. Landau knew that the Americans spied on everyone. He could
not risk that a random FBI tag on some embassy runner would lead them
to Howe.
Instead, Landau used sayamm to service Howe--from a seventy-fiveyear-old
grandmother who'd survived Belsen, to a nineteen-year-old
Georgetown sophomore whose two brothers, both U.S. fighter pilots, had
flown for Israel; a factory foreman from the Newport News shipyards; a
retired bus driver; and a mildly famous oncologist. Now, he added Rachel Melman to his roster.
Rachel's final brush with Howe took place at the D.C. War Memorial,
close enough to the Mall's public restrooms to attract constant foot traffic.
It did not go off smoothly and had unintended consequences.
It was the week after Labor Day, but there were still plenty of tourists
around, along with food vendors hawking ice cones, soft drinks, and
pretzels lathered with mustard. The trash bins, set in green metal basets,
were half-full by noon. Rachel walked along the edge of the re186 J. FA1R1LR Law

fleeting pool and carefully dropped a candy wrapper into the bin. The
distinctive yellow-and-blue envelope she'd been told would be there
wasn't.
The protocol Landau had drilled into her was clear: If a brush goes
wrong, if the material isn't there, walk away. Go back the next day at the
same time.
Rachel was about to do that when she noticed a dark-haired, good-
looking man hurrying along the path. She would have overlooked him
had she not glimpsed the yellow-and-blue envelope he carried--and
dropped into the bin. It was then she looked at his face closely and imprinted
it in her memory.
Rachel hurried across the grass toward the Memorial. It was a loose
heel on her left sandal that saved her. The heel dug into a piece of soft
turf, twisted, and broke off, causing her to stumble. 1
Rachel examined the damage. Like it or not, she would have to walk^
barefoot until she found a shoe store. Then she looked up and saw the |
dark-haired man walking away from the Memorial. She got to her feef|
and started in that direction when a half-dozen men suddenly material
ized and swarmed over their target. Within seconds, the dark-haired mat
was surrounded and hustled to a waiting sedan on Independence Av'
enue. i
Rachel, holding both sandals by their straps, looked on in disbelief ||
a federal agent plucked the blue and yellow envelope out of the tra
bin. For an instant, the agent stared directly at her. Rachel made a sh(
of examining the broken heel, then turned and walked away. With eve
step she took, she expected to feel a heavy hand grip her shoulder.
Rachel reached out to Landau on the designated secure contact, butj
was a CNN news cycle that answered her questions, j
The lead story was the arrest of one Jezekiah Howe, a federal e.l|
ployee at the NCIS's Intelligence Support Center. According to the F(|
Howe had been a spy for Israel for the last ten years. Specialists were s|
assessing the damage he'd caused. |
At the White House, the president was said to be "shocked and vg
disturbed" by developments.
The prime minister's office in Tel Aviv had no comment on
matter.
It was almost midnight when Landau knocked on her door. Ra<
THE ASSISTANT 187

was wide awake. She let him in and, when he turned, slapped him hard
across the face.
"You never told me Howe was a traitor!"
Landau pressed his fingers to his cheek, as though they might absorb
the sting of her fury. He sat down in Rachel's living room with its fine antiques
and security-company stickers on the windows.
"How did you recognize Howe?" he asked. "You were never supposed
to see him."
"But I did--by accident."
"Did he notice you?"
"No."
"That much, at least, is good. He will not be able to identify you when
they interrogate him."
Rachel pulled up an ottoman, her knees almost touching Landau's.
"Howe was betraying his country. My country."
"He was a patriot--to you and us. What Howe gave us helped protect
the peace."
"You might be able to justify it like that. I can't!"
Landau pinched the bridge of his nose. The chaos and fallout in
Jerusalem, the long plane ride, fielding calls and faxes throughout, all this
had sucked away his energy and patience.
"You can't," he parroted. "Well, I'm afraid you must. Consider yourself
damn lucky that the FBI didn't pick you up."
"I have to go to the authorities," Rachel said. "I have to tell them what
I know."
"Which is what, exactly?" Landau replied, his words rich with sarcasm.
"That Howe is a spy? They know that already. Besides a confession,
what could you give them? You never saw any of the material Howe
passed on. You know nothing about him--his contacts, methodology, so
on. The only thing you would be doing is confessing that you were an accomplice--a
minor one at that. The FBI would parade you in front of the
cameras to show what vigilant spy-catchers they are, and you would end
"P in federal court on espionage charges. Is that how you want to throw
Your life away, Rachel?"
She looked away. "The life I have feels very dirty."
I am not your confessor," Landau said coldly. "Nor the keeper of your
J-Onscience. I can only tell you that there is no need for you to feel guilty."
188 J. PATRICK LAW

"Don't presume to tell me what I should or should not feel!"
Landau rose. "You must excuse me, but it is late and I amv
From here on in, the days will be very long."
Rachel stopped him with these words: "How was he cau^t?
"Someone made a mistake. I don't know who, yet. Maybe Hi
self, maybe someone else."

"And what happens to me?"
"Why should anything 'happen' to you? Go on with yourifc
You have important things to do."
"I want your word that you will never contact me again." ,
Landau shook his head. ^li doesn't quite work that waylcsii
that I will not reach out to you unless you are my last option" ^
"What if I refuse to help -you then?"
Landau became very still. The moon slipped out from I
clouds and leeched his face of color.
"You said it yourself, Rachel: Having helped a traitor-B*
For the time being, you and I are the only ones who ku»j
cerely hope there will be ho need to share our secret." , <; a
And that was how it t^ad been left between thenfet^
walked out other life in the early hours of that mornings ^
Lights of oncoming cars -washed across Rachel s fac<?.J3
Ben was preoccupied and didn't notice that her eyes g&l
That was the pan of hex- life she had thrown doWBll^
time she'd worked for Landau, the time it had takendS,
gether. Before Ben, she ha.«j been able, for the most pait&l
1 IT "**'
her consciousness. His cox-ning into her life had blo«
jagged memories, i
But one plucked thorn had been replaced by and
volved she became with &en, the more she came t0^
it was to maintain the lie. iNIot that Ben or his parents!
that particular period ofh^r life; in fact, Rachel had^
of rolling it into her reside ncy that the time discrepat
issue. »
Still, the thorn pricked her heart, made her blee^
sleep. Rachel would lie beside Ben, watching hinrll
confession that she prayes-d would bring her peace* III
herself that his ignorance; of Landau and her invol^
a harmless secret. As lon^ as she never had to look j
THE ASSISTANT 189

directly, Rachel thought she could endure the thorn. In time, it would
wither up and fall away.
As Rachel turned into her street, she heard her conscience mocking
her. Her secret no longer slumbered: It threatened to metastasize and destroy
both Ben and his love for her. If she had never crossed Landau's
path or become involved with him, she could have helped Ben. Now, if
she was to save him, she would have to deceive him, betray him and
keep him ignorant of Landau while at the same time try to woo from him
whatever it was he knew.

"Good-looking son of a bitch, isn't he?"
Kaelin Recce glanced at the female pathologist who'd escorted her to
the D.C. morgue. The two women were standing beside the body of
Samir el-Ban na, laid out on an autopsy table. Reece wondered if the
woman was depraved or simply jaded.
Reece had her tools ready: a tiny pot of fingerprint ink, the size of a
blush container, and a 4x6 index card. Deftly, she took the fingerprints of
el-Banna's right hand.
On a lab table next to the cutting instruments was a portable fax Reece
had deputized from a second-floor administration office. She fed the card
through to the Bureau's NCIC and Terrorist Profile Program computers.
"So what did the pretty boy do?" the pathologist asked, firing up a
Lucky.
"He killed people. Are you allowed to smoke in here?"
"Honey, it's not like anyone's gonna complain about secondhand
smoke."
The pathologist laughed and Reece thought she sounded like the accordion
Reece had found under the tree one long-ago Christmas.
The machine beeped to get her attention. Whoever the dead Arab
was, he was on somebody's hit parade. This was exceptionally fast for a
fingerprint ID.
Reece understood why when she read the fax.
S amir el-B anna. Well, well, well.
"Someone you know?" the pathologist asked her.
Reece smiled. "I'll have to ask you to leave. This is a federal security
matter."
190 J. PATRICK LAW

For a heartbeat, it looked like the pathologist might spoil for a fight,
but something in Recce's eyes made her back down. When she reached
the door she said, loud enough for Recce to hear: "Bitch!"
Recce wasn't listening, too busy pulling up her storehouse of knowledge
on el-Banna. There was a lot to sift through.
Recce had been called to the Dent Place scene because a sharp-eyed
firefighter had discovered a Jordanian passport sewn into the lining of a
jacket on one of the dead men and had taken it to his battalion commander.
The commander had a brother in the intelligence community. He
knew from terrorists.
Recce hadn't held out much hope of anything when she interviewed
the battalion commander at Dent Place. But she knew better than to discard
a lead before checking it out completely. NoW she was coming up
sevens.
Reece's thoughts about el-Banna snagged on the fact that he had
never before operated on American soil. At least not sos sse know.
Landau is in town, she remembered, and then it all fell into place. Oh,
shit! Arabs and Israelis. It's high noon at the O.K. Corral. Jamal's here, too.
Gotta be. Landau, you son of a bitchi What else didn 't you tell me?

* * *

Rachel pulled her car into her postage-stamp-size driveway and killed
the engine. Ben got out and looked at the front of Rachel's home with its
glowing carriage lantern by the gleaming black door, a sprig of spring
flowers tied to the decorative lion's-head knocker. From the first time
she'd brought him here, he'd felt as much at home here as anywhere.
"Thanks."
"For what?"
"For being here."
Her lips felt like down against his ear. "As long as you want me."
Inside, Rachel turned on the lights, drew the curtains, and reset the
alarm.
The shower was running by the time Rachel came upstairs. The bathroom
was filled with steam. She stripped and stepped into the shower,
hot and stinging, into Ben's arms. They stood like that, arms around each
other, for a long time as the water pounded their flesh.
"Do you want something to help you sleep?" Rachel asked as she
dried his back.
THE ASSISTANT 191

Ben shook his head. "I'll be okay."
They slipped under the covers, Rachel lying in the crook of Ben's arm,
listening to his heart slow, slow, until its beat was steady and she knew he
was asleep. Only then did she turn off the night-light.
One hundred sixty feet away, behind a garage-roof parapet, an Israeli
marksman whispered into his radio, then pressed his eye against the rubber
tip of the scope and resumed scanning the perimeter.
s
ixteen



b

en's eyes snapped open and he was awake instantly. He knew he'd
been dreaming, but he retained none of the images. Which was just
as well.
Rachel was fast asleep and he was careful not to wake her. He kept a
change of clothes in Rachel's closet, was dressed and out the door in fifteen
minutes. The smell of last night's rain lay heavily on the predawn
overcast.
Ben walked down to Dupont Circle, where he flagged a cab that took
him to the Federal Triangle. He walked the rest of the way to the law offices,
nodded to the sleepy security guard in the lobby, then stepped into
the elevator.
Moving quickly, Ben crossed the reception area and entered his father's
office. He turned on the lights and focused on the desk. He didn't
dare look around. There were framed photos everywhere.
Sid Poltarek had embraced computers enthusiastically. All possible
bells and whistles had been integrated into his IBM system. As a precaution,
he'd shared the necessary passwords with Ben.
Ben brought up the client list, failed to find Manshur's name, and proceeded
to the expert-witness file.
A thought continued to prey on him like a circling vulture: Why hadn't
he told the detective what the dying man had said to him?
In the cool light of day, Ben could not understand this. He could not
THE ASSISTANT 193

hide behind the excuses of shock or terror. Yes, he'd found himself in the
middle of a bloody, inexplicable situation, but thai didn't mean he'd
been unable to think. What alarm had the detective inadvertently set off
that had caused Ben to lie?
He replayed those terrible moments, conjuring up the detective,
Priestly, the questions he'd asked, how insistent he'd been.
Maybe that was it. Priestly had been pushy, overeager to know something
that, to Ben's way of thinking, was at best peripheral. Faced with a
dead man and a bewildered, frightened bystander. Priestly had focused
not on what had taken place but on what the dead man might have told
Ben. Where was the sense or logic in that?
The computer beeped to inform him that its search was ready. Ben ran
the cursor down the list and clicked on Manshur's name.
Mustafa Manshur, Lebanese, a resident of France, a professor of
physics at the Sorbonne. Employed by Sid Poltarek to serve as an expert
witness in Marbella Industries v. Lockheed. Sid Poltarek's chess opponent--
a good one, too.
That's it?
Ben sat back in the high-back leather chair. Why would his father
have been meeting a man he obviously respected, and whose company
he enjoyed, in a seedy train-station cafe? And lie about it to his son?
There had to be more to Manshur than was contained in this particular
entry.
Ben brought up the Marbella Industries case and reviewed it. Nothing.
Manshur had been one of six physicists his father had used. There
was nothing compelling or unusual about the Lebanese's testimony.
Ben examined the sequence of events from another angle. First Manshur
dies, an alleged suicide. Then his parents are killed by a hit-and-run
driver. The two incidents occur at different times, in different cities,
thousands of miles apart. What possible connection could there be?
Ben willed himself to become still, to allow his mind to drift rather
than try to force an answer from it. There was something about Manshur's
death, something he wasn't seeing.
Or remembering.
Manshur had not been alone when he died. The body of another man,
still unidentified, had been found in the apartment. Someone who had
come to see Manshur.
Just like someone came to me: "Are you Poltarek?"
194 J. PATRICK LAW

Ben examined this connection as gently as he might a glass figurine.
He reached for the phone and was punching in the number when another
possibility slammed into his consciousness. The dying man had
whispered, "Are you Poltarek?" Not "Are you Benjamin Poltarek?" Had
the stranger been referring to, looking for, his father?

» » »

"She calls herself Kaelin Recce of the FBI. She says she knows you.
She's at the guard post."
The katsa eyed Landau over a coffee mug emblazoned with the logo
of Israeli's fiftieth anniversary. He thought Landau looked all right for a
man who'd slept only a few hours, his clothes rumpled because he hadn't
had a chance to change or clean up before the katsa brought him the
news about Reece.
When Landau stretched, his spine cracked.
"Get her off the street," he said. "Baby-sit her until I get cleaned up."
Twenty minutes later, a somewhat refreshed Landau entered the
room where visa applicants waited for interviews. He nodded to the
katsa, who seemed glad to leave.
"Good morning, Kaelin. You're up early."
"You look like shit. Landau."
"Please. Spare me nothing."
"Why didn't you tell me about el-Banna?"
"Would you like some coffee?"
"I'd like an explanation."
Landau saw how well turned out Reece looked, rested, fresh, and for
a moment he resented that.
"What kind of explanation would you prefer, Kaelin?"
"How about something out of the ordinary--like the truth? Dent
Place was one of your safe houses. Sometime earlier in the day you
snatched el-Banna and took him there. Even the pro-Israel congressmen
would have lost their breakfast if they'd seen el-Banna in your basement."

She paused. "What really tears me is that I was the one who gave you
el-Banna. You recognized his picture from the pile I showed you, but you
didn't say word one. Kept it to yourself, ran him to ground, and tried to
make him talk.
"Did you succeed? Of course you did. Now it's time to pony up."
THi ASSISTANT 195

"Kaelin--"
"Do not fuck with me on this. Landau. No one knows how big a fool
I've been, but you know? I don't give a shit if they find out. Because if
you don't share, you'll be taken to Dulles in leg irons and this story will
be plastered all over tonight's news."
"Can I offer you coffee?"
"You can, but I don't want it. 'Fess up."
Landau called on his best, soft, inclusionary tone. "I recognized el-
Banna from the photographs you showed me."
"How did you track him down?"
"You're aware that we have resources in this city, Kaelin. But don't
think for a minute that I would serve them up to you."
Kaelin accepted that. If the tables were turned, neither would she.
"Once you had him, why didn't you call me?"
"Like you said: We had him--and that's all. No information."
"But you made him talk."
"Yes. But I don't know what he said."
Recce puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. "Just when we were doing
so well. Landau--"
"Listen to me." His intensity was almost physical, made her start.
"Two of my men died in that house. El-Banna's watchers followed them
back and blew them apart."
"So what they knew--"
"Died with them?" Landau laughed bitterly. "Not quite. There was a
third man, the interrogator. He managed to escape."
Quickly and concisely, Landau outlined how Tarnofsky had come to
be at the Poltareks' home. He was counting on the possibility that
Reece had not yet connected Dent P lace to the Poltareks and he was
right. His giving her information she didn't have was currency in Landau's
account.
When he was finished, Reece had to take a moment to absorb the details
and to settle herself.
"El-Banna and his troops came to this country to murder Sidney
Poltarek? Maybe his entire family?"
"That would be part of the operation, yes."
"Your man--Tarnofsky--he made it to the Poltareks' apartment but
didn't realize the husband and wife were dead. You suspect that whatver
information he had, he passed on to the kid, Benjamin."
196 j. Fai ri»k ess;.

Landau nodded.
"Now the elder Poltareks would be sayanim, correct?"
"Yes." The notion of sayanim was nothing new to the FBI.

"But not the boy."
"Young man, actually."
"Sitting duck, actually. If he knows what you think he knows. Does

he?"
"He says no. Tarnofsky never said anything."
"But you don't believe him."
"I don't think he's deliberately hiding anything. It's probably the

shock. In time, he'll remember."
"Whore's our friend Jamal while all this is going on?" ,
"Probably very worried. Consider: He loses el-Banna, his best killer '
plus two expendable gunners. He knows el-Banna gave up something before
he died. But what? How much?"

"To whom?"
Landau shook his head. "If Jamal could trail my men to a safe house
then he's smart enough to have figured out that there's a connection between
the survivor, Tarnofsky, and the Poltareks. Now the situation mutates:
The Poltareks die as per schedule. Fine. But then el-Banna is
taken. Everything becomes an ungodly mess. Tarnofsky escapes. If you
were Jamal, where do you think Tarnofsky would run?"
"To the surviving Poltarek."

"Exactly."
"Which is what makes him a sitting duck."
"A protectedduck. I've had a team on him since last night."
Reece looked away, feeling claustrophobic in this crappy waiting
room, wishing for a window so that she could see the sky.
"What's ]amal after?" she asked, not looking at him.

"I don't know."
"Then I don't have any choice. I have to take this to Mitchell."
Bruce Mitchell was Reece's boss in the antiterrorist division. Landau
thought he was marginally competent, but no more than thai.

"Don't do that, Kaelin."
"Come on. Landau! We have Arabs taking down American citizens in

the nation's capital. I can't sit on this."
"I'm not saying you should. But if you go to Mitchell, he'll push every

red button he can. He'll assure you that the press won't get wind of an anTHE ASSISTANT 197

titerrorist operation, but you know that's nonsense. And when Jamal
feels the hunt, he'll burrow so far down we'll never find him."
Landau paused to let her digest this, then finished, "There is another
way."
Recce agreed with Landau's assessment ofMitchell's actions. He was
a by-the-book guy, with predictable results.
"What do you have in mind?"
Landau had thought through this contingency measure hours ago.
"My boss talks to your boss."
"The prime minister to the president?"
"Right. We make this a tight--very tight--joint operation: you, me, and
your troops if and when we need them."
"Let's not forget your troops."
Landau ignored that. "Mitchell is kept in the loop out of courtesy, but
you and I run the show."
Recce did not need a vivid imagination to picture how Mitchell would
react to this arrangement. Still, how much choice would he have if word
came down from the president directly?
"Say you can pull this off. What's our objective?"
"To find Jamal and snip his operation."
"I'Snip.' You mean interrogate him until he gives up the details."
"We don't know what Jamal is running here," Landau said quietly.
"It's not likely that the threat is nuclear. But biological, chemical? That's
possible. He wouldn't need much of a crew to help him with that. For all
we know, el-Banna had already done the groundwork."
Images of Department of Defense videos filled Recces mind, sheep
and cattle collapsing like cardboard cutouts after a device the size of a
baseball was opened in a contained environment.
"How long will it take to set this up?" she asked.
"Not long," Landau replied. "Let me get you that coffee."

* * *

It was still too early for any of the staff to have arrived, but the chair
across from Ben's was occupied.
Henry Blake was a rail-thin black man who wore, whatever the
weather, a black wool three-piece suit with a fob watch in the vest
pocket. The cowboy boots and black diamond cuff studs rounded out
the image of an 1890s riverboat gambler.
198 J. PAtKlUR LAW

At fifty-three, Blake was the oldest detective in the D.C.P.D. He had
been Sid Poltarek's friend for over a quarter of a century, going back to
the time when Pokarek had represented the department's black officers
in a landmark civil rights action.
"I sure am sorry 'bout your daddy," Blake said. His voice was as soft as
his caramel-colored eyes. "I don't think it's all that good for you to be sitting
here by yourself, Ben."
"I need your help," Ben said.
"That's what you said on the phone. That's why I'm here."
"I need to see the police report on my parents' deaths."
"Why would you be needin' that?"
"I have to know exactly how they died." Ben hesitated. "If it really
was a hit-and-run."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Henry--"
"No, Ben. If I'm going to help you, I have a right to ask. I may be Internal
Affairs, but like every other detective, I leave a silicon trail when I call up a report. If I'm going to be asked later why I did that, I'd best have
a good reason."
"I can't give you anything solid."
"Was Sid in trouble? Was he being threatened by somebody?"
"No. If Sid and Rose's deaths relate to anything, it's the business in
Paris."
Ben sketched out the events in Paris and how Mustafa Manshur had
figured in them.
"Sounds a little thin," Blake opined. "Still, helluva coincidence, all
these people dyin' one after another." He glanced at the ceiling. "What
did you say the name of that detective was?"
"Priestly"
"The report will be filed under his badge. Why don't you and I trade
places."
Blake's fine-boned fingers danced over the keyboard. Not five minutes
had elapsed before the printer clicked on.
Ben and the detective read through the report, a compilation of eyewitness
accounts and memoranda from technicians and crime-scene experts.
Included were computer-generated diagrams detailing a likely
sequence starting with the time the crosswalk light turned orange and
the Pokareks stepped off the sidewalk.
THE ASSISTANT 199

Ben's eyes burned when he got to the part about the SUV striking his
parents, how fast it had been going, how hard they'd been hit. When he
looked up, Blake was watching him.
"I'll get through this," Ben said.
"I know you will, son."
"Something's not right," Ben said. "Something's out of whack."
"Meaning?"
"Look at the diagrams. If you start at the point where... . where Sid
and Rose were hit, and play the sequence backwards, here's what you
have: In order for them to end up where they did, the techs say that the
truck had to have been going at least forty miles an hour. Now check the
distance between the impact point and the corner where the truck
turned. The way the math works, the driver would have to have hit the
gas just after he turned the corner in order to reach that speed before impact."

"You figured this out in your head?" Blake asked.
"I'm a magician. Magic is smoke, mirrors, and math. Angles, planes,
horizons."
"Okay. Let's assume you're right with the numbers. What do they
mean?"
"Back it up some more. We know the truck couldn't have been idling
at that corner--too much traffic. A cop would have moved him along. So
the driver would want to reach the corner a few seconds before the crosswalk
light goes on and my parents step off the curb. Question is, if his
window of opportunity is so narrow, where is he waiting? It has to be
close enough to the corner, but not so close that he'd attract attention."
Ben raised his eyebrows at Blake.
"The Watergate," the detective said softly. "In the turnaround area.
The driver could have slipped the doorman a fifty to idle."
"Yes. And my parents park at the Watergate when they go to the
Kennedy Center. They would have come out the front doors where the
driver would have seen them." The last words caught in Ben's throat,
tasted bitter.
"After that, all the bastard had to do was fall in behind them. At the
corner, he needed a little luck, not to get stuck too far behind. He got it.
They didn't."
Ben wiped away the tears. "Son of a bitch!"
"You know what you're saying, don't you?" Blake said quietly.
200 ]. PATRICK LAW

"Yeah. That it wasn't a freak hit-and-run. Sid and Rose were murdered."

"Don't go down that road, Ben."
"What do you mean? The facts--"
"Facts you made out of math. You think that the interval and distances
can't be played with? I can feed those same numbers into a game machine
and come up with a dozen scenarios. You know that."
"Maybe. But that doesn't mean this one's wrong."
"No. But it is only one."
"What about Paris? Everything that happened there...."
"It's a reach, Ben. Paris is a long way off. Here, all you have are circumstantial
details--not even evidence."
"What does your gut tell you. Henry?"
The detective sighed. "I've seen your magic, Ben. I know what you
can conjure up out of thin air. But some of the things you said, well.... I
want to think about them. Okay?"
"Okay." Ben went into the galley and got coffee going. When he returned,
he asked, "What do you know about Priestly?"
"He's been on the job for twelve years," Blake replied. "Not a cowboy,
not a slacker. Very steady. Methodical."
"Do we want to run my thinking by him?"
"Not yet. Like I said, let me turn this over." He paused. "And I want
your word that you won't go off half-cocked until I talk to you."
Ben smiled faintly. "I wouldn't know where to go halfcocked,
Henry." He paused. "Thanks for coming down, hearing me out."
"Wouldn't have it any other way. You let me know if you need any help
with the funeral arrangements."
The phone rang. Ben was tempted to lei it go until he thought it might
be someone calling about Sid.
It was Rachel, her tone frantic, then filled with relief as she scolded
him for leaving without telling her.
Through the open door, Ben saw Mary come in, her eyes red and
puffy. When she saw Ben, she dropped her purse and briefcase and
rushed toward him.
"Rachel, I gotta go. I'll be at the apartment later."
Ben rose and allowed himself to be gathered up in Mary's tearful embrace.
Over her shoulder, he saw Henry Blake standing looking out the
window, his hands together in front of him, already a mourner.
s
eventeen


I

must say, Miss sawyer, your credentials are very impressive."
The Reverend Wnslow Garrett spoke with a mid-Atlantic accent.
He was in his early sixties, a scarecrow in gray, with a freckled scalp and
tufts of hair that trailed out from inside his ears like overgrown ivy.
His office was a dusty affair, texts and manuscripts piled on a frayed
Oriental rug, potted plants waning from neglect.
"Thank you," Judith said. She wore a conservative beige suit she'd
bought that morning.
"Yes, very impressive," Garrett repeated. Judith heard the soft clatter
of his dentures. "Tell me. Miss Sawyer, what was it that brought you back
home after these"--Garrett squinted at her resume--"eight years?"
"To be honest, I was homesick." Judith gave him a misty, low-wattage
smile. "My parents passed on when I was doing postgraduate work. I had
the opportunity to do research in Egypt and took it. I stayed not only because
of the work but because I loved the people and the culture." She
paused for effect. "There really wasn't much for me here at the time. But
I suppose you can't stay away forever. At least that's what I realized. I
want to put down roots."
"Meet a young man?" Garrett asked kindly.
"I'd very much like a family," Judith said quietly.
Garrett closed her folder and crossed his hands on top of it.
). PATRICK LAW

lis Sawyer, from what you've sho»n,xliiink you acini
Yhat any school in this city. Almost ovequilified for ourlitk
^V^liool. Not that we wouldn't love to tot (on. UnfonBi«
^fk,^,1 have an opening in our K-to-six scaiinABuffett, »t»;ii
^phy and history, has been with usfiTOind she's sdl^
from retirement."
''didi smiled wanly. "I understand. Mi.Gmni.do you kcqui
'ificd teachers, in case a vacancy comes npf'
^ course. And I would be happy to addvin™e to it, ifvnn
^ ^se."
^ However, I'm sure that by the time wcn;(]iiiicvour servico,»]
sliccn spoken for."
<k't think so.
v Mh gathered up her things and let GirOTalliher out ofiln
^ Oiic thing I forgot to ask you. Miss Saro, What denoiii
V

'Episcopalian."

Giro beamed. "Of course."
^IWood floor, slightly bowed with igcud smelling mb
'^»wax, creaked under her shoes. Thcinitiown moldings,,ll
h ^-colored walls, still cool from the fcshlisia, remindaljiil
'\par ^'tod of school she'd gone to in thai Cilifan seaside tomia
^Ste lingered at the open door to a daomiiBd took in Etui
>N one-piece desks lined up in row.ltiTOithe bladtal
bather's desk was the American flag.
Aluough the classroom was vacant, h mi was filial »i
i
'Bilsof children. Except they sang andsliirimArabic, [iiitfi
^
wllofthem had faces that belonged tobdadson.
"llissSaw^'er?"
lift caught herself. "I'm sorry. It'sjusiiliiin's been soiling
'itsttB such a beautiful, well-preserved telding,"
Ido try to keep it up," Winslow Gariciiaidproudly. "Afa
^itisioric landmark. Dates back to 1811" jiiffli nodded. M
kflii]ue out front.
'tntiaps you'd like to see the church tf'Garrett offerd
Idly don't want to take up your tinit.'
"iBense. Take the next left. That'llhdusindie connecting
li;
I THE ASSISTANT -2U3

vm.eli they reached the end of the hall, Garrett squeezed around Ju-
,. , get at the lock. A set of stairs took them down to another hall, a
. ^y, to a door that opened on the basement, which was used as a

storage ^m-
"So rri3"^ i100!" and crannies in these old buildings," Garrett said,

nuffine h*5 ^Y "P one more set of stairs.
mar'( there though," Judith remarked. She'd been counting on that.

"Here we are'" ^Jarrett ^id, hauling himself by the banister the last

few steps- Follow'11^ nls direction, Judith turned right, instead of going up to the
second le^l- <>r>e found herself in a small foyer with several red-cushioned
chai^ ^d some scarred end tables that could have come from a
yard sale. Below the small built-in bookcases, ancient radiators gurgled
and clanged.
Garrett ushered her around the corner, and she found herself standing
at the back of St. John's Church.
Unlike the school next door, the church had not been renovated for
some time- A musty odor mingled with the strong scent of beeswax candles;
dust motes were illuminated by wall sconces. Judith noted that the
odor became more pronounced as Garrett led her down the aisle. She
thought it came from the faded red-and-white cushions built into the
seats and backs of the pews.
On her left was a crypt carved of marble, with candles, a floral arrangement,
and a crucifix above it. In a recessed panel, inscribed on a marble
plaque, was the in memoriam to the Reverend William Hawley, a nineteenth-century
rector.
The sacristy was dominated by a large three-paned stained-glass window
depicting scenes from the Bible. The altar was in an open area bordered
by two thick granite pillars.
"Isn't it magnificent?" Garrett said proudly.

"Breathtaking."
Judith thought the Reverend Garrett was not a well-traveled man if he
ranked this little house of worship, albeit quaint, among the Seven Wonders
of the World.
"I suppose you know what is somewhat special about our little
church," he said after showing her the choir loft.

Judith did, but wanted him to tell her. "No, I don't."
Garrett waggled his finger. He walked up the aisle until he found pew
W2 j. PATRltJR LAW

"Miss Sawyer, from what you've shown me, I think you are qualified
to teach at any school in this city. Almost overqualified for our little Sunday
school. Not that we wouldn't love to have you. Unfortunately, we
don't have an opening in our K-to-six section. Miss Buffett, who teaches
geography and history, has been with us forever and she's still a year or
two from retirement."
Judith smiled wanly. "I understand. Mr. Garrett, do you keep a list of
qualified teachers, in case a vacancy comes up?"
"Of course. And I would be happy to add your name to it, if you wish."
"Please."
"However, I'm sure that by the time we require your services, you will
have been spoken for."
/ don'/ think so.
Judith gathered up her things and let Garrett walk her out of the office.
"One thing I forgot to ask you. Miss Sawyer. What denomination are
you?"
"Episcopalian."
Garrett beamed. "Of course."
The wood floor, slightly bowed with age and smelling sweetly of
lemon wax, creaked under her shoes. The fine crown moldings, the soft
honey-colored walls, still cool from the fresh plaster, reminded Judith of
the kind of school she'd gone to in that California seaside town so long
ago. She lingered at the open door to a classroom and took in the familiar
sight of one-piece desks lined up in rows. Between the blackboard and
the teacher's desk was the American flag.
Although the classroom was vacant, her mind was filled with the
sounds of children. Except they sang and shouted in Arabic, not English,
and all of them had faces that belonged to her dead son.
"Miss Sawyer?"
Judith caught herself. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's been so long since
I've seen such a beautiful, well-preserved building."
"We do try to keep it up," Winslow Garrett said proudly. "After all, it
is an historic landmark. Dates back to 1815." Judith nodded. She'd seen
the plaque out front.
"Perhaps you'd like to see the church itself?" Garrett offered.
"I really don't want to take up your time."
"Nonsense. Take the next left. That'll lead us to the connecting corridor."
1HE ASS1S1AM 1 -£U3

When they reached the end of the hall, Garrett squeezed around Judith
to get at the lock. A set of stairs took them down to another hall, a
short one, to a door that opened on the basement, which was used as a
storage room.
"So many nooks and crannies in these old buildings," Garrett said,
puffing his way up one more set of stairs.
"Aren't there though," Judith remarked. She'd been counting on that.
"Here we are," Garrett said, hauling himself by the banister the last
few steps.
Following his direction, Judith turned right, instead of going up to the
second level. She found herself in a small foyer with several red-cushioned
chairs and some scarred end tables that could have come from a
yard sale. Below the small built-in bookcases, ancient radiators gurgled
and clanged.
Garrett ushered her around the corner, and she found herself standing
at the back of St. John's Church.
Unlike the school next door, the church had not been renovated for
some time. A musty odor mingled with the strong scent of beeswax candles;
dust motes were illuminated by wall sconces. Judith noted that the
odor became more pronounced as Garrett led her down the aisle. She
thought it came from the faded red-and-white cushions built into the
seats and backs of the pews.
On her left was a crypt carved of marble, with candles, a floral arrangement,
and a crucifix above it. In a recessed panel, inscribed on a marble
plaque, was the in memoriam to the Reverend William Hawley, a nineteenth-century
rector.
The sacristy was dominated by a large three-paned stained-glass window
depicting scenes from the Bible. The altar was in an open area bordered
by two thick granite pillars.
"Isn't it magnificent?" Garrett said proudly.
"Breathtaking."
Judith thought the Reverend Garrett was not a well-traveled man if he
ranked this little house of worship, albeit quaint, among the Seven Wonders
of the World.
"I suppose you know what is somewhat special about our little
church," he said after showing her the choir loft.
Judith did, but wanted him to tell her. "No, I don't."
Garrett waggled his finger. He walked up the aisle until he found pew
am j: tulKHJK ua»»

54, where he pointed to the floor. There, below the shelf that held the
hymnals, was a row of knee cushions, one foot square, six inches thick.
On each of the plum-colored velour covers was sewn the presidential seal
and the name of the chief executive who, during his term in office, had
worshiped there.
Judith read the names Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter, and Gerald
Ford.
"This pew is reserved for every sitting president, isn't it?" Judith asked.
"You know your history," Garrett replied.
On her way out, Judith stopped in front of the collection box. She
made sure that Garrett noticed the ten-dollar bill she slipped through the
slot. It was a generous amount for a schoolteacher, and the man of the
cloth would remember her for it.
Winslow Garrett bade her a warm goodbye and wished her well in her
quest for a job.
Instead of leaving, Judith tarried in front of the church. To the casual
eye, she was just another tourist photographing an unprepossessing landmark.

Judith framed the pseudo-Grecian columns and the bell tower above
them. She then photographed the office building next door, which was
being gutted. Of particular interest to her was the long waste chute that
ran all the way from the top floor to the Dumpster below.
Judith went around the corner to H Street. Between the church and
the school was a street-level connecting passage, framed to look like a
tiny house. In front of the passage was a delivery area large enough for
two cars or a good-size truck. On top of the city's no parking sign was one
in black: reserved clergy parking only.
Judith took pictures of everything.
She went back to Sixteenth Street and photographed the bulletin
board encased in glass and wrought iron. Now she had the timetables for
the Sunday services.
Off to the side was a smaller board:

EDUCATION PROGRAMS
SUNDAY
NURSERY 8:45 TO 12:00
FORUM 10:00
CHURCH SCHOOL 10:00 TO I 1:00

THE ASSISTANT 205

Back in Cairo, she hadn't believed Jamal when he'd told her how easy
the first steps would be. Everything was out in the open, he'd said. One
had only to know where to look.
Judith crossed H Street, went into Lafayette Park, and bought a snow
cone.
She had been in Washington for only a few days, but she was acclimatizing
fast. At first, the pace of the city had bothered her. After the endless
silence and sweep of the desert, Washington seemed like a giant
anthill. Judith forced herself to think of Cairo and the other cities of the
Middle East she'd visited, and then the noise and crowds didn't bother
her.
She had spent her first night at the Comfort Inn on Twelfth Street.
After sleeping off her jet lag, she'd moved to a residential hotel near the
National City Christian Church. She'd paid for a month in advance, and
the clerk seemed not to care that she offered cash instead of a credit card.
The hotel housed a lot of young women who'd saved their waitressing
money then got on the Greyhound bus at small--town stations throughout
the South and Midwest.
Judith had opened a bank account, applied to have her credit cards reinstated,
then stood in line half the morning at the DMV. She'd used the
Yellow Pages to find the locations ofmidrange department stores, bought
a map of the city, and begun walking. At the end of the day, she had a
wardrobe. Tomorrow her new bank account would be fattened by a deposit
from the National Bank of Cairo.
Looking at the people she passed in Lafayette Park, Judith thought
America hadn't changed very much at all. There were more homeless
around--and police, too. The tourists were no different from the ones
she'd sometimes chanced to see at archaeological sites or in the great
cities of the Middle East. They were, for the most part, humorless and
grim, determined to squeeze a memorable moment out of each dollar
spent.
Behind her sunglasses, Judith felt invisible, as though she were a ghost
in their midst, leaving a kiss of cold air on their cheeks as she drifted by.
Deep in her heart was an ache she could not still, memories that would
never dissolve in the sharp acid of time. She told herself that the ache
was there to remind her why she had traveled so far, and of all the things
she had yet to do. It whispered to her that she didn't have to hate these
people who were no longer kinsmen but not quite strangers. She had no
2Ub J. PATRltJR LAW

reason to level their cities or cause them to die like flies. They had absolutely
nothing to do with the fight she had brought to their shores. They
couldn't possibly change or influence what she needed to cause.
Judith was so lost in thought that she was surprised to suddenly find
herself at the edge of the park, on the Pennsylvania Avenue side.
There it was, right in front other. The White House. Where Charles
Woodbridge lived.
Judith went to a souvenir stall. Here were coffee mugs with Wood-
bridge's image on them, T-shins, and flags. Even a life-size cardboard
likeness that tourists could pose beside and show to the neighbors back
home.
Judith thought the years had been kind to Woodbridge. Even in these
bad reproductions she saw a man fifteen years younger, big and rangy,
with flashing white teeth and dark, thick, curly hair. A man who had
many faces--the seducer of juries; the contemplative scholar seeking
justice; the sly, tenacious inquisitor who could twist a witness's words to
mean anything he wished them to mean.
Her father's words. Judith watching as Woodbridge, then lead counsel
for the investment firm her father had allegedly robbed, picked apart
Lester Sawyer's truth like so much carrion, then turned around and hammered
accusations like nails into a crucifix.
Charles Woodbridge, hailed by most of the world as the best President
in fifty years, loved by his people, was to Judith a monster who devoured
the innocent. But Woodbridge's real sin lay not in the
destruction of Lester Sawyer but in the fact that as a brilliant legal technician,
he had to have known that Sawyer was innocent.
Still you went ahead ana destroyed him.
Judith heard the gun as it went off in her father's hand. She saw the
rooster's plume of blood spraying high in the air, as the bullet tore apart
her father's head.
Woodbridge blood-drenchech, crouching, ducking, then looking up to
find his witness sprawled in the box like a broken puppet. Judith remembered
that those who rushed up had gone to Woodbridge first, to see
if he was injured. Only the deputies, charging into the room, went after
her father, their guns drawn.
Did you think you had washed that blood from your skin? Did you believe you
could ever do it?
Judith thought Woodbridge did believe this. Here was a man so calTHE ASSISTANT 207

lous and blind that he'd never even sent a condolence letter to his victim's
family. No apology, no remorse, no plea for forgiveness. Nothing.
He probably doesn't even remember, she thought, staring at the grand
house.
Woodbridge's career had not been impacted in the least by that sensational
moment. If anything, the incident lionized him. Later, it became
part of the Woodbridge legend, how he'd stood up, unarmed, to a deranged
gunman, having only words to defend himself with.
But he mil remember. On a Sunday. As he sits in pew 54. I vsill come for him
then, I will look into his soul ana he will remember, andthe prater in his mouth
will become one for himself.
rLighteen
'ig


b

en got out of the elevator and walked down the hall to his parents'
apartment. He had steeled himself for this moment, thought
he could manage it if he got through the door.
There was yellow barricade tape across the door and a police seal along
the seam. Suddenly, the image of what wouldn't be waiting for him on
the other side of that door poked him in the throat.
Through a haze of red, Ben reached out and ripped away the seal and
the tape, fumbled with the key as the gummy underside of the tape
stuck to the sole of his shoe.
The body of the man he'd held in his arms had been reduced to a car-
toonlike figure outlined with white tape. The figure lay in such a position
that Ben would have to step over it if he wanted to go upstairs.
He didn't need to do that right away.
Now that he was home, the things he had only idly wondered about
became real. He would have to clean out his parents' closets. What about
the personal mementos, the pictures and paintings and sculptures and a
lifetime's worth of bric-a-brac? And then there was the furniture, their
bed ...
Ben realized he was close to hyperventilating and closed down the
seemingly endless demands bearing down upon him. One thing at a
time. First, he needed to do what he'd come for.
THE ASSISTANT 209

Ben fired up the computer in his father's study. Swiftly, he pulled up
the references to Mustafa Manshur, but found nothing more than he had
in the office files.
Not good enough.
Ben went on the Internet, seeking anything that might cross-reference
with the physicist. In a few minutes, he had his answer, courtesy of
the abbreviated, English version of Cairo 'sAlAhram.
The day before Manshur died, two other men had also been killed:
Abdul Muhsain in Damascus, Wadi Ghusha in Beirut. The first had been
Manshur's cousin; the second, his brother-in-law.
Ben sat back, staring at the three-inch newspaper column. He was
lucky that Muhsain and Ghusha were prominent Middle Eastern businessmen;
otherwise the newspaper would never have printed the story.
So now there were three men, all related, all dead within forty-eight
hours of one another. Plus the dead man in Manshur's apartment and
the one who'd died in Ben's arms. The last two were not related to
Manshur, at least not by blood. But could they be related to each other?
Had someone come to warn Manshur or pass on information just as the
anonymous man had whispered to Ben, "Tell him they are bringing in
an American."
And something else! Suddenly, Ben remembered that the dying man's
message hadn't been for him.
"This is for Landau, only him .. . Tell him they are bringing in an American. . . . Landau asill know what to do. He can warn the Americans."

Ben shivered as he recalled the desperation and intensity of the dying
man's words.
Who were you? he asked himself. Who is Landau? And the American?
Landau. . . . Ben knew he needed something more specific than the
name in order to run a search.
There were other things, too, names the stranger had managed to get
out. Ben closed his eyes and called up the scene in his mind, him holding
the man, the stranger gasping as the life was pumped out of him.

"Rothman.... Bernstein deadF
Ben scribbled down the names. One more. There was one more.
Benny? Bunny? Beignet? L. Something.... Dana? Bana. L. Bana. Albania?
No.
He typed in "I. Bana." The computer searched, then requested more
details.
210 J. PATRICK LAW

Ben drummed his fingers on the edge of the keyboard.
The way the stranger had spoken, his accent. . . Middle Eastern? A
tie-in to Manshur and his relations? Possibly.
Ben looked at the screen: L. Bana. Not necessarily Arabic. Not unless
it was spelled a different way.

He keyed in "el-Bana."
"Shit!" The search yielded nothing. He tried another variation: el-
Banna.
The computer punched up a story from the Times of London. El-
Banna, a globe-trotting Jordanian businessman suspected of terrorist
ties.
There was his picture. The handsome face meant nothing to Ben. He
read on.
El-Banna present in cities at the same time as political assassinations
were carried out. Strong suspicion but no proof to connect him to these
killings.
But there were reports that el-Banna was close to Hafez Jamal, a well-
known terrorist who opposed the Mideast peace talks.
The current whereabouts of the two men were unknown.
Ben's mind worked furiously as the pieces spun and fell into place.
Manshur and his relatives, the man who had died in his arms, Samir el-
Banna, and Hafez Jamal--all of them were from the Middle East. Was it
possible that either el-Banna or Jamal or both were responsible for the
killing ofMusiafa Manshur and his kin?
Suddenly, Ben realized where he was going with this. He wanted to
stop, but couldn't.
Manshur was connected to Sid Poltarek. If Manshur had told Sid
something, would that have placed Ben's father in jeopardy?
Damn right--if either el-Banna or Jamal was responsible for Manshur's
murder.
Which meant that one or both of the terrorists could have followed
Ben and his father back to the United States, waited for the right moment: outside the Kennedy Center on a cold, vset night.
Dear God, what did you do in Paris, Sid? What did Manshur tell you that got
you and Rose killed^
Ben remembered his talk with Henry Blake, how he had interpreted
the crime scene to infer that the driver of the sport utility vehicle could
also have been a cold, deliberate killer.
THE ASSISTANT 211

El-Banna? Maybe. Jamal? Absolutely.
Ben took a moment to compose himself. He set aside everything he
had learned and deduced. The next question related to Sid. What else
had Sid done besides lawyering? What was he involved in that a man
would die trying to reach him with a message about an American?
Ben had no doubt that the stranger who'd died in his arms had come
not for him but for Sid.
Sid was the connection to Landau.
Who was Landau? The only thing Ben was sure of was that Landau
had to know about an American.
Who was the American? Would his father have understood the reference?

Ben shivered. What he knew about terrorism he'd gotten from sound
bites and the occasional magazine article. He needed to know more. If he
researched el-Banna and Jamal, maybe he would come across a reference
to Landau.
And he had to work quickly. The meaning behind the stranger's
words, "They're bringing in an American," was clear: Whatever the terrorists
were planning in the United States necessitated using a native.
They could not do it themselves. Ben imagined a small, dusty room,
empty except for a cheap alarm clock, ticking away. A timetable.
What was the terrorists' mission? How much time had already
elapsed? How much was left?
Concentrate on Landau. He's your^ev--
"Freeze!"
Ben's last action was instantaneous: His little finger tapped the delete
key and the screen went blue.
He stared at the woman holding the gun on him. "Who are you?"
"Special Agent Reece, FBI." She held out her ID. "Are you alone, Mr.
Poltarek?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"The seal and tape were unbroken when I got here."
"What about after? Don't leave this room. I'll be back in a minute."
Ben heard her heels strike the hardwood floors, disappear whenever
she stepped on the rugs. He heard the soft shuffle other feet on the staircase
and wondered if she had stepped into the tape-drawn figure or
skirted it.
212 J. PATRICK LAW

Doors opened and closed and after a time Recce was back. Ben was
leaning back against his father's desk, his arms crossed.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I was about to ask you the same. You're trespassing on a crime scene.
It's an indictable offense."
"This is my parents' home. I was staying here before--"
"You still shouldn't be here."
"And you? Since when did hit-and-run cases interest the FBI?"
Ben watched Reece approach the desk, look at the blue screen.
"What were you doing here?"
"My father did a lot of work at home. I was going through our case roster
to see what would have to be farmed out, to whom. You still haven't
answered my question."
"Mr. Poltarek, I'm here because that's where your office told me I
could find you. One of your late father's clients was Kaiser-Agfa, which
has a government contract for defense-related work. I'm here to ask you
to give me access to that particular file so that it can be reviewed by our
experts."
"For what--breaches of national security?"
"No, sir. It's just standard procedure in cases like this."
"Because my father was killed? If your people wanted to see the file,
why didn't they ask him themselves?"
Ben thought Agent Reece's smile looked tighter than a suture.
"Maybe that's what would have happened. In any case, do I have your permission to take the file with me--assuming you have it here?"
Ben knew she was sinking in her own bullshit, but he didn't want her
to cut and run just yet. ^
"Even if I had the file, I couldn't give it to you, not without the client's ]
consent. I can call the head of Kaiser-Agfa legal and explain the situation |
to her. Under the circumstances, I doubt there'd be any problem." ^
"That's very kind of you, considering your situation. And I am sorry for |
your loss, Mr. Poltarek."
"Thank you. Does that mean I can stay here?"
"Let me talk to D.C. homicide."
"You'll want Detective Priestly."
Reece looked at him as she took out her cell phone. "Yes, I know."
Her conversation was brief. After breaking the connection, she said,
THE ASSISTANT 213

It's okay for you to stay. Someone will be along to remove the seal and
tape ... and to clean up the stairs." Reece paused. "Just one thing. Detective
Priestly mentioned that he'd asked you about the deceased who
was found here. He said you might have remembered what he said to
you."
"The dead man."
"Yes."
"Detective Priestly has it wrong," Ben said. "I told him that the dead
man didn't tell me anything."
"I see. You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I'll mention that to the detective." Reece dipped into her jacket
pocket and handed Ben a card. "Work, home, cell numbers. You can always
reach me at one of them."
"Thank you. But I don't understand--"
"Kaiser-Agfa? In case there's a problem getting approval from their
legal people."
Ben smiled awkwardly and walked her to the door. Agent Reece's
handshake was cool and firm.
"Look after yourself, Mr. Poltarek. This time, lock the door after you.
And again, my condolences."
Ben watched Reece go down the hall, then threw the deadbolt. He
dropped both hands on the handle, trying to hold himself together.
He did not for an instant believe that Reece had talked to Priestly on
the phone. She probably hadn't spoken to him at all. But she knew about
Priestly s questions. Had Priestly mentioned them in his report? Is that
where Reece had picked up on them?
// really doesn 't matter, does it? The point was that Reece, like Priestly,
was far more interested in the dead man than in the killing of Sid and
Rose Poltarek.
Ben thought back to the connections he'd made. Had the police and
the FBI made the same ones? Were they missing the same pieces that he
was? And if so, did they believe that the dead man had had answers he
might have passed on to Ben?
Ben felt a dull pounding at his temples, an incipient headache. He
went into the powder room and fixed himself an Alka-Seltzer.
"Should I tell them?" he asked his reflection in the mirror.
214 ] PATRICK LAW

The temptation was soft ;. and sweet, li^ ^ lullaby and
tired. But behind his bloocdshot eyes, he ^aw a truth ^
burn like a ship's lamp at seaca: Priestly and Dp,^ ,*,* ..J
ivd^^-c, dllu f^fdl
pie who stood behind thei-ram, did not really ^^ ^ ^ ^
were dead. They had theix^i own agenda ^d it was cen«|
dead stranger. Ben undersir-tood that if he o^g ^g^ Ag»|
they would not use it to ho^p him, only themselves.
To hell with them. He = would dig de<;p^, harder, loiH
connections until he had - the answers he needed Ben sb
his face and went back too the computer.
* %
» *

Kaelin Recce found l_^andau in a mosi unlikely plact»<|
end of the line of visitor^s who were waii^p ^ a ^om. oNlill
"I thought it was the = one place wh^e we wouldn't ^
Landau explained. Afte^r Recce led hir^ into a restricted^

"How did it go with Pookarek?" ^
"He's very shaky," T Reece told him. "But still sharp.^
right through the Kais^-er-Agfa crap. W^^n I asked him ate
he told me your man l-imadn't said word one to him." wl

"True or not?" y^
"Not. He was fiddlizAngwith Poltare^'s home computer «1^peda
in. The kid knows sowmiething, but he's not about to gwril^^ 'l|

Landau's eyes wer^Te black slits. "You're sure?" I
"Give me some cr=iedit. Landau. I'n, not saying Po^ft^gpetfl
book, but he's wourv-oded, vulnerable ^ m^ real harA^IH^yita^
the lie, but...." She^= shrugged. "I think we need to look ^»^|^er^
computers, both hcsame and office. Maybe there are fi*&l<(m, notes

about Paris." a' ,
"Can you do thaar?" 5
"With a court orcsxier? Sure." ' ,
"There may not ^ be time for niceties." '
"I know. I can ^ge1 a Tnle VI tap order in about an ho^Q^i^
cowboys can be nann and out of Poliarek's equipment in «g ^ " §(,

paused. "What ab-- out your end?"
Landau turned A just a little, so t^ ne spoke directly Hol^mnd tl

wall behind her.
"You and I, we ,=s're good to go."
THE ASS15 1AK i =-,

Recce was impressed. "That fast?"
"Whatever else my prime minister might do, he does not cry wolf.
Your president knows that when Yakov Admony is ready for tachless, it's
serious."
"Tadless?"
"1'Business,' as 'in get down to.'l"
"And what business are we getting down to?"
"Your Mitchell will be calling you very soon. Pretend to be surprised
when he tells you that you will be paired with me. We have carte blanche
on any resources we need."
"How far afield do we want to roam?"
"Until we find jamal's nest."
"And then?"
"According to Admony, the president has agreed to allow me the privilege
of having the first discussions with jamal--as long as you are present."

"I see. You intend to take him alive. But your tone means you would
rather not have me there."
"Kaelin, as a federal officer you are required to inform a suspect of his
constitutional rights. I do not labor under any such onus."
"You want to torture him."
"No," Landau said softly. "I do not want to do that. But I will if I must.
I am not going to allow Jamal to release his madness in this country."
"I know a part of you means that. Landau," Reece said quietly. "But
don't you hold out on me or bullshit me. You're not doing this for the red,
white, and blue. If Jamal were in Helsinki, you'd give the Finns the same
spiel. Fact is, if Jamal does blow up something here and the casualty
count is like Oklahoma City, Israel will take the heat--she and her supporters
in Congress. That's what Admony is afraid of."
Landau looked at her keenly. "Yes, I'm aware of the consequences;
yes, I will do whatever I have to to shut Jamal down. Believe me, Kaelin,
when I tell you that whatever Jamal has in store for you, it will be much,
much louder than Oklahoma City."
"Sometimes you frighten me. Landau," Reece said. "All power, no
checks and balances."
"Then here are some checks for you," Landau replied harshly. "I am
not going to survive Samarra--not politically. The crowd bays and Admony
will have to deliver them my head. The only reason I am here,
216 J. PATRICK LAW

Kaelin, is because Admony knows that there is no time to
one else. He's stuck with me. And given that, he knows
handcuff me. So yes, it may seem I have all this pow<
chimera. It always is that.
"Now. We do this? Yes, no?"
Reece's cell phone chirped. MircAell. "I guess it's yes," s

^

ineteen

the hunt for hafez jamal was headquartered not at the FBI's
Hoover Building, a magnet for the media, but at the Washington
field office in Buzzard's Point.
There were other advantages to this location. Buzzard's Point housed
the Bureau s hostage rescue team. Ifjamal was cornered and managed to
take hostages, the HRT would be in play.
Because of its remote location and tight security, the media seldom assigned
reporters to cover activity at Buzzard's Point. Even if some had
been present, they would not have suspected that the delivery vans
rolling through the gates contained sophisticated computer equipment,
not food for the field office's cafeteria.
By midafternoon, Landau and Recce had organized their command
post. While Bureau computer experts quietly hacked into Sid Poltarek's
machines in his office and at home, Reece worked with an artist to prepare
a composite of Hafez Jamal.
There were many photographs of Jamal available to Reece, some of
them quite detailed. But the idea was not to define Jamal very closely.
Jamal's sobriquet was Fast Walker. He would use his mastery of disguise
to camouflage himself. Reece had the artist concentrate on the eyes and
the mouth, on the slope of the cheekbones and the slant of the jaw, eleents
that Jamal could work around but not really change.
218 ]. PATRJCK LAW

The cover story to be given to local and state law enforcement, and to
the media, was that the suspect was wanted in connection with the
wounding of a federal officer during a tractor-trailer hijacking gone bad.
The story pushed the wounded-lawman button for cops, but the part
about a shipment of illicit cigarettes from North Carolina was a yawner
for the media. The TV stations would run the composite out of civic duty
and leave it at that.
Recce and Landau reasoned that this was the best way to get a close
facsimile ofjamal's actual appearance into the hands of law enforcement
throughout the southeast and northeast corridors. Cops would pay more
attention, be more aggressive in pulling over people, because the call involved
one of their own.
Meanwhile, Landau had turned out all his Washington embassy resources
into the street. Men and women scattered throughout the city,
concentrating on the ethnic neighborhoods where their appearance
would not give them away and where they could eavesdrop in several
languages. Their orders were specific: If they spotted Jamal, they were
to contact Buzzard's Point immediately. They were to shadow Jamal,
but make no attempt to apprehend him. Depending on the circumstances
around Jamal, that would be the job of either the HRT or Landau's
handpicked squad, which would be immediately pulled off its
current assignment, the surveillance of Benjamin Poltarek, and sent
after Jamal. The objective was to fall on the terrorist hard and fast,
sweep him up before he or anyone else realized what had happened.
Landau's private nightmare was a hostage situation that would involve
the HRT and the publicity it would attract. He did not want to give
Jamal a forum to talk to the world. He did not want lawyers wrapping
Jamal in the Constitution or in the accoutrements of a politically persecuted
victim. That way lay failure, and Jamal would laugh at him even
as the handcuffs were slapped on.
Recce brought in coffee and shut the door.
"You know, we could be totally screwed if he's run to ground at one of
the embassies--Syria, the WE, even Jordan."
Landau shook his head. "They wouldn't take him, couldn't afford the
risk. Whatever Jamal is running, it's an independent strike. That makes
him a leper."
"They could still help him under the table."
"Before Dent Place, maybe. Not now. Word travels fast among the
1HE ASSISTANT <£19

Arabs. They know that two of their own died in that house. It wouldn't
take much to discover who the victims had worked for. The trail leads
back to Jamal and...." Landau spread his hands.
"Won't the Arabs recognize the composite when it's shown on TV?"
"Naturally. And they'll keep their mouths shut. They see it, it means
your government is onto Jamal. No one will want to get in the way.
They'll be scrambling for some kind ofdeniability."
"Maybe someone will think they can score points with us by turning
Jamal in."
"Don't count on it. Betraying Jamal means creating a lifelong enemy.
You don't do that unless you're certain Jamal will never live to see the
light of another day. There's no guarantee of that."
A computer expert knocked, poked his head in.
"We've finished our run."
Recce cocked her head. "And?"
"Zip. The Paris hits pertained to legal files--Kaiser-Agfa--to airline
nights and hotel reservations. Oh ... And a reminder to bring back a special
kind of foie gras."
Recce looked at Landau, who shook his head. "Sometimes goose liver
is just goose liver."
"Now what?"
Landau appeared not to have heard her.
"What is the boy looking for?" he asked himself. "What's he found
that he's digging in the father's files?"
"Looking for whatever Tarnofsky told him to look for?"
"Say that's true. Why won't he share it with us?"
Recce shrugged. "No idea. I think the way to go is to get someone
close to him, someone he trusts and will open up to."
Landau nodded as if he agreed. He didn't mention that he already had
someone close to Poltarek. Closer than Recce could have suspected. But
for now, there was no reason to tell her about Rachel.
Instead, he asked, "Any ideas as to whom that might be?"
Recce went to her computer and pulled up Ben's phone records for
the last few days.
"We know he has a fiancee. Dr. Rachel Melman. Calls to the hospital
where she works, her apartment..."
"I don't think a fiancee would work with us, do you?" Landau suggested
delicately
2W ']. PATRICK LAW

"Nope. But here's something. A couple of calls to D.C. Internal Affairs,
a Detective Henry Blake."
Recce pulled up Blake's 202 personnel file.
"There's the connection to the Pokareks," she said, running her finger
down the screen. "Sid Pokarek did some civil rights work for black policemen."

She scanned ahead. "And here's something interesting. Henry Blake
decides to have a peek at the report Priestly filed."
Landau was at her side instantly. "When?"
"By the looks of it, not long after Pokarek called him." She looked at
Landau. "Our boy has a friend. A cop friend."
Landau knew exactly where she was going with this: Blake, a law enforcement
officer, could be induced to cooperate. In the worst case, ordered
to do so.
But there was more.
"Why would Pokarek want to know what's in Priestly's report?" he
muttered.
"Let's have a look at it."
Reece called it up and they both read.
"Sounds pretty much cut-and-dried," Reece started to say.
"Yes, it does," Landau agreed softly. "Except something's not right.
Read again the part about Priestly's asking Poltarek if Tarnofsky said
anything to him."
Reece did. "I'm not getting it."
"Priestly says that on three occasions he asked Poltarek about Tarnofsky.
Each time Poltarek claimed that Tarnofsky had told him nothing."
"So?"
"So why three times? Priestly's chief concern should have been with
the body--whom it belonged to, and how it got there. And he addressed
those questions one by one, right here, got rid of them with a simple 'Unknown.'

"But when it came to what the dead man might have said. Priestly became
more insistent, even though it was a peripheral issue. The witness
had already told him he didn't know Tarnofsky. Why belabor the point of
what Tarnofsky might or might not have said?"
"What are you getting at?" Reece asked.
"I think you know."
"Priestly was asking not for himself, but because someone else wanted
I HE ASS1S 1AK1 1 i.i.}

to know, had to know." She drove it home. "Hafez Jamal wanted to know
because Tarnofsky had been the only survivor at Dent Place. He was in
the basement, which means he was the interrogator. If Samir el-Banna
had said anything about Jamal's operation, it would have been to him.
And that's what Tarnofsky, thinking that Poltarek was the sayan, would
have passed on."
Recce looked at Landau. "If this hangs together, that means Priestly
is Jamal's boy."
"Oh, it hangs," Landau said grimly. "And Priestly is exactly that.
Which also means that Jamal knows where Poltarek is at any given moment--"

"--And he doesn't need to come out of his hole to find him," Recce finished.
"You've been hanging Poltarek out like a chum carcass, hoping
Jamai'd come close so your people could take him. That's not going to
happen."
Landau's lips creased into a bitter smile, as if he'd bitten into rotten
fruit.
"True. But now we can use Priestly to lead us to Jamal, can't we?
Priestly will get the hot sheet along with everyone else. He'll take one
look and recognize the composite as being Jamal. He'll have to make
contact right away, won't he? Either by phone, in person, through a misfilashim, a dead drop. Either way, he awY/lead us to Jamal."

* * «

Within the hour, a Bell Atlantic repair truck pulled up two doors down
from Priestly's townhouse in Loudoun County, near Dulles airport.
Two technicians set up wiretaps on the detective's home line and installed
a microtransmitter on the cable hookup. Now Priestly's big-
screen TV became a giant listening device.
Priestly's office line presented certain difficulties. Unable to gain direct
access to the phone at his desk, the agents had to go to the main
switching center in the basement. It took almost an hour and half for
them to isolate Priestly's lines and hook up the tap.
Acting on Landau's suggestion, the technicians left behind a cat's paw.
On the very slim chance that Priestly discovered the taps, his investigation
would eventually lead him back to Detective Henry Blake. This
way Priestly, although angry, would not panic. His thoughts would focus
ssa j: taiRitjR bkh

on IA. Such investigations were common enough and were always run
sub rosa, with the target never being told he was under suspicion.
By late afternoon, roving teams of surveillance specialists had Priestly
in their sights wherever the detective went. They were supplemented
by Landau's people, who provided an ethnic mix to the watchers.
At Buzzard's Point, Landau and Reece for open Priestly's personal and
professional lives. They rolled out his MBNA bank account for the last
ten years, checked his Schwab account and pension plan, sniffed for safe-
deposit boxes and offshore nests.
"He seems squeaky clean," Reece observed.
"No one keeps money in coffee cans buried in the backyard," Landau
told her. "Priestly would want his money working for him, not rotting.
Try the relatives."
After three hours of grinding, they found it.
Priestly had a married sister in the Vermont ski country. She and her
husband had put a down payment on an old Colonial and turned it into a
bed-and-breakfast. The carrying costs and the renovations were onerous,
yet the bills were systematically being paid down.
"Not from tourist business," Landau said.
"No," Reece agreed. "But look here: deposits every March and October
for the last six years. Like clockwork. Checks written against the deposits
immediately. In and out."
"Priestly's contribution?"
"You know how the Arabs work. Would they have him on a retainer?
Pay him twice a year, regardless of how much or how little he'd worked
for them during that period?"
"Yes, they would--if Priestly wanted it that way."
"It's not bad," Reece said. "His sister is using her married name, so
Priestly's doesn't appear anywhere. The infusion of capital isn't large
enough to attract the attention of the IRS. Even if it did, it could be explained
away as a gift or an investment." She paused. "This is smart.
Priestly keeps his money close, in the family, buying into a business that
will eventually make a potful of money."
Landau caught something in Reece's tone, like a woman criticizing
another's dress out of envy. But this was different. Reece's bitterness
sprang from betrayal by a fellow law-enforcement officer who'd turned
rotten.
Landau steered them into Priestly's social life but there was little to
the as§i§tant 22^

mine. The detective dated often but seemed not to be the marrying
type. Nor did he appear to have any interest in politics of any stripe.
"Why would he take from the Arabs?" Recce asked, more to herself
than to Landau.
"Because they were the first with an offer," Landau replied. "Listen.
There are people who have no moral or ethical backbone. They just
don't know it until someone comes along and makes an offer. Then it's
like they were waiting for this moment all their lives."
"But Priestly would know something about Jamal, that he'd be working
for a killer."
"Maybe not. Curious thing about Americans. You can't really relate to
the miseries of other people, what happens to a Somalian or Afghani half
a world away. Charity does not reach that far.
"Priestly doesn't give a damn about Arabs or Israelis. He probably
thinks that both sides are filled with lunatics. But as long as one side
pays him, as long as he has no personal stake in the consequences, he'll
play"
"I think it would be enlightening to talk with him," Recce said tightly.
"When this is all over."
Landau checked his watch. "It's coming up on six o'clock. When is the
first news cycle that will show the composite?
"Half past." Recce looked at him. "Which is when Priestly gets off
work. Maybe he'll stop by his favorite watering hole. There's bound to
be a TV. Want to go and check out the expression on his face?"
"Love to. But if Jamal is anywhere nearby, he might recognize me.
You go."
Besides, Landau had a call to make, to one of the few women in his life
who might have come to love him had he given her the chance.

* * *

At that moment, the object of Landau's single-minded interest was
seated at the bar in the lounge of the Holiday Inn on Rhode Island Avenue.

The hotel was a modest affair, catering to foreign tourists, families on
package deals, and businessmen. It was a safe place for Hafez Jamal to
lose himself in. The babble of different tongues soothed and the evening
buffet was actually quite good.
224 J. PATRICK LAW

The bar had a television perched in one corner. Jamal was watching it
as he sipped his two-dollar Coke.
He listened with keen interest to the story about the Middle East
peace talks--no progress--and the American shuttle diplomacy--
quickly running out of steam. He lost interest when the commentator
turned to the ethnic slaughter in the Balkans.
Chewing on the orange slice that had come in his Coke, Jamal reckoned
he could teach the Serbs and Croats a few things about "cleansing."

But that would have to wait. He had heard from Manar--Judith, as he
had to call her now. A sealed envelope had been on the carpet when he'd
opened the door to his room. The note inside contained information he'd expected.
Jamal looked at his disguised features in the bar mirror and sighed
lightly. One could not expect everything to fall together neatly.
After reading Judith's message, Jamal had used the lobby pay phone to
make some inquiries. Passing himself off as a union representative with
a dues-rebate check for the person in question, he was given the details
he required.
That, in turn, had allowed him to form a plan he would put into effect
an hour or so from now.
"Cocksucker!"
Jamal turned to the pale, beefy man on the stool beside him, his
sausagelike fingers wrapped around a glass of beer.
"I beg your pardon?"
The man nodded his chin at the television. "Some son of a bitch shot
a trooper."
On the screen, a pretty, young reporter was doing a stand-up in front of
the Virginia state trooper barracks.
The story was about a hijacking that concerned cigarettes. Jamal
snorted softly. Only Americans would shoot one another over cigarettes.
But his breath caught in his throat when he saw the computer-generated
composite of himself as he appeared without the disguise. Here was
the reporter droning on about the suspect, giving out a hotline number
that also crawled in yellow letters across the bottom of the screen.
"Anybody who shoots a cop? Send the fucker right to the chair. Am I
right?"
f THE ASSISTANT H3

Jamal decided to find out here and now if he had anything to worry
about. He swiveled in his seat and faced his neighbor.
"I couldn't agree with you more."
He watched the man's eyes roam over his face as he nodded. If the
tourist showed even the slightest recognition, Jamal would know it. The
knife in Jamal's jacket sleeve would be in his heart before he'd had a
chance to squeal.
The big man took a sip of beer, shook his head.
"Hope they get him. It's a good picture."
"Yes. Very good."
"I'm Bobby Ray Price, Hootersville, Georgia."
"Frank Yardani, Baltimore. I'm an accountant."
Bobby Ray told Jamal more about furnace installation than he ever
wanted to know before sliding off the stool to join his equally porcine
family.
Jamal thought that if a naturally suspicious, xenophobic redneck
hadn't recognized him from the composite--at a distance of two feet--
his disguise was safe enough.
Jamal felt elated by the news piece and left a dollar tip for his soda. He
was not surprised that the Americans were onto him. They would have
been talking to Landau and his Mossad. Connections between Issim
Hassan and Jamal would have been outlined and explained. The Americans
might be infuriated by the events at Dent Place, but they would listen
to the Israelis, who would connect the massacre to Jamal.
Jamal walked across the lobby and into the wide corridor that led to
the convention rooms. In a tiny recess to the left of the Mayflower Hall
was a pay phone, which rang forty-five seconds after he arrived.
"This is James."
"I got stuff on your boy."
Jamal heard Asian voices in the background. Priestly must have been
in a restaurant of some kind.
"Go ahead, please."
"He got into the office early, under his own steam--"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Alone. No escorts. It means that nobody thinks he's important."
Oh, he had escorts, detective. You just couldn't see them.
Priestly detailed Ben Poltarek's few movements during the day. "Far
226 J. PATRICK LAW

as I know, he's still in that apartment," he concluded. "You want me to
stay on him?"
"That won't be necessary. I will call you later if circumstances should
change."
Jamal hung up and left the alcove. He stepped on the escalator and
considered various possibilities while riding to the mezzanine level.
Benjamin Poltarek was being covered. Jamal was sure of this. With
two sayanim dead. Landau would protect the survivor. Priestly had been
looking for the kind of surveillance he was familiar with. He did not appreciate
how Landau and his people operated.
But why did n 't Landau go in and interrogate the boy?
Because after Dent Place, the Israelis had no currency left. Blood had
been spilled in American streets. Landau would have to be very careful
approaching Poltarek. And he could afford to be, as long as he kept the
boy covered.
" The kid doesn 't know anything."
Priestly's words echoed in Jamal's mind. He wished he could believe
the detective absolutely, but that was not the case. The boy had to be
considered a threat. And Jamal had to get to him before Landau did.
Tomorrow. The day after at the latest.
But not tonight. Tonight something else needed tending to.

* * *

The sound of the phone startled Ben. He looked up from his work and
saw the last daylight fleeing the sky.
When he picked up, the concierge told him that Rachel was on her
way up.
Ben rose from the kitchen table where he'd been working. On his way
to the foyer, he closed the door to his father's study, where the computer
screen cast a blue light across notes exposed on the desk.
"Ben...."
She went to him, shaking her head, looking around as if she'd never
been there before. He caught the reproach in her eyes even as she
cupped his cheek and kissed him on the lips.
"Ben, what are you doing here?"
"What needs to be done. Coffee?"
He sat her down in the country kitchen with its polished Amish ani ii l; Ha a i a i kh i so

tiques, brass cookware suspended from wrought-iron racks, framed samplers
all in a row over the triple sink. Warm memories and familiar scents
sailed out every time he opened a drawer or a cupboard.
"Are you okay?" Rachel was asking.
Ben turned from the counter, mug in hand. "Yeah." He pointed to the
pages that littered the table. "I pulled out Sid's will. And Rose's.
Checked the financials and the bequests. Talked to the bank and the
brokers." He paused. "Called Paperman's. Did you know that Sid had
prepaid all the funeral arrangements?"
It was a rhetorical question and Rachel let it go by.
Ben passed her the mug, sat opposite her, and watched as she drank.
He wasn't lying to her. The documents, some of them neatly typed
and bound, others yellow with age, covered in Sid's scrawls or Rose's
penmanship, had been the focus of his attention for the last few hours.
Not only did the pedestrian issues surrounding death have to be dealt
with but Ben had had to put aside, for a little while, the dark treasures
and revelations he'd come upon in his father's study. He knew himself
well enough to understand that if he didn't do this, those truths would
overwhelm him. Only time could reduce their seeming enormity and
importance and allow him to handle them.
"How did it go for Cheryl?"
"Well. Very well. The guy from Cedars in L. A. was very good."
Ben recalled the blond, blue-eyed child who'd been so captivated by
his illusions. He knew only one thing about her--that she had a pinprick
of a hole in her heart--yet right now he felt intensely close to her.
"I'm glad," he said.
"I wish you'd left me a note this morning. Or called later on. I would
have helped you with this."
Rachel indicated the papers on the table. Her tone carried no reproach,
only concern.
Ben nodded toward the answering machine on the counter.
"It was full. Half of official Washington must have called."
Rachel did not ask about relatives. As far as she knew, neither Sid nor
Rose had any kin left.
"When is the funeral?"
"Not for a couple days. Maybe Monday."
In Jewish tradition, the funeral always takes place as soon as possible
after death. But in this case there was the weekend to consider. Ben
i.W ). FA1R1L.R L.KW

thought he could have all the arrangements ready for interment on
Tuesday.
"Do you want me to speak with the rabbi?" Rachel asked.
"I'll see him Saturday. But I could use help with shivah."
Rachel found a pad and pencil and began making a list: How many
people to expect; what to serve--deli and an open bar would be best; a
caterer; a pianist to play suitable pieces on Rose's beloved Steinway; arrangement
with the concierge to handle the overflow of cars and limos.
By the time Rachel was finished, the antique lamps swathed the
kitchen in a soft glow. Ben read through her notes and couldn't find anything
to add.
"I'll get started on this first thing in the morning," she said. "What do
you want to do about dinner?"
"How about Chinese? That way no one has to cook."
Rachel called in the order. When she turned around, Ben was holding
up two glasses of red wine.
"L'CAaim," he said softly.
"L'C'Aw»."
The wine was a great, billowy burgundy from Sid Poltarek's cellar. It
whispered of faraway places and things yet to be discovered.
Rachel noted how quickly Ben emptied his balloon glass and refilled
it.
"Not so fast on an empty stomach," she chided him.
They went into the family room, where a fire was laid in the hearth. Although
it wasn't very cold, Ben stooped down and got it going.
Rachel found some quiet Sinatra, and they sat side by side on the floor,
staring at the fire, using the snap and crackle of the wood instead of
words.
I could ask him now, Rachel thought. He's not much of a drinker, and two
glasses would be more than enough to make him woozy. He II tell me if I put it to
him the right way.
Rachel tried hard to make herself believe that she would be doing
this for Ben, not Landau. This was the way to protect him. Give Landau
the dirty knowledge, and let him use it to cut off Jamal's head.
Then Landau would leave them alone, taking with him the nightmares
he spawned.
Seeing that his glass was empty, Rachel poured him more.
When the concierge called to say the delivery had arrived, Rachel told
THE ASSISTANT 229

Ben to stay still and went to pay for it. She put the food out and set the
plates on the coffee table.
Ben was standing in front of the fire, head bowed, as though mesmerized
by the flames.
"Honey, come and eat, before it gets cold."
Ben did not turn around. He kept his eyes on the fire as he said, "-
There's something I have to tell you."
Her bare feet were soundless and he did not sense her until she
touched him.
"What is it, Ben?"
"They're bringing in an American."
The words seemed to carry a little bit of his soul out with them. Ben
wondered if that was how it felt to die, to be emptied, leaving nothing.
"Ben, what are you talking about? Who's bringing in what American?"
Unable to look at her, he spoke over her shoulder to a small but violent
Turner seascape.
"The man who came to the apartment, who died in my arms, he said
they were bringing in an American. The detective. Priestly, asked me
about that, and that FBI woman. I don't know why I didn't say anything
before.
Something was holding me back. I don't know what....
"I still don't know who that man was. Nobody else seems to either. Or
else they're not telling me. But I know other things. Things that began
when Sid and I were in Paris...."
Ben talked without pause, even when he went to the sideboard to retrieve
the bottle and replenish his glass. He tried to maintain a level tone,
but sometimes a ragged shrillness cut up his words. He was talking
quickly, as though he had only so many minutes in which to get it all out,
and after that, what had gone unsaid would be lost forever. He wondered
if this was what penitents of the confessional faiths felt like before their
absolvers.
"Do you believe me?" he asked, spent.
Rachel felt clammy, the way she knew heart attack victims felt at the
beginning of the onslaught. But hers was not a physical threat.
"Yes, I believe you. But now, you have to go to the police. If terrorists
are involved--"
Ben leaned against the mantelpiece. "I won't do that. I need to find
out who killed Sid and Rose. And why. I need time."
230 J. PATRICK LAW

"Ben, I think the police may be watching you." He looked at her
sharply, and she knew she had to give him the half truth to his face. "I
overheard Priestly talking. He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're
holding back on him. So he was going to put you under surveillance."
"I need your help."

"Ben--"
"Without questions. I've found out a lot, Rachel, but the rest isn't
here. I think I know where to look for it, but I need to do it alone--no
one following me, no one trying to stop me."
Her tears were for him, but they were born of her rage at Landau.
7 could tell him about Landau. Who fie is ana why he needs him. I could tell
him and maybe save him.
The words rose in her throat and died on her lips. Others that sounded
right and familiar took their place.
"What do you want me to do?"
T,
wenty


M

iss abby buffett had been a fixture in the Nineteenth Street
neighborhood of Dupont Circle for sixty of her seventy-two
years. Longtime tenants of the prewar buildings as well as the newest
immigrants who ran the grocery stores and dry cleaners all knew her. In a
city where night made people move a little more quickly. Miss Abby
kept to her staid gait, smiling at her neighbors as she walked her route
home every evening.
Miss Abby had been teaching geography and history at Paul Revere
Middle School on N Street near St. John's for more than forty years.
Some time back, there had been talk of pushing her into retirement--
until Miss Abby appeared at a school-board meeting with the Democratic
House majority leader. She had been a Sunday school teacher at St.
John's for almost as long.
"Evening, Miss Abby."
"How are you, Sam?" She called back to the evening- shift laundromat
manager who stood smoking in the doorway.
She continued along Nineteenth Street, receiving and returning
greetings, until she reached a red brick townhouse bordered by a freshly
painted black gate. Miss Abby owned the townhouse outright and rented
out the upper two floors to transient professionals, young men or women
^o kept late hours and the peace.
Miss Abby slipped her key into the lock, turned the deadbolt. The
232 j. patrigk LAW

small foyer and the staircase were both well lit, but the intruder was up
high enough on the stairs that he didn't cast a shadow where she could
see it.
Miss Abby was turning the lock on her door when she heard the creak
of weight on a stairstep. She sensed movement behind her and half-
turned, was about to call out, when something terribly hard smashed
down on her right forearm. Before she hit the floor, a second blow broke
her left arm at the elbow. The pain was so powerful that she uttered only
a weak cry before she lost consciousness. She never heard the razor slice
through the leather strap of her bag, nor the fall of soft-soled shoes and
the rattle of the door as the mugger slipped out of the building.
Two blocks away, Hafez Jamal shoved Miss Abby's purse into a city
garbage can. He'd rifled through it and taken the fourteen dollars in a
small beaded change purse. Maybe the police would find the purse,
maybe not. It didn't matter.
Jamal had intended to kill the old woman but had reconsidered. Even
a random murder would draw a closer investigation, whereas in America's

capital, muggings were commonplace. Plus, injuring her the way he had S
^
was perfectly effective. The old crow would miss many a Sunday schools
;"i
class waiting for her brittle bones to knit.

* * *

The ERT response was fast. More of a surprise to the neighbors who'c gathered in front of Miss Abby's home was how quickly the police gd|
there, detectives and all.
Henry Blake of Internal Affairs was surprised, too--not as much b
the alacrity of the response as by who put in an appearance.
Blake was standing catercorner to the townhouse, watching the core
ings and goings of paramedics and police with the same interest as til
neighbors'. Except he was focused on one particular man: Detecti^
Priestly t
Blake had heard the dispatcher's squawk but thought nothing of|
until Priestly's response had come over the air. The detective was oh
two blocks away. He would go in and secure the scene.
You were pretty close to the Kennedy Center that night too, vseren 't you? Blal
thought. ;
He watched Priestly step aside as the paramedics carried Miss Ah!
out on a stretcher. Then Priestly flipped out his notebook, gave anotfi
THE ASSISTANT 233

investigator the information he'd gleaned so far, clapped him on the
shoulder, and moved off to his car.
Maybe Priestly was just a conscientious cop. Maybe his being in the
area was coincidence.
Henry Blake remembered what Ben Poltarek had told him, and the
thread of coincidence seemed pretty frayed.
Blake had been on his way home. Now he thought he might tag along
behind Priestly and see what else the homicide detective had planned
for the evening.

* * *

In her room at the residential hotel, Judith Sawyer moved the lamp a
little to the right to eliminate the glare on the laptop computer screen.
She had been at her desk for most of the night, gliding through the Internet
like a silent bird of prey. She had alighted at the Smithsonian, the
National Historic Register, and the Episcopalian Heritage Foundation;
now she examined original construction drawings courtesy of the Architectural
Landmarks Society.
Occasionally, her printer shuffled quietly as she found something
worth keeping.
Judith sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She had as much as
she needed. A lot of the information was duplicated, but that was all
right. When she showed it to Jamal, he would appreciate how thorough
she'd been.
Judith printed out a final schematic and turned off the machine. She
gathered up the pages and reviewed them. What she had was a kind of
treasure map, one that had been there for anyone with enough curiosity
or imagination to find. But no one had, because the map pertained to a
minor landmark in a city filled with far more grandiose attractions.
Judith smiled to herself. Ford's Theater had been just another show-
house before Lincoln; Dealey Plaza, an anonymous space in an unrearkable
town before Kennedy.
Judith would now create a new shrine, the name of which would be
^oken only in low tones. The only difference was that the Ford and
Dealey Plaza still stood. This building would be razed to the ground.
Given what it was, such could be its only destiny.
T,
wenty-one


y

our snitch is taking his sweet time," Kaelin Recce said over the
top of her coffee cup.
Landau did not disabuse Reece other assumption that the person he
claimed to have close to Benjamin Pokarek was male. Instead, he sipped
his coffee and thought it had been considerate of Reece to bring good
European-style beans with her. Reece had gone home for the night and
now appeared rested and refreshed. Landau could have returned to the
embassy but had chosen to bunk in the barracks at Buzzard's Point. The
accommodations reminded him of the spartan facilities at the midrasha,
the Institute's training center.
"Patience," he said, poking through the remains of bagels, cream
cheese, and overly salty lox.
Privately, Landau had his own reservations. Rachel should have called
by now.
"We need a backup plan," Reece said. "I assume you have one."
"If you are ever asked what it was, it might be better if you can honestly
say that you didn't know," Landau replied dryly.
Reece sighed and let her anger carom off the cinder-block walls,
painted matte white. The array of telephones, tape recorders, and
notepads mocked her by their silence.
"I know you won't be wrapping Pokarek up in a wet sheet and letting
it dry," she said.
THE ASSISTANT 235

"You're right, Kaelin. But only because it's a painful procedure. Young
Mr. Poltarek has had enough pain for a time, don't you agree?"
The red phone rang softly before Recce could reply.
"Yes," Landau said.
"It's me," Rachel Melman said. "Is anyone listening?"
"No."
Landau glanced at Recce, pointed to the earphones connected to the
telephone, and shook his head to remind her that this conversation was
privileged.
"Where are you?"
Inadvertently, Rachel looked over her shoulder. She was in the
kitchen, by the windows, close enough to the glass to feel the cold of the
day outside.
"In the apartment."
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs, in the shower."
"Go on, then."
"There's nowhere to go. He doesn't know anything."
"You asked him?"
"Not in so many words. But we talked about Priestly asking questions,
and that FBI woman. They spooked him. He's beginning to wonder
why it's so goddamn important what the dead man might have told
him."
"So something vsas said."
"If it was, he's not telling me. But I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Because he's exhausted and his nerves are shot. Under those circumstances,
either you spill everything because you're careless or tired, or
you suffer from stress-related amnesia."
"You don't think it's the latter, do you?"
"Nor the former. Why can't you to accept that he just doesn't know
anything?"
"Because I don't believe it."
Landau looked at Recce, who was nodding, her signal that she was
getting the gist of the conversation.
In the kitchen, Rachel studied the design on a pretty white-and-blue
sampler without focusing on the words.
"I think you're wrong. I know it."
236 J. PATRICK LAW

"That may be, but time is pressing. I might have to consider alternatives."

Her voice came back at him with the sting of a bull whip: "Are you still
a Jew, Landau? Don't you know that it is time to bury and to sit shwah?'
"I understand--"
"Then listen to me! I will be here to help him--calling people, getting
the caterers and cleaners, whatever I can do. He still has to deal with the
funeral arrangements. All of which means he will be going out. I want
you to protect him. Landau. You promised me you would."
"It will be that much harder when he is outside."
"I'll try to keep him in the apartment as much as possible."
"I imagine you will be staying with him."
"You imagine correctly."
"Let me know before he intends to leave the apartment. And about
those caterers and cleaners--"
"The same ones the Pokareks have used for years. Get a pencil."
Rachel rattled off names that Landau could check out simply by opening
the Yellow Pages.
"Let me hear from you soon," Landau said, then hung up.
Across the table, Kaelin Recce did not say a word. Not out of professional
courtesy--a comment burned on her tongue. But because Landau
had tried to do an end run around her and had failed. He'd been very
careful in his conversation, very judicious about his choice of words. But
for all his vaunted abilities. Landau was still a man. Men did not speak to
women as they did to other men. They were unaware of this because
they had a tin ear.
Landau's snitch was a woman. Given the limited number ofpossibili-1
ties, Kaelin Recce thought she knew exactly who it was.

* * .4
'?

In the Poltareks' kitchen, Rachel heard the click of Landau hanging
up and put down the phone. She was so relieved to have this conversation
behind her that she never heard the second click, which came just as
her hand hovered over the cradle. She did not remember that there wasi
an extension in the upstairs bathroom Ben was using. She could notj
imagine him standing there, water dripping off him as he listened to he(|j

THE ASSISTANT 237

talk to Landau, the expression on his face breaking apart like that of a
man being stoned.
Rachel was still going over the list of things to do when Ben came
downstairs. He kissed her on the back other neck and she turned to look
up at him.
"Something wrong?" he asked, pouring himself juice.
"I'm fine." She pushed the list toward him. "I thought we'd split it up.
I'll go to the cleaners and caterers, you make the calls."
Ben looked at the thirty-odd names on the list, long time friends of his
parents. His eyes strayed to the answering machine. Its counter stood at
zero.
"I rewound it after you went to bed," Rachel said. "The callers were
most of the people on the list."
"I think I'd like to handle the outside stuff," Ben said. "I need to get
some air."

"It's still pretty miserable out there."
"Doesn't matter."
"Let me call the cleaners and we'll do the rest together, okay? You can
do the callbacks when we return."
"If it's all the same to you, I'll cab it."
His cool tone brooked no argument, so she let the matter drop.
Because the Pokareks had been longtime residents of the neighborhood,
the merchants knew Ben on sight. All offered condolences, assured
him that they'd provide anything he needed. By noon, he'd taken
care of the undertakers and the florists, met with the rabbi, and contracted
with the caterers and the cleaners. At every stop, Ben collected
more condolences. He felt like he was being accosted by pitchmen handing
him flyers in the street. When he thought like this, he felt ashamed.
These people meant him only heartfelt goodwill.
But neither their words nor their hard embraces dampened the drumbeat
of questions in his heart. Who was this Landau whom Rachel had
spoken to over the phone, their tones as thick and soft as thieves' whispers?
What was he to her that she had tried to worm knowledge out of
him for Landau?

Rachel, why did you betray me?
The wail in his soul made his eyes water, which those who embraced
him mistook for tears of a different kind of grief.
238 J. PATRICK LAW

When Ben returned to the apartment, the cleaners were waiting.
The foreman was as familiar with the Pokareks' home as he was with
his own. He greeted Ben with a bear hug, then he and his crew went
about their business quickly and efficiently.
Three hours later, the lingering odors of blood, laboratory chemicals
and clumsy strangers were replaced by the scents of lemon and beeswax.
The cleaners had bundled the equipment into the service elevator, and
ridden down with it.
A half hour later, a yellow taxi returned Rachel from her last errand. In
the lobby, the concierge informed her that the caterers had dropped off a
menu for Mr. Pokarek's approval. Rachel took it up with her.

* * *

Landau was glad when Recce had to go to FBI headquarters to brief
her boss, Mitchell, on the progress on the hunt for Hafez Jamal.
Since the alert had gone out almost twenty-four hours ago, there had
been only thirty "hits" on the Bureau's terrorist hotline--calls from various
law-enforcement officials in the northeast and southeast corridors
calling in reports of possible sightings. These were almost evenly divided
into two categories: tips that eventually proved to relate to an innocent
person who had the misfortune to resemble Jamal (although in
one case, the suspect turned out to be wanted on home invasion charges).
The second was police pulling over Arab-looking drivers, which, in New
Jersey, resulted in a harassment suit being filed.
Landau was the high priest of patience. On the rare occasion that he
lectured at the midrasha, this was the virtue he extolled above all others.
Yet now. Landau chafed. Somewhere in this diverse and noisy land, with
its porous borders and melting-pot immigration, Hafez Jamal had gone to
ground. In the Middle East, North Africa, even Europe, Landau would
have known which rocks to knock over, what doors to break down, which
informants to intimidate. Here, he had nothing. The katsa} contact list
was prodigious, but it was compiled of names found in the Diplomatic List
and the corporate version of Who's Who. As for the sayanim, the katsa
would not go near them. Nor would he hand the list over to Landau, preferring
to take his chances with a court of inquiry in Tel Aviv for disobeying
a superior's direct order. Not that it would come to that. The
bluebloods on the list were much like the Pokareks. Jamal would not
THE ASSISTANT 239

move in their circles. Landau needed contacts who worked in the underbelly.

Landau reached out to Jamal with his thoughts.
Where have you gone? You do not knows America. You have never operated
here. Who could have taught you what you need to know to remain invisible? Or
do you simply have the devil's ovsn luck?
"Communing with your ancestors?"
Landau pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket. Recce had taken great
pains to inform him that smoking was prohibited on federal property, and
he had studiously ignored her.
"How's Mitchell?"
Recce threw her sling on the table. "Nervous. He's expecting to hear
a set of unreasonable demands followed by a very loud bang."
Landau puffed. "Won't happen. Jamal couldn't bring explosives into
this country. Other, more portable, things, yes. But if that were all--demands
followed by a demonstration--we'd have had them by now."
"Maybe the demonstration will come first, an example."
"No. Listen to Jamal's broadcast again. He won't take the time."
"Like you in Samarra? No warning?"
Landau looked up at her with the curiosity a viper might have for a
chick.
Reece didn't apologize, but she changed the subject.
"What about your boy?"
Landau gestured at the printed field reports. "At home preparing for a
funeral and to sit shivah"
"S/iivaVs like a wake, right?" Reece said, looking over the surveillance
reports on Poltarek.
"Like a," Landau agreed.
The first thing that made Landau's antenna shiver was the silence--
except for pages being nipped forward, back, then forward again. Landau
did not want to turn around.
"What is it, Kaelin?" he asked quietly.
"You have three reports, Melman leaving, coming back."
"Yes."
Reece was kind to him. She did not look at his face.
"The first time she goes out, she's driving her car. She returns, drives
out again. But then the last time, she returns in a taxi?'
240 j. PATRICK LAW

Things that Rachel did not know: that Kaelin Recce had the siren
howling all the way from Buzzard's Point to the city, that Landau was riding
shotgun, his eyes straight ahead, his rigidly held body rolling this way
and that as Recce took the corners on the stink of burnt rubber.
Rachel hadn't witnessed these things, but she saw their aftermath in
Landau's bright, angry eyes and tightly pressed lips. She had never seen
him struggle so to maintain his self-control.
When Rachel opened the door and saw them standing there, all she
said was, "Come in." She started to walk into the living room, then
turned and saw that they had remained in the foyer.
"Where is he, Rachel?" Landau asked without preamble.
"I don't know."
Landau looked away, as though following her words to some distant
horizon.
"Why did you betray me?"
Now it was Reece's turn to look elsewhere. She wore the tight, embarrassed
expression of someone who has overheard a lovers' quarrel or a
marital spat in a crowded public space.
"I didn't--"
She stopped when he held up his hand.
"Dr. Melman, we know you took your car the last time you left this
building," Reece said. "We know you returned in a taxi. We've asked you
about Mr. Poltarek's whereabouts and you say you don't know. Is he
here?"
"No."
"We'll have to search the premises anyway."
Landau opened the door to reveal three silent, competent-looking
men who brushed by Rachel like a strong wind.
"You have no right--" |
"I have a standing search warrant, Doctor." Reece held up a dog-eared
court document.
"Where did he go, Rachel?" Landau pressed. "How long ago did he
leave?"
Rachel would not avert her eyes from his.
"We ran your name through DMV, Doctor," Reece said. "Your car's description
and tag number are out in every state east of the Mississippi.
THE ASSISTANT 241

Pretty soon some trooper is going to spot it and call it in. Now we underlined
that the driver does not necessarily pose any immediate danger,
which means the troopers might keep their guns bolstered. They might
not. Why put Mr. Poltarek in jeopardy. Doctor?"
"I'm not the one who put him in jeopardy," Rachel replied, looking at
Landau.
"There's nowhere for him to run, Rachel," Landau said. "Nowhere for
him to be safe except next to me. I and my men are the only ones who
can keep him alive until Jamal is taken. Has it not occurred to you that
Jamal might also be after him--might be a little closer than we are?"
Landau caught the nicker of fear in her eyes. Rachel was quick and
gifted, but in extreme conditions even the best tend to overlook things
or fail to think them through completely. He detected the tiniest fissures
in her resolve and began to burrow into them.
"You told him, didn't you? You told him who you were that long time
ago. Did you tell him everything? How it began, in Israel? How it ended,
here?
"He listened and bled but in the end he forgave you. Because you had
come to him saying I was using you to deceive him and that you had chosen
him over me. You would show him your faith by betraying me, helping
him to escape.
"Except there is no escape, Rachel. Poltarek is an amateur drawn into
a situation not of his making. I know you did what you thought was best
for him. I know you did this out of love. I think you know that it was all
wrong.
"Help us bring him home, Rachel. Don't make him spend one more
minute on some lonely highway than is absolutely necessary."
Rachel sat down in one of the chairs in the foyer. Her ringers were like
claws around the armrests.
"Dr. Melman?" Reece moved close to her. "It's finished. You see that,
don't you? Mr. Poltarek was holding out on us. Otherwise, why run? The
man who came here that night, who died in his arms, he told Ben something--"


"I don't know." Rachel shook her head violently.
"I'm not saying you do," Reece said soothingly. "You helped him
without demanding to know, maybe without even asking. You did this
because you love him." She paused. "Bring him home because you love
"irn. Doctor."
242 J. PATRICK LAW

Landau thought Recce was very good. He could almost hear Rachel's
resolve cracking, like old shellac exposed to the sun.
"Years ago, Ben's brother drowned while the two of them were at summer
camp," Rachel said. "I know he goes there when .. . whenever he
needs to be alone, to think. It's a kind of refuge for him. The camp is just
over the Pennsylvania-New York border. It's called Timberland."
"A summer camp," Recce said, her tone flat.
"It's close to a river. Apparently, there are cottages all around. Thai's
where the Poltareks stayed when they went up. I don't know any more
because I've never been up there."
"That's fine, Rachel," Landau said. "We can take it from here."
He drew Reece aside. "He has a two-to-three-hour lead. Traffic would
still be light before the weekend. How long before he reaches the
camp?"
"A couple of hours, maybe more. He'll have to stop for gas, maybe
food." Reece fished out her cell phone. "Ill get an exact location for the
place."
"And a helicopter."
"Couldn't we use state troopers to pull him over?"
"We could. And he might jackrabbit on them. I don't want a chase. We
pinpoint him from the air, create a traffic bottleneck ahead of him--some
kind of phony accident--and winnow him from the pack."
Reece nodded toward Rachel. "What about her?"
To Landau, Rachel was as still as a statue.
"She has nothing left to give."

* *

As Landau and Reece were climbing into a helicopter on the roof of
the FBI building, a metallic silver BMW was crossing the Chesapeake i
Bay Bridge, forty-odd miles east of Washington, nowhere near Pennsyi- |
vania. |
Ben had stayed on U.S. Route 50 and had watched his speed. Corn- |
ing off the bridge, he glided through the small town of Stevensville on |
Maryland's upper Eastern Shore. He passed Grasonville, then turned |
south on Perry's Corner Road and headed for the Horsehead Wetlands |
Center. |
Stopping shy of the 310-acre nature preserve, he took a cracked, pit- |
ted, single-lane blacktop to the border of the preserve, and turned into a j
THE ASSISTANT 243

half-mile drive that led to a rambling cottage set high on the dunes overlooking
the bay.
Ben got out of the car and took deep breaths of the briny air. He
looked at the cottage, with its salt-silvered wood, dormers, and four brick
chimneys, and knew that for a while, at least, he was safe.
If Rachel had not held up under the questioning, the hunter she called
Landau would have been here by now.
If she hadn't told Ben the dark truths about herself back in the apartment,
and hadn't been a willing accomplice in his flight, he would never
have made it here.
The Shore was the last stop for answers. Either he would find them
here or he would have to surrender.
Ben reached in the trunk for the duffel bag he'd packed, hefted it, and
walked toward the house.
IWCI)
ty-two



»w garrett sat behind his desk in his office
absently rubbing the leather blotter with his

^
ihbvBuff ^ returned from the Georgetown Medical
t lay in the intensive care unit. The doctors
but her broken arms as about the concussion
'll, her forehead striking a decorative marble
"";"' /i,[jrilline H^"^"1 door. There was pressure on the era-
iiih SC^ il'1 '(>
,(C,,^d at (l v skull to drain the fluid might be necessary.
/ eiiher wo(ji thought. This was no longer a city he cared
,j)111 ,i,,gittenti^ ne ever ^cav^ his beloved church. To that
/" liici Tw' to ths fo"1" applicants' files before him.
Anemia. Th ^vere currently employed part-time in a pri- 11 ^ left two who were available to start immedirune-faced
man of fifty, had a strong resume
^va. caching experience consisted solely of boys'
^fleeted in the emphasis Broad put on disci-

.^»'asmu^
./ (LgThe ck ^arrner aod Garrett found himself smiling at
hl *ldren would cotton to her immediately. Garl ll L; HL»aiL»im<i c i»

rett imagined how much rich, personal experience she could bring to the
Sunday classes, and how lively these would be.
The only issue was security. The other three applicants had already
been vetted by the Secret Service, in case Garrett had to hire them right
away. The full background check on Sawyer would take at least a few
days. It would be easier to hire Broad.
Garrett tapped the eraser-tipped pencil on the file. An image floated
up to him: Judith Sawyer folding a ten-dollar bill and slipping it discreetly
into the collection box.
Done.
Garrett dialed the number of the Secret Service agent at Treasury with
whom he'd dealt for years, gave him Sawyer's name and the bio she'd
brought in.
The agent ran the name through the current Threat List as well as the
standing Service records on all people who had ever threatened the President.
Judith Sawyer's name appeared on none of these. Neither had
John Hinckley's.
The agent told Garrett that he would prioritize further checks but that
at first blush Judith Sawyer was clean.
Garrett's next call was to the residential hotel that Judith Sawyer had
given as her Washington residence.

* < »

The Chesapeake house was built in the early 1930s, the summer
home of a minor chemical baron. The baron's fortune had been wiped
out in the Depression. Ben Poltarek's grandfather had bought the property
and used it as a family retreat.
Ben did not have many childhood memories of the house. For reasons
that had never been explained, his parents never cared for the place. Visits
were few and short. But neither was the house ever put on the market.
The family owned it outright; taxes and maintenance were minimal. It
was like a beautiful necklace or tiara, waiting for the right woman to
come along and breathe life into it.
Instead, after Samuel's death, the house became a refuge for Ben. He
went there on long weekends and holidays, and with only the gulls and
terns as his audience, worked on new illusions or perfected old ones. As
he became more proficient and pushed the limits of his imagination, the
e-K»	J: IHlKttIK ti H»»

house became an extension of his craft. The big double parlor to the right
of the center hall, the dining room on the left, and the game room behind
the staircase all appeared normal--testimony to Ben's carpentry skills
and constant pursuit of perfection. It was what one </»/»'/see that created
magic, and in this house there was much that never registered in the eye
as anything but ordinary.
Inside, Ben turned up the heat and got a fire going in the parlor. The
water and electricity were always on, part of the housekeeping agreement
with a local realtor who also paid the handyman's bills.
Ben fixed himself a cup of instant coffee on the mammoth cast-iron
gas range and took it outside.
He was certain that no one--not even Rachel, who'd never visited--
would find him there. There was no longer any connection between the
house and the Poltarek family. Five years ago, when Sid and Rose had
updated their wills, they agreed, in consultation with Ben, to sign a quitclaim
on the property in favor of Mary Nash, his father's secretary and
confidante. Sid had promised that when he retired, Mary would not have
to work a day after that, if that's what she wanted. But instead of a cash or
pension plan arrangement, Sid put the Chesapeake house in her name,
an interesting maneuver that eliminated gift, inheritance, and capital
gains taxes all in one swoop. The only proviso was that Mary would not
take possession of the property until Sid Poltarek's retirement or death,
whichever came first.
Ben finished his coffee and went inside. The house had warmed up
nicely. He spread out his papers and set up his computer on the stressed
pine dining table that could seat twelve.
Landau. Ezekiel Landau. Mossad. Israeli Secret Service.
The light coming through the tall, lead-lined windows was the silvery
gray of a fish's belly. Ben thought it was very much like the light that had
been cast across Rachel's face when he had confronted her.
She had returned from her errands, her cheeks flushed from the wind,
to find him sitting in the living room, facing the fireplace. She said something,
the words not registering with Ben--then went to him. He remembered
how her eyes widened when she had looked into his. Her lips
parted and a low moan escaped them because she recognized the knowledge
he held. When she reached for him, he caught her by the wrists.
"Who is Landau?"
Her every word was burned into Ben's mind. He had thought Rachel
1 HE H3313 I ai< 1 fcf»

incapable of fear, yet that was all there had been in her eyes and her
voice. It had taken Ben a few minutes to appreciate the real reason for
her terror: It was not fear of Landau's retribution; rather, by telling him
what she did, she ran the risk of losing him forever.
Ben stared down at his hand. The flesh of his palm was still tender
where her nails had dug in.
As one part of him had opened up to her deluge, another had stood by
wondering how it was possible that there was this whole other side to
Rachel he'd never seen or suspected. This was a woman who had given
freely of herself, whose love had graced his world and filled it with light,
a woman who had been embraced by his parents and made pan of the

family.
Neither her soft, halting voice nor her tears could drive away the feeling
of deception that had crawled over him. Twice Ben had pulled away
from her grasp; twice he had shouted at her to stop talking. But she'd refused,
continuing until very last possible word that could damn her did
so, until she was as spent as he.
Ben remembered the silence that had descended between them, the
way she sat curled up in a corner of the sofa, staring at the wall, he by the
fireplace, watching sparks fly up the chimney, sparks that were like the
white-hot slivers of anger within him. And after the anger had run its
course, something cool and wonderful washed over him. Because he did
not know what to call it, he thought it might be forgiveness, not only for
Rachel but for himself. Somewhere in their deceits, a new truth about
themselves had been forged. They reached out to each other, tentatively,
seeking to balm the wounds with whispers, then resolutions against
those who would do them harm.
Landau.
The name rippled across Ben's consciousness like a flat stone skimming
a still pond. Rachel's lover. Rachel's blackmailer.
Landau, whose lot in life was terrorism.
Landau, sharing wedding bands of terror with Hafez Jamal.
Jamal connected to Samir el-Banna.
Who was connected to the murders of Sid and Rose.
And to Manshur and his kin.
The connections were almost complete, except for the one he needed
most.
Ben rose from the table and went into the cellar--clean, well lighted,
WAS J. PA1R1LR LAW

the walls and floor finished in fieldstone. In one corner, among ancient
suitcases and wooden crates, was a trunk. It was small and appeared light,
but Ben needed both arms to lift and carry it.
In the dining room, he undid the clasps, threw back the lid, and discovered
that the trunk was empty. But not really. It was a magic trunk,
the first prop he'd ever bought. After his skills had outgrown its use, his
father had asked to use it. For Sid Poltarek's purposes, the trunk was just
as secure as a lockbox and much more accessible.
Ben stared into the seemingly empty cedar-lined cavity. He had never
had to ask his father why he wanted this trunk because in his heart he
knew the answer. Whatever Sid's secret life was, Ben had not found it in
places that might be destroyed or which, in a sudden twist of fate, might
suddenly become accessible to strangers. Not at the office, not at home.
Not in some bank or trust company vault which, in an emergency or by
happenstance, could be opened by the wrong parties.
That left only one possibility: a place no one could track back to the
Pokareks, on the fringe of a cloistered, closemouthed community mistrustful
of strangers.
Ben reached down into the trunk and carefully pried loose the false
panels. He expected to find grainy old papers whose edges would crumble
in his fingertips, yellowing photographs with curled tips and, on the
back, references in fading ink.
Ben began to laugh. He should have known better. Instead of decaying
treasure, he found four CD-ROMs in hard-shell containers. Somewhere
over his shoulder, he thought he heard his father chuckling.

* * *

The FBI helicopter was fast, but lousy on fuel. The pilot had to set
down at the municipal airport in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, to gas up.
Landau looked at the landscape around the field, a forest that reeked
of decay as a wet winter grudgingly gave way to a raw spring that had not
yet dried out the earth. In spite of the navy blue FBI windbreaker Recce
had found for him, he still felt the sting of the wind as it skimmed down
the runway like a scythe.
Landau turned to the small, squat building that served as a waiting
lounge. Through the window, he saw Kaelin Recce on the cell phone.
Their eyes met and she waved at him to come inside.
The lounge was vacant except for a private pilot arguing in the corner
with an FAA official.
"The state troopers are at Timberland's front gates. They. say it
doesn't look like anyone's been around. No tire tracks. What do you
think--should they go in?"
"Aren't there supposed to be cottages? They should go there first, I

think."
"We'll split the difference."
Landau had no idea what she meant until he heard her tell the trooper
to get over to the cottages, but to leave one car at the camp gates, in case
Poltarek happened to appear there, coming in or going out."
The pilot poked his head in the door, beckoned to them.
"How much longer?" Landau called out, trotting after him on the tarmac.

"Thirty minutes tops," the pilot answered over his shoulder. "We've
got a tailwind to help us out."
"What's the matter?" Reece asked as she climbed in.
Landau slipped in beside her, bolted the flimsy door. He pointed to
the sky.
"This is taking too long."
"Don't start bitching now, Landau. Even money says we'll get there
before Poltarek does."
So Landau took her up--fifty dollars' worth. It was one time he hoped
he'd lose.

* * *

The old ships' lamps, whale oil converted to electricity, threw the light
of a false dawn across the dining room. The blue glow of the computer
screen washed across Ben's face. He finished reading the last file in the
last CD-ROM and slumped in his chair.
"Alice," he said aloud, thinking how strange that one word sounded in
the stillness of the house.
But that was the image that came to him, from an illustrated children's
book he'd read so long ago. Alice chasing the rabbit down the hole, tumbling
end over end into Wonderland. Just as he was now falling into lives
his parents had carefully hidden from him, whose existence he'd never
suspected.
Sayanim.
UJU -. f-aiR!L.R. LAW

Assistants.
Part of Israel's secret army abroad, soldiers who held no rank, wore no
uniform, received no recognition save a kind word or two from their embassy
handlers.
Sid and Rose, assistants for forty years. Travelers who, when the occasion
warranted, had a quiet chat with a quiet man about things they'd
seen or heard.
Rose, the university professor and adviser to governments, who sometimes
met an individual at academic seminars who did not belong there.
Or "accidentally" bumped into an old "friend" at an embassy function
who would take her aside to catch up on old times they'd never shared.
Sitting at a Kalorama dinner party, the hostess on her right, and on the
left, an ebullient musician accredited to the Israel Philharmonic--except
his training in the oboe consisted of a two-hour crash course that same
morning.
Sid had trolled in different waters, where two-thirds of those qualified
to practice law in Washington never did so. They were lobbyists, spin-
control specialists, special advisers, deputy assistants. But by virtue of a
law degree, they all spoke the same dialect, belonged to the same clubs,
gathered at the same watering holes. Whenever Israel came calling for a
special piece of information, Sid had known where to look, whom to ask,
and how--so that nothing ever came back to bite him or the Jewish state.
Yet, Ben's father had felt compelled, probably against standing instructions,
to keep a running diary of his and Rose's service.
Ben understood why. As a lawyer, Sid would demand some kind of
paper trail, an accounting he could refer to if anything ever went wrong.
There was also the issue of history. Both the Poltareks and Rose's family
had lost relatives in the Nazi caldron. The oral tradition of passing down
history could no longer be trusted. Everything had to be committed to
paper--or, in later years, to the silicon chip, preserved because the service
to Israel would not cease with the Poltareks' retirement or death.
In notes dating as far back as twenty years, Ben found references to
Samuel. Even though he was then only in his teens, the older son was
being groomed to join and eventually replace the father. There was menion
of Samuel's education, the career paths available to him, the time off
needed for trips to Israel so that he would absorb the beauty and uniqueness
of the land he would be called upon to serve.
HE A3 3 13 1AK1 1 i.Jl

There were comments about the younger son as well. Ben wondered
if, given the chance, his father would now take some of them back. Ben
was painted as a quiet, hardworking soul with a touch of his mother's
artistic flair. But he was not sayan material. He lacked inner strength and
conviction; he was too honest, too generous with his opinions. Guile was
not his forte. To be a sayan required a certain ruthlessness that was not
part of Ben's fabric. It was not a vocation for the contemplative or the
imaginative.
Well, Pop. I'm all you've got left.
Preferences and choices no longer mattered. Ben was the survivor, the
last Poltarek, the "assistant." Here, among Sid's notes, written down and
cached only hours before his death, was the fallen standard.
The Paris trip should have been straight business--the KaiserAgfa
account. It had become more than that when Mustafa Manshur had contacted
Sid with information on Jamal.
According to Sid's notes, the connection was obvious: The Israeli raid
on Samarra had been based, at least in part, on Manshur's intelligence.
But either the information was bad or incomplete, or the Israelis had
made a terrible mistake. Hafez Jamal had survived; Issim Hassan, the
warrior for peace, had perished.
Along with his two-year-old son.
But what about Hassan's wife?
This was the question Sid Poltarek had worried.
She had not been mentioned by Hafez Jamal in his declaration to the
world. Why not? Surely the widow of a newly minted martyr was a potent
public-relations weapon.
Nor were there any references to her in the anti-Israel diatribes from
Benghazi to Tehran. No one spoke of her. It was as though she didn't
exist.
Sid had had thoughts about this. Maybe it was Arab mores. A woman
was chattel; a wife, property. For the most part, women had no voice, no
influence. Why be surprised that she was, in effect, a nonperson?
"Because she can be a tool," Ben muttered, treading along his father's
logic. "She doesn't have to be seen as an equal, only a means. To some
end. Why not parade her across the news cameras of the world and garner
sympathy that you couldn't buy for love or money? It's too perfect an
opportunity."
252 J. PATRiCK LAW

Ben started. Delicately, he replayed the words he had just uttered,
plucking out means and tool. He set these aside and weighed them.
Means to what end?
Too/for what purpose?
Why would Jamal hide--
"They are bringing in an American...."
A dying man's words.
Who is Hassan's wife? An American? The American?
The possibility intrigued.
Ben reached for his laptop. His father had gotten as far as Hassan's
wife. Had he tried to uncover her identity and failed? Had there not been
enough time? Although there was nothing on the disk to indicate where
Sid had begun his search, or the trails he'd blazed and discarded, Ben
thought that the issue was, more likely, time. His father had been murdered
before he could string together any clues.
Ben would start at the beginning, with the most obvious references--
magazines, journals, newspapers, any source that might have carried a
picture oflssim Hassan. The older the pictures, probably the better. The
more Hassan molted from terrorist to diplomat, the more likely it was
that he'd keep his wife in the background. Arab politics was, with few exceptions,
no place for a woman.
Good.
As night stole through the windows, all that was heard in the house
was the creaking of floorboards, the clicks of keys beneath fingertips, and
the steady breathing of a man pacing himself toward a destiny he could
not possibly imagine.

* * *

"I can set 'er down in that clearing," the helicopter pilot said over
tinny speakers. To Landau's ear, the man had an atrocious accent--
Southern, he guessed--and the headphones made it even more difficult
to understand him.
Landau tapped Recce on the shoulder. "Tell him to hover and use his
light."
Recce looked at him askance until Landau pointed down.
Night was falling quickly over the woods. State trooper cars were
THE ASSISTANT 253

pulling up to the dozen cabins set in a semicircle facing the lake. Landau
and Recce watched toy figures race from toy cars.
Recce got on the headphones. "Light 'cm up. Start with the one farthest
to the right."
The helicopter's belly lamp was rated 32 million candlepower. When
the beam hit its target, the cabin appeared to be sitting in a block of ice.
Recce did not have to tell the pilot his business. He coordinated with
the troopers on the ground, moving the beam from cabin to cabin as each
one was searched.
"You don't think he's down there, do you?" Recce said. When Landau
didn't reply, she added: "You think we missed him. That's why you
didn't want the chopper to set down. It'd be a waste of time getting it
back in the air."
Landau kept his own counsel until the final cabin had been searched.
The state trooper commander wanted to know what to do next. He
sounded unhappy, like a man who's been hounddogging a chase that
might go on half the night.
"Call it. Landau."
"It's your--"
"Yeah. My hunt. But it's your man. The son of a bitch should be here,
right? But he's not. He's either hiding down there, which means it could
take all night to find him, or else he came and went..."
Landau squeezed her shoulder. It was the first time he'd touched her,
and Reece was startled.
"He's not down there," Landau said. "He never came, he never
went."
Reece was confused by Landau's soft, sad tone, as ifPoltarek's eluding
them was somehow a personal affront. She understood when he finally
found it in himself to complete his thought.
"Rachel fronted for him. She gave herself to us and gave him time to
go God-knows-where. She loves him, you know, so she lied to us."

* * *

Ben organized his Internet search as a gold miner might arrange the
panning ofastreambed, with multiple sieves.
He began with popular weekly magazines and the big newspapers, in254 J. PATRICK LAW

eluding the European English-language dailies. The references to Issim
Hassan were his signposts.
When those yielded nothing, he moved on to more esoteric publications--Foreign Report, Foreign Affairs IntelligencelCounterintelligence, Stanford Review--and
others that carried scholarly pieces about terrorism.
Next, he moved on to publicly available information from the State
Department and the Pentagon.
Nothing. No references to a wife. Not to any woman. It was as though
Hassan had been some mythic, celibate warrior.
Ben turned his search to Hafez Jamal and repeated the process.
Nothing.
He sat back, stared at the screen. The clue was there. He just wasn't
hitting the right area.
Unless it's hidden away in some source written in Arabic or Farsi, neither of
which you can read.
The whisper of a possibility suggested itself.
Ben punched up the unclassified publications of American embassies
in Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Israel. He threw in Hassan's name
and started the search again. The computer chimed.
An article published in conjunction with the University of Chicago
about archaeological research in Egypt. Here was a list of the academic
members who had made up the team. And the embassy advisers who had
worked with local authorities to expedite permission for the dig. And the
names of the Egyptians representing the University of Cairo.
Credit also to: Issim Hassan, a part-time employee of the university,
whose knowledge of the Valley of the Kings was invaluable to researchers
since Hassan had grown up in the area.
Fine. Hassan, as the new Howard Carter. Wife? Ben's eye drifted back toj
the Americans from Chicago. Four men. One woman. |
Pictures, please.
The university alumni archives were happy to oblige. Ben found him|
self looking at a three-quarter profile of a homey, academic-looking
woman in her mid-twenties. |
He would have clicked back to the Cairo material had he not spotted
something. 1
The bios for the men ran on for several more lines. Three were noMI
comfortably ensconced in academia; the fourth was at the Met in Nev|
York.
THE ASSISTANT 255

But there was no such continuity for the woman. Her blurb ended
with the expedition to Cairo, as if--
Judith Sawyer had never come home.
"They're bringing in an American"
Had not come home until now.

Iwenty-three

ben made good time against the suburbs-bound Washington traffic.
As soon as he'd cleared the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, he telephoned
Henry Blake at Internal Affairs. The detective returned the call when
Ben was less than twenty miles from the city. Ben's instructions were
precise and Henry Blake did not question them.
"Has anyone been looking for me?" Ben asked him when he was finished.

"Officially? Not that I've heard." Blake paused. "Should they be?"
"If you haven't heard, it doesn't matter. I'll see you in a bit."
The temptation to hurry was overwhelming, but Ben forced himself to
stay just above the speed limit. A few minutes either way would not im- I
pact the information he was carrying. It would remain as good or as useless
as it had been the moment he'd unearthed it.
He felt oddly at peace with himself, as if he were floating, free of all re|
straints. The questions he had carried to the Chesapeake had, he believed,
been answered. His doubts about the answers diminished with!
every mile marker he passed. ^|
"I'm coming home, Sammy," he said aloud, in the darkness. "I'm not;
going to screw up this time." j
Ben felt as though his whole life had been leading up to this moment.!,
Finally, he would be able to make the kind of contribution his father had
never believed him capable of, the kind his mother had never asked o|
THE ASSISTANT 257

him. Not that it would bring back Samuel or Sid or Rose, but just maybe
it would lay to rest the constant murmurs of his conscience, to measure
himself against those who had never called upon him, and not to be
found wanting. Hearing the handcuffs snap on the wrists of the son of a
bitch who had murdered his parents would be his gift to his family and to
himself.
Ben had thought out his moves as carefully as he could. There were
only two people he trusted completely: Rachel and Henry Blake. He
would not go to Rachel yet. To do so might put her in harm's way.
Henry Blake was his insurance. He had to be told about Judith
Sawyer, made to see all the connections and how, ultimately, they led to
the dying man who had burst into Ben's life. Then Ben would tell him
about the FBI agent. Recce. And Landau--oh, how much he could say
about him!
After that, the matter would be in Blake's hands. Ben imagined there
would be hurriedly arranged meetings at the FBI, where the hunt for Judith
Sawyer, and the men who'd made her their instrument, would
begin. He could sense it all, like the sharp whiff of ozone from a distant
thunderstorm. He savored what he imagined would be the thrill of the
hunt and knew that no one would want him to be a part of it.
Good luck.
Ben crossed into Washington proper, going up Connecticut Avenue,
passing the main entrance of the apartment building, taking the corner,
and slowing at the side entrance to the garage. A long time ago, he'd
given Rachel a key card, which she kept in the glove box, and now it
came in handy. He could enter the garage, then take the elevator that bypassed
the lobby and ride it directly to the penthouse.
Tires screeched on the polished concrete garage floor as Ben took a
hard turn. He eased into a parking space, killed the engine, and stared at
the dashboard clock. Henry Blake would be here by now.

* *

"Say, Jack."
Priestly was on his way out of D.C. Homicide's bullpen when the
voice snagged him.
"Yeah?"
Got something here you might be interested in."
The uniformed sergeant's name tag read barnes. He was a fixture
258 ]. PATRICK LAW
who'd squandered the last of his promotion possibilities long ago. No^
to supplement his income, he did favors for detectives he knew he cou]
trust. Valuable favors, because Barnes had made it a point to learn aboi
computers. He regularly surfed the internal police net, trolling for hi
that might be worth something to fellow officers. He believed he had or

such nugget now.
He steered Priestly into an alcove by the coffee service.
"You know IA has been sniffih' around you?"
Priestly hitched up his pants. "Random shit, or has someone taken

special interest?"
"Special, I'd say. You ever heard of a guy called Henry Blake?"
"Yeah. A geezer from narcotics way back when. I thought he'd be<

put out to graze."
Barnes held up a folded piece of paper between himself and Priest!'
"He's grazing at IA--and seems to be munching his way to you. Awf
lot of interest in that John Doe mess up at Woodley. Blake's popped e
erything, including your interview with the witness, Polansky or wh

ever."
Priestly made a show of scratching up dandruff.
"The fuck he did that for?"
"I'm not a mind reader, Jack. just the messenger."
"I'll check it out. Any idea where I can find Blake?"
Barnes's dentures were wet behind his grin. "Thought you might wa
to know. Log shows he left to go to that apartment."
The folded paper disappeared into Priestly's pocket. "I owe you," 1

said, and headed out the door.
Barnes did not take offense at Priestly s abrupt departure. He kni
what it felt like to have IA chewing on one's ass. And he didn't have a
concern about Priestly not taking care of him for having provided the I
Jack was a go-around, come-around kind of guy. 3

Although the helicopter cabin was well insulated, the incest
pounding of the rotors was driving a headache between Kaelin Rec|

temples. 1
She glanced over at Landau, who was still wearing the headph<|j
and talking into the microphone. Yiddish or Hebrew, she couldn't |
Not that it mattered. Landau would assume rightly that all outgoing|
THE ASSISTANT 259

incoming transmissions were recorded. He wouldn't say anything that he
might have to eat later on.
Landau caught her looking and removed the headphones.
"There's no answer at Poltarek's apartment. Now might be a good
time to get a couple of my men inside."
Reece shook her head. She had anticipated that he'd ask this.
"If anyone were to go in, it'd be Bureau agents. And that won't happen
because we don't have probable cause." She paused. "Don't piss me off
by looking at me like that. As far as the law's concerned, that's Poltarek's
home."
"I don't want to 'piss you off.' I was just asking."
"Besides, do you really expect him to pick up the phone? What makes
you think he's even anywhere near D.C.?"
Landau shrugged and patched through another call. This time he
spoke English, asking the operator at the Children's National Medical
Center to page Dr. Rachel Melman.
When the reply came back, he said, "No. No message."
"She's finishing up in surgery," he told Reece. "We will pick her up on
our way to Poltarek's. She has a key to the apartment." He noted the way
Reece looked at him. "What? It's not like I'm asking her to break in to the
place."
Reece appreciated the frustration Landau was drowning in. There had
been no sigh tings ofHafez Jamal, no hits off the all-points that had gone
out on Rachel Melman's car. The trip to Timberland had been a colossal
waste of time and energy. Landau might have been able to deal with that
had it not been for the good doctor's betrayal. The unkindest cut of all,
Reece thought.
She wondered how Landau would handle Melman, how much of the
humiliation and anger would, despite himself, seep through. Reece
thought she might learn something true and valuable about Landau in
the next few hours.
She caught him staring at his watch, and when he noticed, he said,
"Can't this thing go any faster?"
Reece slipped on the headphones to talk to the pilot.

* » »

Ben found Henry Blake sitting in a chair in the foyer, one slim leg
"raped over the other, the pant crease razor-sharp.

258 J. PATRICK LAW

who'd squandered the last of his promotion possibilities long ago. Now,
to supplement his income, he did favors for detectives he knew he could
trust. Valuable favors, because Barnes had made it a point to learn about
computers. He regularly surfed the internal police net, trolling for hits
that might be worth something to fellow officers. He believed he had one
such nugget now.
He steered Priestly into an alcove by the coffee service.
"You know IA has been sniffin' around you?"
Priestly hitched up his pants. "Random shit, or has someone taken a
special interest?"
"Special, I'd say. You ever heard of a guy called Henry Blake?"
"Yeah. A geezer from narcotics way back when. I thought he'd been
put out to graze." }
Barnes held up a folded piece of paper between himself and Priestly.
"He's grazing at IA--and seems to be munching his way to you. Awful
lot of interest in that John Doe mess up at Woodley. Blake's popped t
erything, including your interview with the witness, Polansky or wr
ever."
Priestly made a show of scratching up dandruff.
"The fuck he did that for?"
"I'm not a mind reader. Jack. Just the messenger."
"I'll check it out. Any idea where I can find Blake?"
Barnes's dentures were wet behind his grin. "Thought you might'
to know. Log shows he left to go to that apartment."
The folded paper disappeared into Priestly's pocket. "I owe you,"
said, and headed out the door.
Barnes did not take offense at Priestly's abrupt departure. He
what it felt like to have IA chewing on one's ass. And he didn't have
concern about Priestly not taking care of him for having provided th<
Jack was a go-around, come-around kind of guy.

« * *

Although the helicopter cabin was well insulated, the inc
pounding of the rotors was driving a headache between Kaelin
temples.
She glanced over at Landau, who was still wearing the head
and talking into the microphone. Yiddish or Hebrew, she could
Not that it mattered. Landau would assume rightly that all outg
THE ASSISTANT ^59

incoming transmissions were recorded. He wouldn't say anything that he might have to eat later on.
Landau caught her looking and removed the headphones.
"There's no answer at Poltarek's apartment. Now might be a good
time to get a couple of my men inside."
Recce shook her head. She had anticipated that he'd ask this.
"If anyone were to go in, it'd be Bureau agents. And that won't happen
because we don't have probable cause." She paused. "Don't piss me off
by looking at me like that. As far as the law's concerned, that's Poltarek's
home."
"I don't want to 'piss you off.' I was just asking."
"Besides, do you really expect him to pick up the phone? What makes
you think he's even anywhere near D.C.?"
Landau shrugged and patched through another call. This time he
spoke English, asking the operator at the Children's National Medical
Center to page Dr. Rachel Melman.
When the reply came back, he said, "No. No message."
"She's finishing up in surgery," he told Recce. "We will pick her up on
our way to Poltarek's. She has a key to the apartment." He noted the way
Recce looked at him. "What? It's not like I'm askingAsrto break in to the
place."
Recce appreciated the frustration Landau was drowning in. There had
been no sightings of Hafez Jamal, no hits off the all-points that had gone
out on Rachel Melman's car. The trip to Timberland had been a colossal
waste of time and energy. Landau might have been able to deal with that
had it not been for the good doctor's betrayal. The unkindest cut of all,
Reece thought.
She wondered how Landau would handle Melman, how much of the
humiliation and anger would, despite himself, seep through. Reece
thought she might learn something true and valuable about Landau in
the next few hours.
She caught him staring at his watch, and when he noticed, he said,
Can't this thing go any faster?"
Reece slipped on the headphones to talk to the pilot.

* * *

en found Henry Blake sitting in a chair in the foyer, one slim leg
raped over the other, the pant crease razor-sharp.

260 J. PATRICK LAW

"Hello, Henry--"
"The key was just where you said it'd be. Now, you mind telling me
what kind of car you been driving?"
The question was put casually enough, but Ben detected pinpoints of
concern--or anger--in Blake's eyes.
"A BMW. It belongs to my fiancee."
"Know the tag number?"
After Ben gave it to him, Blake rose and went to him.
"There's an all-points out on it," he said quietly. "Local and state. You
were lucky you weren't pulled over." He paused. "You want to tell me
what you've done to deserve such attention? You </<</tell me you weren't
going to go off half-cocked." |
Ben held up his briefcase. "This will take a while. Why don't I makc|
.S
us some coffee." :
"You don't seem surprised that you've gone to the top of everyone's hil
parade," Blake said, following Ben into the kitchen.
"Nope. And you didn't mention the FBI."
Blake pursed his lips. "Them too, hmm?"
"Them too."
While the coffeemaker gurgled and dripped, Ben set out his n(
disks, and laptop on the kitchen table. It took him the better part|
ninety minutes to walk Blake through all the material. '|
"That's it," Ben said, sitting back in his chair. "All of it."
Blake had listened without comment, even though some of the th
Ben recounted were outrageous. Nonetheless, the boy had proof to I
up most of his conclusions.
"I think," Blake said slowly, "that major shit is going to hit the fat
before we make that happen, I have a few questions."

* * *

Hafez Jamal had questions of his own and he spat them at Priest
after the other.
"I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about," Priestly said.
As soon as he'd cleared police headquarters. Priestly had called jl
on the emergency number. Twenty minutes later, he picked up Ja
the parking lot of the Safeway on Wisconsin and thirty-fourth St
"You keep repeating that--" Jamal started to say.
THE ASSISTANT 261
"Look. Internal Affairs has a jacket on everyone. They're like the fucking
IPS. Their sniffing around? It's like a random audit."
Random at this particular time? I don't believe so. Detective.
Jamal did not voice his conclusion. Right now, he needed Priestly s cooperation
and his detective's shield.

"But you agree that this Blake poses a"--Jamal was about to say "danger"
but finished with--"a problem."
"As far as your boy is concerned, yeah."

"Then I think it best that we remove Mr. Poltarek from his consideration."


Priestly braked hard at a traffic light. "Look. I get paid to provide information.
End of story. I don't 'remove' anybody."

"I am nor asking you to do that," Jamal replied smoothly. "Believe me,
it is not my intention to harm the boy. But I do need to speak with him
privately."
Priestly shook his head. "You're talking about kidnapping--"
"No, I am not. All I am requesting is that you get me to his door. After
that, you go your own way." Jamal paused. "Of course, there would be a
bonus for this extra service."

Priestly had the car moving again. He drove three blocks, turning the
offer over in his mind.
"What's the extra?"
"One thousand dollars."
"What do you have in mind that leaves me in the clear?"
Jamal had been thinking furiously. He needed to satisfy Priestly's demand
for safety; he had to make sure that whatever he proposed would
|6et him through to his target. One solution presented itself--if Priestly
could be induced to go along.
Quickly, Jamal explained his plan. For thirty anxious seconds, he sat
baiting for Priestly s reply When it came, Jamal knew he had him.
Priestly pulled into a minimal! and pointed at an Indian restaurant.
a My
*ou can get what you need in there. Oh, and grab me some tandoori
h'cken while you're at it. I'll eat it later."

t- « * *

E^e pilot received clearance from the Medical Center for the heli|f1 r to touch down on its rooftop pad. Recce and Landau scrambled
| the passenger compartment, crouching under the rotor wash, hur-

262 J. PATRIC;K LAW

rying to the doublAe doois where a pair of orderlies were standing by, a
stretcher held bet^sveen them.
"Where's the v--ctim?" one of them asked. "Downstairs, they said it
was an emergency_"
"Not that kindB of emergency," Landau replied as he and Recce
brushed by.

Henry Blake hsad more than a few questions. He had taken off his
jacket, and whene--ver he reached for his coffee, the butt of his gun, riding
in the exposedLl shoulder holster, tapped the edge of the table.
"I'm all out of answers. Henry," Ben said. The adrenaline that had
kept him going haod all but dissipated. "Jamal, his plan--whatever that is;
Judith Sawyer's to- Ie, we need help to figure it all out."
Blake nodded ssdiently.
Ben asked: "So who do we go to?"
"The FBI's alre=ady sniffed around you, right?"
"That woman, <aelin Reece."
"You still have l--ier card?" '
"Somewhere. Vbu don't want to use any of your contacts at the Bureau?"

"What I want is to find our exactly what division Ms. Reece works in."

"Because...?"
"Because I thin -k we'll end up talking to her at some point."
If Ben hadn't Ifceen tired, he'd have made the connection sooner*
"You're saying she='s with the antiterrorist division." ^
"In light of wh^t we have, what we know, that would seem to mak<|
sense, wouldn't itF^" ^
Ben rose. "Her card's in the study Let me get it." |

« I

I
The concierge ^aw the doorman step aside to allow a tall, rangy man t^
pass. As he came closer, the concierge recognized him as the detecriv<|
who'd been there before, j
"Evening," Pri^estly said. He saw the concierge reach for the houS
phone. "Don't boirher. I'm expected."
The front door cDpened a second time. This one was all bundled up, h(
THE ASSISTANT 263

face obscured by several brown paper bags resting in a cardboard box that
he clutched against his chest with both hands.
The concierge crinkled his nose. The smell of Indian food made him
hungry. Now he heard the deliveryman mumble a suite number. And the
detective was in the elevator, holding back the door.
"I'll take him up," he called out.
The concierge waved his hand at the deliveryman, shooing him along.

* * *

Rachel still had on her surgical greens when Landau saw her. She saw
him standing there in the surgeons' prep room, reached up and slowly
pulled off her cap, pulled out the pins letting her hair tumble to her
shoulders.
Rachel had only to take that one look to understand that he had figured
out her deception. Figured it out long enough ago so that, for the
moment, he could park his anger and get on with business.
Rachel reached down and pulled off the booties that covered her
sneakers. She saw Landau's legs approach; the FBI agent was holding
back.
"Where is he, Rachel?"
She tossed the booties into the burn bin. "I don't know. That's the
truth."
"The truth. How refreshing. You should know that there's an all-
points out on your car. We tried the phone but either it's dead or he's disconnected
it. I don't have any way of warning him not to run when the
troopers spot him."
"Ben's not stupid. He won't run."
"Maybe he won't, but he's still stupid."
"What do you want. Landau?"
"Your duties here are finished, yes? I would like you to invite Agent
Reece and myself to Ben's apartment, where the three of us can wait for
him together. Maybe talk a little."
"And if I have other plans?"
"Then Agent Reece will be obliged to take you into custody as a material
witness in Ben's disappearance."
"That's a chickenshit play."
"It is. But I'm certainly prepared to use it. Contrary to what you may
264 J. PATRICK LAW

think, Rachel, I don't want to hurt him. But as you know, there are those
out there who are not of like mind."
Rachel considered. She could fight Landau on this, raise such a stink
that Recce might think^twice. But there was nothing to gain. Ben had
asked for this time and she had become hiscoconspirator in order to help
him buy it. He understood that he could not evade Landau forever. Either
Ben had gotten to the information he needed or he would come
back empty-handed. To let Landau and Recce wait for him changed
nothing.
Actually, Rachel thought, it might be better to have them close. Who

knew what they might let slip?
"Five minutes to change," Rachel said, and gave Landau her back.
Reece started after her as Rachel disappeared into the changing
room. She was surprised when Landau warned her off by shaking his
head. This one, Reece thought, still had at least the tips of her claws in

him.

» » »

"Here it is," Ben called out, coming ouiofthe study.
Henry Blake was standing by the sink, scaring at the samplers, but his
eyes weren't moving. Ben walked up to him and handed him the card.
The doorbell sounded.
Blake looked at him.
"Probably Rachel," Ben said and turned to leave.

* *

Out in the hall, Priestly shifted from one foot to the other. He knew ,
exactly what would happen next and what his role would be.
Priestly believed that the Arab wanted to talk to Ben Poltarek, but that
was all he believed. The Arab knew that Henry Blake was inside that
apartment, and that Blake would not let him get near Poltarek. So, Henry

Blake would die.
Priestly had no problem with that. It wasn't any coincidence that
Blake was shagging up his ass at this particular time. Blake wasn't sniffing
for payolas or dope disappearing from the evidence room. He and
Poltarek had met. The kid had told him something that keened his interest--probably
Priestly's questions about the dead guy. Now Blake was
bird-dogging. If he went far enough--and Blake's reputation spoke for
THE ASSISTANT 265

itself--he might just come across Priestly's off-the-books arrangements
with the Arabs.
So, Blake has to die. The Arab would be the triggerman. Now came the
best part: Priestly would shoot the Arab and come out looking like a hero.
That, plus the fact that the only two who could speak against him would
be dead. Perfect.
Priestly had his detective's shield in his hand, ready. The Arab was behind
him and to the left. The smell of curry was intoxicating. Priestly
thought that that bit about getting the Arab to order extra food for him
had been a nice touch. The victim doesn't expect his executioner to ask
him to get takeout.
Such was Priestly's last thought. He heard the crinkle of paper bags
but not the tiny report of the silenced shot. The explosion that blew
apart the back of his head never registered in his consciousness as the .22
bullet rattled around in his cranium, chewing up brain matter.
"Who is it?"
Jamal heard Pokarek's muffled voice behind the door. He scooped up
Priestly's ID and held it close to the peephole. He said, "Priestly," between
two hacking coughs.

« * *

"It's Priestly," Ben said over his shoulder as Henry Blake approached.
Blake stopped, frowned.
Ben's fingers flipped back the deadbolt.
"No!" Blake shouted.
It was too late. The door burst open, slamming hard against Ben, sending
him sprawling against the secretaire.
Blake saw flashes of dark clothing. He was reaching for his gun, bringing
it out in that practiced draw. But he was just a little too old, a little too
slow. The barrel hadn't even cleared the leather when Jamal's bullet
ripped into his ribcage, nicked bone, and buried itself in his heart.
Jamal was all motion. Even before Blake hit the floor, Jamal was
hunched over the boy. A judicious blow to the head opened his scalp,
stunned him but did not knock him unconscious.
Jamal then dragged Priestly into the foyer, returned for the food, and
closed the door. He arranged Priestly close to the other detective,
kneeled, and jammed his .22 into Ben's limp hand. Now the fingerprints
were where they should be.
266 J. PATRICK LAW

Careful to avoid the seeping blood, he tied the boy's hands with plastic
cuffs and jerked him to his feet. He prodded him with Priestly's big
Sig Sauer.
"I have come a long way to talk to you," he hissed into the boy's ear.
"Now we will go where we can have privacy, you understand?"
Ben was swaying on his feet. His knees threatened to buckle and his
head felt as though it was about to explode. Something warm and sticky
was leaking down the back of his neck.
"Never make it..." he managed.
Jamal pushed him to the floor and raced toward the only lighted room,
the kitchen. He saw his bounty on the table--the notes and CD-ROMs,
car keys--and scooped them up into the bag the boy had conveniently
left there.
He ran back into the foyer, checked the hall through the peephole,
and pushed Ben through the door.
The elevator came within seconds. Inside, Jamal pressed the button
for the garage level.
"You will show me your car," he said.
Ben was slumped against the wall. "Fuck you."
"Colorful, but rude. You think you can still play me, don't you?" Jamal
said. "Shall I tell you where we are going? To Chesapeake. Ah, you are
surprised. How do I know of your hideaway?"
Gripping Ben by the collar, he steered him toward a mesh cage that
housed part of the building's electrical controls. Ben heard his breath
whistle through his nostrils as he struggled to stay on his feet. What was
Jamal waiting for? Then he heard the squeal of car tires taking the corner
of the ramp and realized what Jamal had to do. In desperation, he flung
himself at the terrorist, but Jamal had anticipated his move. Ben saw the
blur ofjamal's arm, felt the back of his skull explode as the gun in Jamal's|
hand caught him behind the ear. 9
He was falling now, slowly, through galaxies of red haze. His chechi
touched something cold and hard, and grit scraped his skin when h<|
moved. |
Just before the haze rolled over him completely, Ben saw Jamal walk!

ing away, toward the car that was slipping into its designated slot, the guB
t
hidden behind his back.

Iwenty-four

kaelin reece wanted to whistle up a car from the Bureau pool, but
Landau pressed for a cab. He was in a hurry. He didn't need any of
the standard-issue paraphernalia the FBI carried in the trunks of their
cars--bulletproof vests, AR-15s, and Remington shotguns. His own
team, whom he'd called from the helicopter, and which would be close to
Poltarek's building, had such equipment--and better.
Landau wanted to get over to the apartment because he believed that,
ifPoliarek hadn't already arrived, he would do so very soon. Rachel had
not offered much, but in talking to her. Landau had come away with the
impression that Poltarek had not bolted. Rachel had helped him buy
time--time to do something privately, away from the city, then return.
Landau reckoned that was why the police hadn't picked up Rachel's
car. Poltarek had made his getaway, arrived at his destination, and hidden
the car. If what he had to do took no more than half a day, he would be on
his way home at nightfall, when there was less chance of the car being
spotted.
Landau figured that Poltarek hadn't yet returned; Rachel's demeanor
would have been different if he had. She was not so accomplished an actress
that she could hide her relief. Which meant that Landau could be
biting on Poltarek when he stepped into the apartment. He could
throw him off balance by his presence, bully him a little. Poltarek would
be nervous and tired. He might be more inclined to give up information
268 J. PATRICK LAW

because Rachel was there, seeing her in the glue because she'd helped
him.
The cab was a big station wagon. Reece rode up front. Landau and
Rachel in the back, on seats that smelled of mildew. From time to time,
Landau glanced at Rachel, but her eyes were always averted, looking out
at traffic. When the cab took sharp turns and their bodies touched, she
shifted away.
The concierge recognized Rachel as soon as she stepped through the
doors. The other woman was also familiar, in a distant sort of way. He did
not know the man who moved very softly, like he was skimming, not
walking, his compact body coiled like a snake's.
"It's a regular party here tonight," the concierge said. It was a silly, almost
rude comment, prompted by nervousness.
The concierge caught the sharp look in the man's dark eyes. Oh, shit!
He was about to apologize when the stranger whispered to Rachel.
"What do you mean, a party?" Rachel asked.
"Look, Doc. No disrespect, right? All I was saying is that there's been
a lot of traffic up to the ... the Poltareks' place."
"Who?"
"Well, first one detective went up." The concierge checked his log.
"Henry Blake's the name. Mr. Poltarek called down to ask me to let him
in, which is exactly what I did--after checking his ID."
"What about Ben?" Rachel asked urgently.
"I know he's there because I saw the elevator go up. But I didn't ex- ;
actly see him. He went directly from the garage."
"Who else?" ;
"Well, then there was another cop." Another quick glance at the log. ;
"Detective Priestly. And a delivery guy with some food." >
"Describe the deliveryman!" Landau snapped. |
"Looked like an Arab to me. I didn't see much of his face because of |
the food packages. Frankly, he seemed a little old for the job, but--" I
The concierge's mouth hung open as Landau pulled Reece aside. |
"Your team or mine? Mine are just down the street. Quickly now!"

"Jamal?" Reece whispered.
"Who else?"
"Yours."
Landau turned to the concierge. "Has the deliveryman come down?
Has anyone left the building?"
THE ASSISTANT 269

The concierge swallowed. "Not that I know."
Landau was talking quickly into his cell phone. When he was finished,
he said to Recce, "Get him"--he gestured at the concierge--"to close
off all the elevators except one."
Recce flipped open her ID and huddled with the concierge while
Landau took Rachel aside.
"I'm going to ask you this once: Will you stay down here, behind that
desk, and let me do my job?"
"He's up there, isn't he? Jamal--"
"Will you, Rachel?"
She nodded, and went around the concierge's desk. Seconds later, a
dark sedan screeched up to the front doors. Four men got out, carrying
hard plastic shells that looked like they'd been molded for band instruments.

"Landau!" He was already in the elevator, had to look over his shoulder
at her. "Bring him to me."
The elevator rose swiftly but Landau's men worked even faster.
Clasps and snaps were flipped open, plastic rattled against the marble
floor, harsh clicks and ratcheting noises filled the small space as ammunition
clips were slapped into place, safeties flicked off.
Looking at the firepower. Recce felt naked holding her Sig Sauer.
"Kaelin?"
Landau's soft voice drew her back. "Yeah?"
"We are doing this on a wing and a prayer, correct?"
"Yeah. Especially the prayer part."
"My team hits the door first. You stay back. This will be a hard takedown.
Jamal gets no warning, no time to grab hostages."
"What about Priestly?"
Landau's voice became very cold. "I don't care about Priestly. If I have
to go through him to get to Jamal, that's what I do."
Reece realized that Landau was using these same words to issue instructions
to his men.
"What about the other detective?"
"I don't think he's a part of this."
"So you won't shoot him?"
"Not unless I have to. Here is the play: Priestly and Jamal go down
"rst. We aim for shoulders, legs, anyplace that makes them drop. I want
Jamal alive. You want him thai way, too. He has things to tell us."
270 J. PATRICK LAW

Out of the elevator, moving swiftly and silently down the carpeted
hallway. One of Landau's men tapped him on the shoulder, pointed.
Recce followed his finger to the blood spots on the carpet.
Blood and the smell of tandoori chicken ...
Recce held back as Landau and his team crowded both sides of the
door. She missed the prearranged signal because in the next instant,
there was the popcorn sound of silenced automatic weapons. The heavy
wood around the ornate brass lock and bolt was shredded, heavy boots
hitting the door so hard that it shook in its frame as it hit the wall.
For a moment, Reece saw nothing but bodies piling inside, heard
men calling out softly, footsteps pounding. Then the foyer was vacant,
and there lay two bodies: one white--Priestly; the other black--had to
be the second detective. And two heavy-duty paper bags of food, stapled
at the top.
Reece stepped inside, careful to skirt the blood. Deep in the apartment,
men still called out to one another, but she knew that they knew
the carnage was done. There was no one left to take by the throat, no one
to bludgeon. The coppery stink of blood was Jamal mocking them.
"How long?" Landau demanded harshly as he clattered down the
staircase. "How long have they been dead?"
Reece gazed into the dead men's eyes.
"Not long." She touched the black man's palm. "Still warm."
But too long for Landau. Enough time for Jamal to have done his work
and left.
"What about Poltarek?" Reece asked. "You found him upstairs?"
When Landau didn't answer, she looked at him. "He was upstairs ..."
Landau shook his head. "Gone. Jamal took him."
It was then that Rachel, standing in the hall, screamed.
Iwenty-five

ben tried to get to his feet, fingertips scraping the pillar, the stubble
in the rough-textured concrete cutting through skin and
nerves, tearing at blood vessels. The moments of lucidity were camera
flashes going off in his mind. The pain did not so much hurt as stun him.
He twisted, slamming his back against the wall, thighs trembling as he
fought to support himself. That was when he saw old Mr. Connelly,
apartment 6E, elderly widower, writer of detective stories. Connelly, in
his old cashmere overcoat and houndsiooth cap a la Sherlock Holmes,
fussing with grocery bags. The Jeep Cherokee's tailgate was down, Connelly,
leaning into the storage compartment, never hearing, never seeing
Jamal coming up behind him.
Ben's lungs burned with every breath he drew. The shout he wanted
to hurl across the empty garage came out a whispery rasp. He wanted to
warn Connelly. He wanted to scream at Jamal that he didn't have to kill
the old man. A gentle tap on the head would be enough.
But the knife was already in Jamal's hand. Ben watched as in one motion
he swooped down, grabbed the hem of Connelly's coat, pulled it up
to reveal a wool sweater over corduroy pants.
Jamal did not pull his arm back to drive home the knife. With the thick
coat out of the way, he slid the knife into Connelly's left lower back,
twisting and digging like a butcher fleshing meat off a bone. When he re272 J. PATRICK LAW

moved the knife and started in on Connelly's right side, Ben realized
Jamal was carving out the old man's kidneys.
Ben thought he heard Connelly utter a sharp gasp, but nothing more.
The killing was over in seconds. Jamal gripped Connelly by the shoulders
and flung him away, Connelly's body rolling, streaking the polished
concrete floor with red.
Jamal reached inside the Cherokee and hurled the grocery bags. Then
he was back, grabbing Ben by the scruff of the neck, thrusting him toward
the vehicle.
Connelly was a prudent driver. Next to the spare tire was an emergency
road kit. Ben felt the tip ofjamal's knife on the skin of his back as
the Palestinian rummaged inside the kit and came up with a roll of thick
adhesive tape, the kind used to temporarily patch a hole in an engine
hose. Ben felt the tape go around his wrists, another piece across his
mouth. Jamal pushed him into the cargo compartment and told him to
curl up. Then he threw an old picnic blanket over him.
"Do not struggle, do not move," he heard Jamal say. "If you kick at the
windows, I will cut your tendons."
An electric motor whined as the tailgate window was raised. Ben felt
the Cherokee move, tires squealing as the rubber floated on the concrete
floor.
Why keep me around? Why not kill me too?
The questions pounded in Ben's mind, clambering over the rocky outcrops
of his terror to the answer: Jamal wanted to know what the dying
man had told him. Jamal, a Swiss-trained physician who could carve out
a man's kidneys like they were so much offal. Jamal, the patriot and freedom
fighter who sent adolescents with bombs into the streets of Israeli
cities. Jamal, the charismatic, the fanatic, who, Ben knew, would cut and
hurt him until Ben was screaming out his words. Not that the words
themselves would matter. Jamal would kill him as soon as he was convinced
that Ben had given up everything he had.
Ben could tell that Jamal was not yet comfortable behind the wheel.
He was taking the corners too quickly, and the truck's swaying morion
made the blanket shift. Ben saw streetlights and the lit offices of government
towers. He thought that Jamal's driving might attract the attention
of a roving patrol car. A part of him ached to hear the wail of a siren, to see
the reflection of spinning gumball lights. Then he remembered Priestly
f THE ASSISTANT 273

and Henry Blake and understood exactly what Jamal would do to any policeman
who tried to interfere.
Landau, Ben thought. Landau and that FBI agent. Recce. Soon they
would realize how he and Rachel had tricked them, sending them off to
Timberland. They would go furious with Rachel. They would come to
the apartment and discover--
But how soon? And did they have any idea where Jamal might be
going? Don't think so. If they had, they would have tagged Jamal by now.
The Cherokee was speeding along, the tires hitting tar strips in
rhymthic intervals.
A highway?
Ben had not expected this. He thought for sure that Jamal would have
a bolt-hole somewhere inside Washington proper. Staying on the road
would be a great risk once the alarm went up.
Ben shifted slightly. He had to get into a position to see a landmark--
something that would hint at the direction in which they were headed.
He needed to believe that it was important to do this. It was all he had to
believe in.

* * *

The two dead detectives created an unforeseen problem for Landau
in the person of the grim chief of homicide, Abbott, who had arrived on
the scene. Landau knew he would have to deal delicately with Recce if
he was to get what he needed. He needed to coach and prod her in her
dealings with him. Abbott, he knew, would see him as an interloper, a
foreigner who had brought his bloody business across the ocean and deposited
it on D.C.P.D.'s doorstep. He had to make Abbott understand
what else was at stake.
The apartment and the lobby were filled with police technicians,
plainclothes, and uniforms. The first units had begun arriving even before
Reece had put out the squawk, before Landau had had a chance to
pull her aside and set her straight. Where the panic call had originated
was still a mystery, but Landau suspected the concierge or one of the
other downstairs staff.
Abbott was slender, middle-aged, with a soft voice that carried a sting
when he needed to make a point. By the quick, efficient activity in the
apartment. Landau recognized that Abbott was accustomed to com274 J. PATRICK LAW

mand. His investigators worked swiftly and silently, reminding Landau
of a seasoned rowing crew.
"Recce, is it?"
"Special Agent Recce, Captain."
Abbott turned to Landau. "And Mr. Landau. No rank."
Reece caught the anger in Abbott's cool tone.
"Captain, Mr. Landau is here at the invitation of our government.
What happened here ... We believe it's part of a national security consideration."

Reece didn't think "national security" would cut much ice with Abbott
and she wasn't wrong. But at least the captain was polite. His body
language indicated that he was willing to listen.
Reece returned the courtesy giving Abbott the details she thought he
needed to know.
A suspected terrorist, Hafez Jamal, was believed to be in the D.C.
area. He was thought to be responsible for the deaths of Sidney and
Rose Pokarek, owners of the apartment. He might also have targeted
the Poltareks' son, Benjamin, whom Reece and Landau had come to
see.
At that point, Abbott help up his hand and looked at Landau. "You're
Israeli."
"Yes, Captain."
"Those were your men the downstairs staff saw coming up to the
apartment?"
"Yes."
"Under federal authority," Reece added quickly. ;
Abbott ignored her. "Which means you expected this Jamal to be I
here." .':
".!
"Might be here. Captain." |
"Was here. You're thinking Jamal killed my men." <|
"I know he did."
Abbott stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked lightly on his heels.
"You had a description out on Jamal for the last few days, didn't you?*^
"We wanted to bring him in for questioning," Reece said.
"I'Questioning'? But you come in here with a commando force."
Reece was about to answer, but Landau cut in.
"Captain, I am very sorry about the deaths of your men. Somehow
--and we don't know how--they either walked in on or otherwise be,
THE ASSISTANT 275

came part of this situation. Our concern was and remains Benjamin
Pokarek."
"What's his connection to Jamal?"
"That, Captain, is what we wanted to ask him."
Abbott thought about that. "You've been running your operation very
quietly," he said at last. "No alerts, no postings, no interagency communiques.
Someone battened down the hatches on this thing."
He left the question unspoken.
"The White House," Recce said.
Abbott's eyes went dead. "You understand that I don't give a rat's ass
if the President sends the A-G and his entire staff to camp on my door, no
one's taking jurisdiction away from me. Not with two of my own laid
low."
"We both want the same man," Landau said softly.
"Yes. But I want to put him on trial here. Not in some courtroom
halfway across the world."
"Captain, you must know that men like Jamal seldom allow matters to
proceed that far."
Abbott looked him up and down. He had met men like this Landau,
phantom warriors who dwelled in the shadows of the conventional army.
There was a certain granitelike finality to them. Abbott believed that
Hafez Jamal had injured Landau, probably killed some of his people. So
Landau would trap him and hurt him and extract what he needed. Only
then would those who demanded vengeance have it.
"Captain, you need to see this."
It was the fingerprint tech, holding up a sheet. Landau caught something
in his voice--was it triumph?--and he didn't like it.
"Jamal's prints," Recce said under her breath after Abbott had moved
off. "Gotta be."
Landau wasn't so sure. He got a better idea of just how wrong Recce
was when Abbott came back to them, obviously struggling to contain his
anger.
"You have fingerprints off the gun used to kill your men," Landau
said. He wanted to reach out to Abbott, work with a positive, work to
keep him calm.
"Fingerprints I have," Abbott said abruptly.
"Jamal's," Recce broke in. "They'd be on the antkerrorist hotline,
linked to the NCIC-"
276 J. PATRICK LAW

"They most probably are. Special Agent Recce. But that's not where I
got these." Abbott took a deep breath, through his mouth, like a man
standing over putrefaction. "These came off the .22 used on Priestly and
Blake. But they don't belong to Jamal. They didn't come off the NCIC.
They're from the Justice Department. All lawyers are fingerprinted
when they pass the bar or go to work for the government, right? These
are Ben Pokarek's prints on the gun."
Abbott looked from Landau to Recce. "What--no surprise?"
"Poltarek didn't kill your men. Captain," Landau said quietly.
"Jamal must have taken him down, put his prints on the weapon,"
Recce added quickly.
"Okay. So Jamal not only manages to take down two experienced officers,
at the same time he subdues Poltarek, gets his prints on the .22.
That's what you're telling me?"
"The concierge says Priestly and the deliveryman went up together,"
Landau said. "There was no reason for the concierge to recognize Jamal.
But Priestly? In the confines of an elevator, the time it takes the car to
reach the penthouse...."
"Don't even think of going down that road," Abbott said softly. "If
Priestly didn't make the guy--"
He stopped short when he saw something in Landau's eyes.
"Priestly knew it was Jamal? They were connected? Fuck you, mister!"
Landau did not drop his steady gaze but neither did he press on. The
details he and Recce had on Priestly could rest undisturbed awhile
longer. Later, he'd let Reece pick the time, when Abbott had cooled off,
when they needed something from him.
"Something else you didn't tell me," Abbott was saying. "That you
had a silent alarm out for Poltarek."
Landau noted the slight crease in Abbott's lips, the satisfaction he was
getting out of this. Someone had scored big points bringing him the all-
points on Poltarek.
"We weren't hiding anything and there's not much to tell," Reece said
flatly. "We had Poltarek under surveillance, in case Jamal came calling.
Then Poltarek jackrabbked on us. We wanted to find him, but without a
fuss."
"Fuss is what you've got now," Abbott replied. "Far as I'm concerned,
Poltarek has just gone platinum. The APBs out on the Jeep stand."
THE ASSISTANT 277

"But you don't think he killed Priestly and Blake," Recce persisted.
"His prints are on the weapon. Priestly and Blake were murdered
while Poltarek was on the premises--"
"Do you think he killed that man down in the garage, too?"
The three of them looked in the direction of the haunted, wavering
voice. Rachel stood in the doorway of the study. Recce had taken her
there immediately after Rachel had seen the carnage and screamed. A
few cops had poked their heads inside, but Recce had made sure no one
had gone near her.
"Well, do you?"
"Dr. Melman?" Abbott queried.
"Yes. Now tell me. Do you think Ben killed Mr. Connelly? I overheard
some of your men talking, Captain. Their account was quite graphic.
'Laid out his kidneys like they were a couple of fried eggs' was one of the
more imaginative phrases."
"I don't know what to tell you about Connelly, Doctor," Abbott
replied. "Maybe I'll have a better idea about Poltarek after I talk to you.
But right now, Poltarek is my number-one play. If he and Jamal are joined
at the hip--"
"You think Ben is cooperating with him!"
"I think. Doctor, that if we find one, we find them both. Now, if you're
up to it--and no one has any objections--let's you and I chat. Maybe you
can tell me something about Poltarek that will help him out. What do
you say?"
Rachel gave him a barely perceptible nod and disappeared back into
the study.
"What do you say. Captain?" Recce asked as Abbott brushed by her.
"Hold off making Poltarek out to be a killer until you've talked to her."
"Not even if 1600 Pennsylvania asks."
Recce felt Landau tug at her elbow. She pulled away sharply and
walked down the hall to the kitchen. Two patrolmen were talking quietly
in the nook. They took stock of Reece, and of Landau, who followed her
in, and left.

"It's our fault. All of it."
Landau took two Cokes from the refrigerator, put one back when
Reece shook her head.

"What's our fault?" he asked.

278 J. PATRICK LAW

"Henry Blake ... the rest of it." She pivoted on the ball of her foot,
like a dancer. "We made Blake the goat. Somehow, Priestly cottoned
onto that--probably an in-station snitch who thought he was doing
Priestly a favor. So Priestly knows IA is on his ass. He makes a play for
Blake."
"And brings Jamal along? Jamal was using Priestly, but he wouldn't become
his triggerman. Jamal wouldn't jeopardize his own operation that
way."

"That's the pan that doesn't stretch," Recce admitted.
Landau chugged his Coke. "It might stretch if you look at it another
way." He paused until he had Recce's attention. "Let's say that whatever
Jamal's here to do is heating up. He's in the endgame. If that's the case,
the last thing he needs or wants are loose ends. Priestly has helped him.
But in doing so, maybe he's learned a little too much, connected a few
too many dots.
"But Priestly has problems of his own--Blake. Jamal sees an opportunity.
He offers to help Priestly, to get rid of Blake for him. No reason
for Priestly not to accept, right? Except he isn't aware of Jamal's
agenda."
"So Jamal comes up with Priestly," Recce joined in. "He kills Blake,
then Priestly too. Now he's home free, and there's Pokarek."
"I think that's the way it happened," Landau said. "More or less. In
this situation. Priestly was a bonus."
Reece poured herself a glass of water. "Sounds good. And right. But it
doesn't change the fact that we basically set up Blake."
Landau said nothing. Reece wanted to hate him for a little while and
that was all right, too. He needed her to purge herself of anger and self-
blame. He needed her keen and ready for what was to come.
"Let's go get Rachel," he said. "Abbott has had enough time with her."

* * *

The shock Rachel exhibited in front of Abbott was not feigned. She
had gotten past the images of carnage. What she could not accept was the
fact that Ben was gone.
But another part other was cool to the touch, the part that had listened
to Landau explain what the police would ask when they got here. He
would make it easy for her, he'd said. She could give the detectives ev-
THE ASSISTANT 279

erything she knew, except for her being a sayan. She was a doctor, a fiancee,
someone who knew that her lover was in trouble and had helped
him, without asking questions.
Given everything else that Homicide had to deal with, they would accept
her statement at face value. At least for now.
Rachel had taken Abbott's measure as soon as he'd stepped into the
room. She recognized the intelligence behind his quiet demeanor,
caught the way he'd forced himself to calm down before approaching
her. He was poised to notice everything, so Rachel gave him the truth,
knowing that a lie or even a half truth would resonate like a spiderweb
struck by a fly. She was pleased that Abbott couldn't quite hide his smile
when she described how she and Ben had conspired to send Landau and
Recce off on a wild goose chase to Timberland. Clearly, Abbott had
found Landau's social skills wanting.
"We'd like to put a tap on your phones--at your hospital office and at
home," he said.
"Of course." Landau had warned her that the police would request
this.
"And you'll let me know--immediately--if Mr. Pokarek contacts you
in any other way, through e-mail or something like that."
"I will."
Rachel looked over his shoulder, and when Abbott turned, he saw
Landau in the doorway.
Abbott finished his thought while keeping his eyes on Landau.
"I want to be very clear on this point, Doctor. Whatever other agencies
may be involved, D.C. Homicide has jurisdiction in this matter. Your responsibility
is to contact us, no one else."
"Absolutely."
"We'll do our best to find him. Doctor, and bring him back safely."
"Ben's innocent. Captain."
Abbott was about to reply but thought better of it. He nodded to
Rachel and slipped past Landau, who closed the door.
"Jamal took Ben because he thinks he knows something," she said
flatly.

"Yes."
"He'll hurt him, won't he? Ben will tell him what he knows, but Jamal
^11 still torture him." Her voice rose in panic. "That's the way it's done,
280 J. PATRICK LAW

isn't it? You torture someone because the truth can never come too easily.
If it does, it's suspect. Pain is the convincing thing, isn't it?"
"What does Ben know, Rachel? There's no point in hiding it now.
Maybe it will help us find him."
Rachel caught the lethargy in his voice. Landau wasn't trying to fool
with her. He was grappling with defeat, looking for a way to turn something--anything--to
his advantage. He didn't care who had lied to him
or had hidden things from him. He needed to make something happen.
To help himself meant helping Ben, if only by proxy. Because she felt
this to be true, Rachel could now give him what he wanted.
TThey're bringing in an American.' Those are the exact words Ben
said your man used. That's all of it. That's all he knows."
Landau was very still. "I'They're bringing in an American.' Was the
American Priestly?"
"Ben didn't know. But I don't think so."
"No ... If it were Priestly, Jamal wouldn't have kept him so close. He
wouldn't have killed him. It's somebody else."
"Then do what you do so well. Landau. Go find him.'

* * *

The ride was much longer than Ben had thought it would be. Ht
heard the whoosh of cars streaming in the opposite direction, felt th;
Cherokee rock when the big semis hurtled by. He tried to maintain;
sense of time, but that was hard because he'd forgotten exactly whe
Jamal had taken him. The best he could do was count off the minute
Later, when they stopped, he would guesstimate the average speed a|j
use that to figure out how far they might have traveled. |
The problem would be direction. Ben twisted around to try to see tj
night sky. He caught a glimpse of it, the moon a wavering bluish shad
obscured by clouds. No stars to steer by, either. Jamal could be head
to any point on the compass, i
Tires purring on metal--crossing a bridge. The smell of ocean see(ij
into the Cherokee. Jamal was slowing down, the road becoming wine
with the occasional hairpin turn. Rattling over washboard grates k
the winter, dipping into potholes, the shocks protesting. The ei
whining as it labored up a crest, the truck lurching forward, rolling
the engine was cut.
THE ASSISTANT 281
Ben heard Jamal get out of the truck fast. The tailgate was pulled open
and Jamal grabbed him by the ankles, pulled him forward, stood him up,
steadied him because his hands were bound behind his back.
Ben whipped his head back and gagged as the tape over his mouth was
corn away. He coughed, doubled over, and was almost sick until he could
straighten up and breathe normally.
The night sky was very clear on the Chesapeake. The moonlight
made the tree branches look like a creche of bones behind Jamal. There
was the old house the Poltareks had never been able to bring themselves
to love, which Ben had left just hours ago.
Ben stared from the house to Jamal, who stood before him, triumphant,
his eyes black jewels framed in white.
"You are surprised."
Ben nodded. "How did you know? How could you find it?"
Jamal gripped him by the elbow and steered him to the porch.
"The detective. Priestly--he found it. He was a thorough man, a good
and valuable servant."

"So valuable you killed him."

Jamal ignored the interruption. "He checked on all the property your
parents had."
"But this house isn't registered in their names."
"Something Priestly discovered. I mentioned that he was a thorough
man. He examined records not only of what they owned but what they
had bequeathed---as a precaution, you understand. That was how he
learned about your father's arrangement with his office manager, how
title to the house had been placed in her name."
"Priestly knew I was up here?"
"He suspected. But I did not act on his information because I knew
you would return to the city What I did was have Priestly gather all the
necessary information--how to get here, the proximity of neighbors."
Jamal paused. "I can see why you would choose to come here, the isola- "on, the ocean and the wilds. It is quite beautiful."
He looked at Ben. "I understand what it is you are thinking: If Priestly
could draw such conclusions, so can others. Maybe Landau? Your fiancee?
The police? But Rachel Melman doesn't know this place even ex- "ts, correct? And Landau? He is not nearly as well versed in your
Property laws as Priestly was. He will have to rely on the police to run
such checks and they will not be as thorough as Priestly
282 J. PATRICK LAW

"No, my friend. This haven will serve us equally well as it recently
served you. Besides, we will not need it for very long. "Now, where do
you hide the key?"
It was underneath an empty flower pot in a corner of the covered
porch.
A puff of warm air greeted Jamal when he opened the door. He turned
on the lights and quickly oriented himself.
To the left of the foyer was the dining room and, behind the staircase,
a parlor. To the right was the living room. The kitchen was behind the
dining room and ran all the way to the back of the house and the rear
porch.
Jamal steered Ben upstairs, glanced briefly into the guest bedroom to
the right of the landing, then walked his prisoner into the master, on the
left.
"This is where you slept?"
"Yes."
Poltarek was not lying. One of the twin beds was still rumpled from
use.
Prodding Ben ahead of him, Jamal checked the bathroom and the adjacent
study.
Returning to the master bedroom, he opened the century-old armoire
and chuckled when he saw the contents. Hanging on tenpenny nails
were sets of handcuffs, soft ropes, and several knives. Clothing in plastic
dustproofbags hung on the rack; several boxes and bags were stacked on
the bottom shelf.
Jamal held up a pair of handcuffs. "For your girlfriend?"
He pushed Ben over onto one of the beds, made him lie facedown,
and ripped off the tape. Then he secured one ring of the cuffs to Ben's
wrist, the other to the decorative wrought-iron headboard, checked the
locks, and pocketed the key.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, brought out his knife, and laid the
blade flat against Ben's cheek. When Ben blinked, he felt the knife point
prick his lower eyelid.
"There's nothing for you to be afraid of," Jamal said soothingly. "You
see, I am a doctor by training. I know the landscape of pain. I can cut a
nerve here"--the knife point dug under the soft skin, making Ben
scream--"and you shall suffer. Or I can touch you here." He touched a
spot behind Ben's ear, flooding his senses with blissful relief.
THE ASSISTANT 283

"You understand, Mr. Pokarek? Good."
Ben steeled himself for the next cut, but instead Jamal rose.
"No. We will talk later, after you have had a chance to reflect and to
rest. I want you to be alert so that you will answer me truthfully and we
can avoid unpleasantness. Is that not what you wish, too?"

T,
wenty-six


j

udith sawyer reported to St. John's the day after she'd received the
Reverend Winslow Garrett's phone call asking her if she could fill a
Sunday school position that had suddenly become vacant.
She dressed carefully for the occasion, in a conservatively cut jacket
and skirt with a high-neck blouse accented by a cameo. She wore almost
no makeup and her fingernails were coated with clear polish. Winslow
Garrett's frank appraisal other wardrobe and his subsequent smile indicated
she'd passed the appearance test.
"We started Saturday classes last year," Garrett explained as they sat in |
his cluttered office. "The intention was to offer things a regular school |
might not emphasize. Art, for instance. Music and theater. Hoe different |
rows in the children's minds, so to speak." ^
Judith balanced the chipped cup and saucer on her knee and sipped'j
Garrett's watery tea. $
"I think it's very important for a child to be exposed to the arts." |
"The lovely thing is, we've had more success than we ever dreamed.g
The classes are enormously popular."
More with the parents than the children, Judith thought. This was,
cheap day care for Mommy's Saturday morning shopping. ;
Judith filled out the paperwork Garrett placed in front other, then followed
him to the classrooms. Strains of a violin filtered out beneath one|
of the doors.
THE ASSISTANT 285

Garrett's smile made Judith believe he was tone deaf. "Isn't it grand?"
he said. "Those are Mr. Williams's students. He used to reach at Ridley."
Judith had researched all the schools in the D.C. area. Ridley was
a solidly reputable private school. If the violin music was any indication
of Williams's ability to impart knowledge, no wonder they had let him go.
Garrett guided Judith into the teachers' lounge and introduced her to
the drama and an instructor, a thin, silent Hungarian.
As Garrett took her through the classrooms, knocking on doors, poking
his head in, introducing her, Judith matched each room with its counterpart
on the blueprint she'd memorized. The last available plans dated
back twenty years and she was afraid that on her first visit she might not
have noticed certain changes or additions. She needn't have worried.
Apart from some modernizing--air-conditioning and updated bathrooms--St.
John's had remained exactly as the architect's drawings indicated.

Now, she had to get rid of Garrett.
Judith glanced at her watch while Garrett rattled on. The minute hand
slid across twelve o'clock and, on cue, a bell went off.
Judith expected every door to fly open, braced herself for the onslaught
of rushing bodies and screaming voices. It didn't happen. The
doors opened quietly, and approximately eight children came out of each
classroom. Dressed in sweaters and khakis, they mumbjed "Good Morning,
sir" as (hey filed past Garrett.
Judith saw Garrett's hand snake out to tousle a passing head, then
freeze momentarily and slap against his thigh. Garrett was of the old
school, in which it was not considered wrong to show affection or kindness
to a student, but these were not his times. Judith recalled how
painfully Garrett had explained to her that she could never, under any
circumstances, lay her hand on a child without another teacher present.
Not even if the child was hurt or in pain. Not even if he was screaming or
burning. Or...
Judith forced herself to look away from the young faces swirling
around her. In each one she saw only the features other dead son.
"Are you all right?" Garrett was looking at her with concern. "You're
white."
"I overdressed for the weather," Judith replied quickly.
"Nonsense. It's the heating in this place. Ancient, I'm afraid. We're
hoping that next year's budget..."
286 J. PATRICK LAW

His voice trailed off as a blond boy of six or seven straggled out of a
classroom, looking as if he hadn't a friend in the world.
"And who's this?" Judith asked brightly. She wanted to get Garrett's
attention off her.
"Oh. Jeffrey Waterstone." Garrett lowered his voice. "Parents are with
the State Department, away for weeks at a time. Now there's a divorce.
Not good, I'm told."
As the boy shuffled by, Judith said, "Jeffrey?"
He looked up at her with eyes that made her remember. It was all she
could do not to sweep him up in her arms.
"Jeffrey, I'm Miss Sawyer. Can I walk with you to your next class?"
The boy's reply was barely audible: "I have a free period."
Judith glanced at Garrett, who smiled and gave her her rein.
"Well, I'm new here and don't know my way around. Would you mind
showing me the school?"
The boy debated, then nodded.
Judith waited until Garrett disappeared down the hall. "Do they call
you Jeffrey or Jeff?"
"My mom calls me Jeffrey but my dad, he says Jeff. It makes my mom
crazy." A hint of a smile appeared on his pink lips. ;
"Which would you like me to call you?"
"Jeff." .;
"Well then, Jeff. Where should we start?" |
"Do you want to see a classroom?" s
"That's a great idea. How about that one over there?" y
She had not chosen that room by chance. That the classroom was va|
cant was a lucky coincidence. If it hadn't been, she'd have had to find an;
excuse to visit it later. } I
"The windows are kinda small," Jeffrey said. "That's why Mr. Garrett|
leaves the lights on all the time." S
This classroom was, she imagined, identical to the rest. The windows^
were set a couple of feet below the ceiling, level with the ground outside.;
Even if they hadn't been matted with grime, not much light would havej
gotten through. ]
And, as Judith had suspected, they were small enough for a child Jef«,
frey's size to crawl through. An adult would never make it. ,
But wriggling through a basement window wasn't what Judith had in^
mind. She examined the classroom, with its watercolors and cutout arti
THE ASSISTANT 287

draped along the walls, the scarred one-piece desk-and-chair combos,
the teacher's old oak slab with its alligator shellac. There was only one
door to get in and out. No closets. No cloakroom.
Fine.
Jeffrey thought it was kind of strange that Miss Sawyer spent all this
time looking around the classroom, like she'd never seen one before in
her life. Maybe she was a new teacher and had never taught in a real
school before. Jeffrey had overheard the other kids talking about old Miss Buffett, how she'd been mugged. Brian Lambert said that she'd
gotten her face smashed in and looked like Godzilla.
"What's over there, Jeff?" They were back in the hall and Judith was
pointing to a metal-sheathed door painted battleship gray.
"Dunno. Mr. Garrett says we shouldn't go there."
Something in the boy's tone warmed Judith. "But you do, don't you?"
she whispered conspiratorially.
Jeffrey was about to protest, then saw the twinkle in her eye. He decided
that Miss Sawyer was cool. He was beginning to feel a kind oficky
warm, like he felt whenever he dared glance at Susie Tompkins.
"There's a way to get in," he said boldly. "Sometimes we play hide-
and-seek, y'know."
"Want to show me?"
The door reminded Judith of a fire-escape hatch, except it had no red-
stenciled warnings of instructions. What it did have was a substantial
lock. She must have been frowning because beside her, Jeffrey laughed
softly. He squatted beside the brick wall. The placement of the bricks
appeared seamless until he wedged his fingernails into an almost invisible
crack and pulled one of the bricks loose. Nestled in the dusty mortar
was an old-fashioned, two-tongue key. His presentation to Judith was as
solemn as an offering.

"Who else knows about the key, Jeff?"
The boy scuffed his shoe against the floor. "Just me."
"Then this will be our secret. I promise."
Judith was pained by the enormity of his gift. She'd known of the existence
of the door from the blueprints, had known what lay beyond it,
and that somehow she would have to get in there. She had steeled herself
for obstacles, yet the answer she needed had come from a child's
hands.

With a screech of rusty hinges, the door opened to a narrow corridor lit

288 J. PATRICK LAW

by naked, forty-watt bulbs. The concrete walls were damp, giving off the
sharp tang of lichen. The floor was pounded earth.
"Do you know where this tunnel goes, Jeff?"
The boy shook his head. "I just hide in here, until I hear the other kids
go away."
It didn't matter. On the blueprints, the tunnel was represented by dotted
lines, indicating that it was defunct. Judith wished she had a flashlight,
but there was sufficient light to indicate that the only footprints
belonged to a child. There was no reason for anyone else to go in there.
Neither the water pipes nor the electric lines extended that far. Whatever
plumbing had once been there had been capped long ago.
"I'd like to see where the tunnel goes," Judith said. "Would you wait
here for me?"
"Can I come, too?"
Judith hesitated, then considered it wouldn't matter. "Sure."
She kept a tight grip on the boy's hand as she moved deeper into the
tunnel. The air became fetid and the boy coughed. Dust swirled around
her feet and fell from the crumbling concrete ceiling like snowflakes.
There it was: a worm-eaten door reinforced by boards haphazardly nailed to the frame.
Judith gripped one of the planks and pulled, the wood protesting as it
slid out from the nails. She handed the board to Jeff.
Five minutes of pulling and the boards were down and neatly stacked.
"Miss Sawyer?"
"Yes, Jeff?"
"What are you doing?"
"I want to see what's on the other side of the door."

"Oh."
Jeff thought the explanation perfectly reasonable.
Judith gripped the corroded handle, braced herself, and pulled. Given
her life in the desert with Issim, she was far stronger than she appeared.
It helped that the frames were rotten and the hinges could be pried out
of the wood.
When she was finished, the door sagged inward, supported only by the
bottom hinge.
"Jeff, I have to go in there for a minute. Okay?"
"I'll come too."
THE ASSISTANT 2S9

"Not this time. I don't know what's on the other side. If I get into trouble,
I'll need you to go get help."
"I can do that. Miss Sawyer?"
"Yes, Jeff?"
"You be careful."
"I will."
The lie dug into Judith. She already knew what was on the other side
of that door. The question was, could she make use of it the way she had
explained to Jamal?
Carefully, so as not to tear her suit, she climbed through the crack and
found herself at one end of an enormous subbasement. There was a lot
of debris--concrete chips, pieces of pipe, tufts of old asbestos lining.
Looking up, she saw light through the cracks in the floorboards. Enough
light to make out an old, birdcage elevator car.
Judith picked her way across to it. The elevator had a crisscross accordion
gate. She gripped the brass handle and pulled. Inside, the power
button glowed red.
If it's working today, it'll work tomorrow, Judith told herself. There's
nobody on the job site today. That means they either left the power on
for the whole weekend or just forgot about it.
As long as no one thought to come by and shut it off tomorrow. If that
were to happen, she'd have to use an alternate route, costing her precious
time, leaving her vulnerable.
Judith returned the way she'd come. Jeffrey was waiting in the spot
where she'd left him.
"What's it like?"
"Cold and spooky and dirty. Not a good place to play hide-and-seek. I
think we'd better be getting back." Judith paused. "Jeff?"
"Yes, Miss Sawyer?"
"Do you think we could keep this tunnel our little secret?"
The boy seemed to think that over. "Okay. But the other kids'll find it
sooner or later."
They won 'tfind out about it soon enough.

» » *

At noon, two men arrived at the Chesapeake house. They wore L. L.
Bean country clothes and drove an expensive Oldsmobile Silhouette

290 J. PATRICK LAW

van. Any local chancing to pass them would figure them for yuppie weekend
warriors.
That was half-true. They were warriors.
The one called Hatem was whipcord-thin, his hatchet features deeply
tanned. In Paris, he had been Jamal's point man and executioner, disposing
of both the Paris katsa and Mustafa Manshur.
His partner was al-Rahim, a Palestinian who could trace his heritage
into the mists of time. He was tall for an Arab and well fleshed. In the
proper attire, he could pass for a prosperous merchant. In reality, he was
a purveyor of a different kind. AI-Rahim had once been a member of
Arafat's personal security force. His taste for blood had not lessened after
Arafat turned politician and would-be statesman. Al-Rahim had made a
new compact with Hafez Jamal. It was he who had brought Hatem--a
second cousin and an expert in close-in killing--to Jamal's attention.
Jamal was on the porch to greet his comrades as they trooped up the
steps. Kisses on cheeks were exchanged, rapid-fire Arabic detailing the
comfortable if monotonous journey from Paris to Montreal, then New
York, by air, Amirak to Baltimore, truck the rest of the way.
Hatem and al-Rahim had brought nothing with them over the border
other than a change of clothes and personal toiletries. Their papers made
them out to be Canadian restaurateurs who were interested in opening
an establishment in the revitalized Baltimore harbor area.
At the Amtrak station, the two had gone into a noisy, crowded sports
bar. A man at the bar, wearing an Orioles jacket, finished his drink and vacated
the stool next to Hatem. In addition to a pile of coins as a tip, he'd
left behind a hard pack ofMarlboros, which Hatem had palmed.
Inside were keys--one to a locker, and two on a separate ring to the
vehicle parked in the meiered lot.
Hatem opened the locker and handed gaily wrapped packages to al-
Rahim, who handled them as though they contained children's toys and
not the weapons specified.
Now, in the living room, the pair tore open the packages and quickly
assembled the two submachines guns and two Austrian-made Keva pistols
with factory-installed silencers.
"Is the prisoner here?" Hatem asked.

"He is upstairs."
"Have you spoken with him?"
"Not yet. I set up the apparatus this morning." He checked his
THE ASSISTANT 291

watch. "It will be time soon to see how he is faring. But we should eat
first."
The cold chicken and grilled vegetables tasted strange in the mouths
of the new arrivals, but both men had eaten worse fare, and less of it. The
bird was devoured to the gristle.
As they ate, Jamal explained exactly what would take place tomorrow
and the roles Hatem and al-Rahim would play.
"It sounds like woman's work," al-Rahim grumbled. "Do you really
believe there will be so little opposition?"
"If the thing is done correctly, there should be no opposition," Jamal
said. "And remember, my friend, woman's work can sometimes be the
most treacherous."
"I am curious about the American," Hatem said.
Jamal had suspected this. Hatem held a very special place in the hearts
of the Israeli Defense Forces, especially in those who had seen the results
of his handiwork on their fellow soldiers.
"Come then."
Leading the way, Jamal toggled a wall switch, then cursed softly when
no light appeared. Half the switches didn't work. But this was an old
house, Jamal reminded himself. There had been more important things
to attend to than checking the electrical panels in the cellar.
The master bedroom was bathed in a dull, oyster-shell light. Ben lay
on the twin bed, his right wrist cuffed to the headboard. Pillows propped
up his back and neck so jhat he was half sitting up. His left arm was
pointed to the floor, the wrist shackled to the bed frame by a second set
of cuffs. Just below the elbow was an IV needle stuck in this arm. The
thin plastic hose was filled with Ben's blood, dripping steadily into a large
Mason jar. The jar was one-third full.
Jamal squatted to check the level in the jar.
"One and a half pints, Mr. Poltarek. Maybe a touch more. You're feeling
light-headed, aren't you?"
Ben rolled his head on the pillow. He opened his mouth to speak, but
the words came very slowly and seemed very far away. He turned his
head back and his eyes were once again riveted on the jar, the dripping
blood. The plop-plop of the drops was thunder in his ears. He imagined
he heard his veins sing as blood dripped out of him.
"Drink..."
Jamal picked up a plastic glass, held the straw to Ben's lips, and
292 J. PATRICK LAW

watched him drink greedily. Jamal had found apple cider in the pantry
and orange concentrate in the freezer. The fruit juices would help keep
Poltarek conscious.
Jamal pulled back the glass. "The human body can replenish its blood
supply at an astonishingly quick rate, Mr. Poltarek. But not, I think, as
quickly as your are losing yours."
Ben rolled his head from side to side. He tried not to look at the jar but
was transfixed by it. He wondered if this was the hopeless feeling drowning
men had when they could no longer kick and thrash, when they surrendered
to the waters and allowed themselves to sink, opening their
mouths to flood their lungs. Was it at once so peaceful and so horrible as
what was being done to him? Was the process so numbing that the brain,
abandoning self-preservation, became a spectator in its own destruction?
Is that what you felt, Sammy?
Jamal became conscious of Hatem's breathing. He was quite excited
by the tableau.
"Is your mouth still dry, Mr. Poltarek?"
Ben focused on the voice. He saw Jamal as though the Arab were
standing behind a gauze screen. That couldn't be. His eyes, like his
brain, were betraying him.
"No." The word came out like sandpaper on balsa.
"You have had a chance to reflect, Mr. Poltarek. Yes?"
Ben felt the weave of the pillowcase against his cheek.
"Then you understand there is no hope for you. No one knows you are
here. No one is coming to save you. Of course, people are searching for
you. I do not deny this. But do you think they will find you before that jar
is full?"
"No..."
"You see? You still have all your faculties. Impaired to some degree,
but functioning nonetheless. Do you think we can begin? I think we
can."
"What do you want?"
"That much should be obvious, even in your state. I need to know
what you know, Mr. Poltarek. What the dying Jew came to tell you."
Ben closed his eyes. He imagined he could feel the heat of the red
haze that flowered behind his eyelids. But he was not thinking of the Israeli.
He beheld only Samuel.
"He did tell you something, didn't he, Mr. Poltarek. Are you curious to
THE ASSISTANT W

know how I know this? It's simple, really. You have become such an important
person to the Israelis, to our mutual friend Landau. Do you know
anything about Landau? His first name, for instance? No? Well, it doesn't
really matter. The key is that Landau believes you have been withholding
something. He pressed tremendous resources into service to watch over
you and keep you alive. Believe me when I tell you that life is not all that
precious to Landau. Not unless he stands to profit from it. And in this
case, Mr. Poltarek, so do I. You see, I have something very important to
do tomorrow and I need to know if that meddling Israeli knew anything
about it. If you know anything. "And if so, did you pass any information
along to Landau--or perhaps your own authorities?"
"You're not the same man ..."

"I beg your pardon? Oh, I see. You mean my change in appearance."
"You're letting me see you ..."
"And so you think that because I did so, I will have to kill you when
we are done. No, Mr. Poltarek. Not at all. What needs to be done will be
over with very soon, very quickly. I will be gone long before your friends
find you. In fact, I may even leave a hint as to where you are--once I am
safely out of reach, of course. "Now. What did the Israeli tell you?"
Snapshots of the bleeding man falling in his arms. Bleedingthe way 1 am
right now. Worse. No chance for him.
No chance for Sammy.
No chance for me. You can bank on that. Jamal's a fucking liar. Don't tell him
a thing. Let him sweat.
Something must have written itself across his face because suddenly
Jamal was very close.
"You are not yet ready to talk to me, are you?" He tapped the IV tube.
"Are you a healthy man, Mr. Poltarek? You appear to be. I hope so. Because
after the loss of two pints of blood, the body begins to shut down.
A craving sets in among the major organs--primarily the heart and the
brain, but the liver and the lungs as well. The light-headedness you are
experiencing will not intensify. You will be as mentally alert as you are at
this moment. But the pain will come. Your flesh will feel prickly, as
though ants are crawling under your skin. Your eyes will burn, and you
may experience the sensation that your extremities have been amputated.
It will all be ... unsettling. Unnecessary."
Jamal drew back. "But clearly you need this extra time. Just do not
take too much of it. Such a waste if you were to die in silence."
296 J. PATRICK LAW

Hatem startled Judith by his unexpected appearance when he came
down to get juice.
"This is one of my associates," Jamal said quickly, introducing him.
He also mentioned al-Rahim. "I thought they might still be asleep," he
added by way of explanation.
Hatem moved closer to Judith, and she smelled the rank odor secreting
through his pores, like the greasy-wool stink of a sheep about to be
slaughtered.
Hatem bowed slightly and murmured, "It is a privilege to meet you at
last."
When he was gone, Jamal touched Judith's arm. "You need not be
afraid. They are here to protect you. They are prepared to give up their
lives for you."
Judith said nothing. When she had first met Issim Hassan, he had
been surrounded by such men, hard and jagged and merciless as flint.
Over the years, as the gun gave way to the word, these men either
changed or her husband culled them from the ranks of his followers. He
had once told Judith that some fighters could not change. They had been
born to the blood and could not conceive of life without violence. She
thought Hatem was one of them. Probably the other, too.
"Hafez, is there anyone else here?" Judith asked. She felt him brush
his hesitation away, but he wasn't quick enough. "There is. Who?" ;
Jamal told her about Poltarek, being held prisoner upstairs. ;
"Why? What does he have to do with any of this?"
Jamal had to be very careful here. Judith knew nothing about the mur»
der of the Poltareks or the attack on the Israeli safe house. Jamal did not ;
want to bring up violence now. He did not want the woman to become :
emotional. .
So he explained away the kidnapping of Benjamin Poltarek as a nee- essary precaution, and gave her some carefully edited background.
"I will hold him until we are done," he said. "After that, he is harmless
to us."
"But you said you took him because he was a threat," Judith said.
Her intimation was clear. She knew well enough how threats of this
kind were dealt with. ;
Jamal explained that Poltarek was under sedation and would remain
that way. He did not add that the door to the master bedroom was firmly
bolted and that the only key was in his pocket. |
THE ASSISTANT 297

The afternoon was fading and they spoke of the plan, going over the
minutiae in exacting detail. Their voices were low, but the large kitchen
was a natural amplifier. Neither Judith nor Jamal noticed the old-fashioned
grilles that covered the heating outlets, located beside the counter
cabinets and next to the refrigerator. Nor were they aware of the natural
air currents of the house, that tenderly plucked each word and sent it
spinning into the maze of ductwork that honeycombed the house.

* * *

Judith left the house at twilight. Jamal had offered to have Hatem follow
her, at least as far as the freeway, so that she wouldn't get lost on the
Chesapeake's poorly lit, winding roads. Judith's distaste was evident
when she said, no.
Jamal waited until he could no longer see the taillights other car from
the second-story window, then went into the master bedroom.
Ben's eyelids fluttered when he heard the key in the lock. The woman
must have left. Now Jamal was back, wanting answers to his questions.
Ben understood that no matter what happened later, Jamal would eventually
kill him. He had turned ways to play the Arab over and over in his
mind until the options had blurred into a single, fragile possibility.
Jamal came to him with a glass of lemonade and Ben sipped through
the straw. He watched Jamal inspect the level of the blood in the jar.
"We are approaching the critical amount, Mr. Poltarek. Do you feel
pain yet? No? You are on the cusp, I think."
Ben wet his lips with his tongue, licking away a stray bit of pulp. "His
name was Tarnofsky."
"Whose name?"
"The Israeli who escaped."
Jamal's eyes narrowed and he moved closer to the bed. "And?"
"Tarnofsky made it to my parents' home alive.... Wounded, dying."
"Get on with it!"
"He said I should tell Landau, 'They're bringing in an American.'l"
Jamal was very good at hiding his reaction, but Ben realized he had
struck a nerve. A fissure in Jamal's quiet confidence appeared, and there
was a hesitation in his voice.
"What else?"
"Nothing. Tarnofsky died after telling me that."
298 J. PATRiCK LAW

"And what did this mean to you?"
"Nothing." Ben hesitated. "I'm not a sayan like my parents."
He had Jamal off balance now and kept on. "They worked for the Israelis,
but I didn't know anything about that."
"What else?"
"First, you stop killing me."
Jamal's expression was a mask in the pale lamplight. "You lie to me
and you will not live to see midnight."
With practiced movements, he removed the handcuffs and the IV,
taped the incision in Ben's arm, and shifted him, placing a pillow beneath
the arm to elevate it.
"What was Landau's reaction when you told him about this Tarnof-
sky?"
Ben shook his head. "We trade. Information for food and rest."
Ben never saw Jamal's hand move. There was only the blur of steel
and the cold edge of the knife at his throat.
"You demand nothing!"
"Then kill me. That way you will never know about the American."
Ben closed his eyes and played his last card: "Landau's looking for a
woman. The American, she is a woman, isn't she?"
Ben felt Jamal's hot curse on his cheek. "You know nothing!" he spat.
"Why? Because the woman hasn't been picked up yet? It's a matter of
time, isn't it? You know Landau. You know how hard he will look. He'll
never stop looking."
The exertion of speaking made Ben's head spin. The knife disappeared,
and Jamal seemed to tower over him.
"What are you to Landau that you know such things?"
Ben shook his head. "Food."
For an instant, he was convinced that his gambit had failed. He felt as
though Jamal's eyes were roaming the back of his skull, gleaming with
delight because he had ferreted out the half truth that Ben had used to
bait him.
Ben didn't have the strength to care anymore and welcomed the onrush
of exhaustion. The last thing he saw before blackness closed over
him was Jamal reaching out to him, his eyes bright with panic.
T,
wenty-seven


t

he foreign intelligence branch of the Secret Service maintains
up-to-date files on terrorist groups and individuals around the
world who might pose a threat to the President.
The Service was notified of Jamal's probable presence in the Washington
area as soon as the President and the Israeli prime minister had
hammered out their decision to slip Landau off the leash. Security
around the Chief Executive was automatically notched up a grade, although
there was no evidence to suggest that Jamal would make a play
for fifty-six year-old Charles Woodbridge, currently in the third year of
his first term.
The word was also passed along to Steve Casey, the agent in charge of
the detail protecting the First Family, which included Mary Woodbridge,
the President's wife of twenty-two years, and their son, Kimball--
"Kim"--age seven. Born late into the marriage, the boy, named after his
maternal grandfather, was an only child.
Steve Casey was a sixteen-year veteran of the Service. A former Special
Forces officer, he was thin and weathered like split-rail fencing.
Like many bachelors, Casey was very good with kids. Ten years ago, his
boss had assigned him to the First Family as part of a routine posting
cycle. Then President Bush had been so pleased with the way Casey
handled his grandkids that the assignment became permanent. When
300 J. PATRICK LAW

theClintons, including daughter Chelsea, took over at 1600, Mrs. Clinton
personally requested that Casey stay on at his post.
Casey had a slightly different perspective on the bad boys than his fellow
agents. His living nightmare wasn't the explosives-strapped fanatic
peeling away from the crowd, or the cool-as-snakeskin marksman in a
perch. Casey dreaded the kidnapper. Hurting or killing a member of the
Firsi Family would be a terrible wound to the President, but it would not
be a fatal blow to national security. Even the most demented "freedom
fighter" understood that there was no mileage in incurring the wrath of
the most powerful man in the world. Osama bin Laden, architect of the
embassy bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, had found that out the
hard way after he'd placed a fatssa, a death warrant, on a former First
Lack's head.
No, keeping the crazies out of range was not what Casey dwelled on.
It was something much more subtle and ultimately more pernicious. He
was studying it through one particular prism right now, just as he did
every Sunday.
Casey wouldn't say that Woodbridge was a particularly religious man.
Certainly not like Carter, or Clinton when he surrounded himself with
clergv' while trying to stave off impeachment. Woodbridge attended St.
John's Church two or three Sundays a month, he and his family taking
their regular places in pew 54. They also attended special services at
Easier and Christmas.
Each Sunday, two hours before the church opened for business, before
a single parishioner or even the Reverend Winslow Garrett had arrived,
Casey's men were inside. St. John's was old and small as churches go. It
had a lot of nooks and crannies and the search teams knew them all by
heart. Even the bomb-sniffing dogs didn't have to be told where to go.
From choir loft to basement, the process took less than ninety minutes,
after which a contingent of five agents remained stationed inside.
The school next door was even easier. The President seldom went
there, although twice he'd almost caught Casey off guard by wanting to
go watch his son rehearse for the Christmas pageant. Now Casey told his
agents to air out the school each and every Sunday, even if the latest word
was that only the First Lady and Kim would be in attendance.
At exactly seven o'clock, the phone purred. Casey sat back in an orthopedic
chair he'd shelled out for out of his own pocket, sipped light
brown coffee, and listened. Over the next hour, all the command posts
THE ASSISTANT 301

checked in, not only those at the church and school but Woodbridge's
personal bodyguards as well. Word from the family quarters was that the
President wanted to get to St. John's by nine. He planned to stay for an
hour before returning to the White House to prep for his meeting with
the British prime minister. The First Lady and her son would stay for the
duration of the service.
Casey dialed the White House meteorological room and got an update
on the weather. The met guys thought this was hilarious, Casey calling to
get the weather report. They razzed him about it, telling him to look out
the window, even though they knew that his office was in the basement,
with a fine view of flower beds.

« *

The first limousine, a bullied-up stretch Cadillac with a chase Suburban
and four outriders, left the White House compound at exactly 7:45.
At the same time, Judith Sawyer came out of the subway station at
McPherson Square. Low, gray clouds scuttled across a murky sky, making
everything a little darker.
Judith was properly dressed for the weather: a tan, lined raincoat over
a dove gray pants suit. In one hand, she carried a rolled-up umbrella, in
the other, a small briefcase. She walked just quickly enough to be in concert
with the weather, a woman trying to stay warm.
The ride to and from the Chesapeake last night had not so much tired
her as it had jangled her nerves. Back in her room, she had fixed a cup of
instant hot chocolate and tried to erase some of the things she'd seen in
Jamal's face. A long time ago she had seen them in her husband's face.
But over the years, her love for him had softened and then finally erased
them altogether.
But she did not believe there was a human being alive who could
reach down far enough to touch Jamal the way she had touched Issim.
Hurrying along Fifteenth Street, she could admit to herself that Jamal
frightened her. Not because of what he might do to her--Jamal would
never dare to place a finger on her. But what would happen hours from
now, when he held true, raw power in his hands? How deep would his intoxication
be? How great the temptation to deviate from the plan they
had painstakingly thought through?
Judith had questioned him minutely on every facet before agreeing to
302 J. PATRICK LAW

become his partner. She had his promise that as soon they had exacted
revenge for her husband and her child, it would be over with. There
would be no corrupting the purity of their mission.
Hafez will not betray me, Judith thought as she rounded the corner to H Street. He wants glory for himself, to take overlssim's leadership. To do this, he
needs my support. So he will give me what I want, the way I want it.
On H Street, in the tiny parking area between the church and the
school, Judith saw a black Suburban. Jamal had explained what was behind
the smoked-out windows. She felt a shiver pass through her, knowing
that invisible eyes behind the glass were raking her. Soft voices were
speaking into microphones as she took the steps to the school.
Judith raised her hand to the doorbell, but never got to touch it. The
door opened and a Secret Service agent loomed in front other.
She heard Garrett's voice behind the agent: "That's all right. Jimmy.
It's Judith Sawyer. She's on the list."
The agent scanned the list. The way he scrutinized her face, Judith
thought there must be a picture next to her name.
The agent stepped aside and Garrett was beside her, helping her with
her coat. "Come, my dear. Let's get you out of the cold. So nice to see
you again."
"Excuse me, Reverend," the agent rumbled. "I'll need to check Miss
Sawyer's purse."
Judith didn't hesitate. She watched as the agent carefully removed her
wallet, cosmetics case, a travel-size package of Kleenex, a key, and half a
pack of gum. Judith sensed that a second agent had stepped up behind
her, close enough for her to smell the soap on his hands. She did not turn
to acknowledge him.
"Okay, Miss Sawyer. Thanks very much."
"We all go through this," Garrett apologized. "A necessity brought on
by our times. Come along, now. The children are excited to meet you."

* * *

In classroom B-6, Kim Woodbridge finished the last crease on the
wing of his paper airplane. He was absorbed in his task, oblivious to the
chatter and horseplay around him. Kim made the best planes in the
class--the other guys had told him that--but this one was special. It was

THE ASSISTANT 3U3

a new design, shown to him by the naval officer who always followed
his dad with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. The guy was so good
he could take a piece of paper and make a plane out of it using one hand.
Kim wasn't about to tell his friends about the officer. Before he'd
started at St. John's, his dad had taken him aside and solemnly reminded
him that house rules applied. Kim could recite them in his sleep: What
you do here, see here, hear here, leave it here.
Kim Woodbridge knew that he wasn't like any other kid. He was the
Presidents kid, with his own Secret Service escort, living in a place that
had a lot of adults and few children. His parents tried hard to make his
life as normal as possible. He was allowed to go to other kids' homes, play
sports for Greenfield Park School, where he was in fourth grade, and
have his pals over to visit. Of course, it was impossible to sneak out to Fat
Mac's, across the street from Greenfield Park, to buy jawbreakers and
toffee, or to get a few minutes alone with Susie Tompkins when she
walked from class to the schoolbus. But Kim knew that Susie was sweet
on him--the guys swore up and down that she was.
Kim pressed down hard on the two creases that created the delta-type
wings, looked over his shoulder, and, with a practiced flick of his wrist,
sent the plane streaming across the classroom.
Right into Susie Tompkins's thick blond hair.
Kim pretended not to see Susie pluck the airplane out other hair and
shoot him a dirty look--except thai her eyes were twinkling and she
couldn't quite hide hersmile.
Kim wondered if it'«i be okay for him to ask her if she wanted a ride
home with him. He'd have to ask Jeb Rawlins, his personal bodyguard,
who was a pretty decent guy.
"Nice shot, Kim. Planning to be an airplane designer?"
Judith stood in the doorway, arms folded, looking at Kim Woodbridge
with his halo of curly red hair, Irish green eyes, and spray of freckles
across his nose.
She walked over to Susie Tompkins's desk and examined the paper
airplane. "Not bad. With a lot of hard work, you might just make NASA
proud."
The hoots and hollers from the class made Kim blush.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen--and I presume we are that?"
There was a murmur as the class settled down. As Judith approached
304 J. PATRICK LAW

the blackboard, Kim watched her stop to whisper to Jeb Rawlins. The
Secret Service agent shrugged and smiled, and Kim thought he saw him
give Miss Sawyer the once-over. Then Rawlins moved to the back of the
classroom, where a full-size desk and chair had been installed for his benefit.

"For those of you who don't know," Judith said, writing her name
across the board, "I am Miss Sawyer. I'm filling in for Miss Buffett, who
had an accident and is in the hospital."
"Is she, like, going to die?" Roddy McGowan piped up.
Kim rolled his eyes. Roddy's dad was a big shot over at the State Department.
His uncle was a comedian who had his own sitcom, which
made Roddy think he was funny, too.
Lame-o.
"No, Roddy. Miss Buffett was mugged and is in the hospital with two
broken arms." That quieted things down. "And I think it'd be nice if you,
Roddy, wrote a get-well note on behalf of the class, hmm?"
Roddy doodled on his notepad, eyes downcast. "Sure, Miss Sawyer."
"Fine. I'll bring the card next Sunday and you can work on it then. In
the meantime, let's all take our history books and turn to page sixteen,
the chapter on Moses." Judith lowered a rolled-up map and looked
across at the class. "Has anyone here visited Egypt?"
Kim glanced around furtively. He'd been to all kinds of places with his
dad. He hated being the only kid who'd gone anywhere. But there was
Roddy raising his hand, and Dwight. No problem.
"Dwight," Judith said. "Why don't you go first, then Roddy and Kim."
Kim sat back and fiddled with his pen. He thought his bud, Jeff, had
been right: Miss Sawyer was pretty cool--and a dish. Definitely an improvement
over old Miss Buffett.

* *

Jamal had arrived in the city in darkness, in the first slipstream of traffic.
He was driving the van that Hatem had rented at BaltimoreWashington
airport. That particular model had no side windows and could
pass as a construction or delivery vehicle. Especially after Jamal had
taped the logo of a plumbing-supply company on the door panels.
He parked the van beside the fenced-off area of the office building
that was being gutted. A canteen truck had already arrived to service the
1 BE ASS1S 1AR 1 JUJ

demolition crew, and Jamal bought himself a coffee. In his steel-toed
boots, heavy denim pants, dirty windbreaker, and hard hat, he blended
into the landscape.
Finding out that the rehab was going on seven days a week had been
easy enough. An obliging foreman had told Jamal everything he needed
to know when he'd come looking for a contractor's job.
Finding parking for the van had proved more of a problem. Access to
the site was union regulated. Jamal had gotten around that by slipping
the security guard a hundred dollars, Jamal saying that he wanted to be
on-site to get an early bid in on the new plumbing that would have to be done.
Jamal forced himself to sip the watery coffee. He wandered back to
the van and, in the large sideview mirror, studied the reflection of St.
John's Church.
Judith. Ninety minutes.
Jamal had brought along the day's fat edition of the Post. He read
through it slowly, eyes darting to the side and rearview mirrors, keeping
track of the construction pickups and double deuces that slowly filled
the lot. The security guard who'd let him in went off-shift. The new
man presumed that the plumber's van belonged there and didn't bother
with it.
The canteen truck came around again as Secret Service sedans pulled
up in front of the church. Standing in line to buy an apple, Jamal listened
to hard hat comments about the "boys with mikes coming out their assholes."
For its part, the Service must have become used to the construction
activity: no agent came over to talk to the crew or check IDs. The
rehab was just another backdrop that had been noted, investigated to the
required degree, and deemed no threat.
Good.
When most of the crew had disappeared into the building, Jamal
moved the van to the side of the building. On his right was a sagging Cyclone
fence that separated the site from the church and the school. On
the other side of the fence was the tiny parking area for clergy. Jamal
walked down a way and, using cutters, snipped a section of the fence. He
left the metal strands intact at key stress points so that the cutout section
wouldn't collapse under its own weight. The momentum of the van would bring it down flat.
306 J. PATRICK LAW

From the back of the van, Jamal brought our lengths of new copper
pipe, tools, and a pair ofsawhorses. Now, if anyone looked, all they would
see was a workman's layout.
Jamal turned up the collar of his jacket and checked his watch. Judith
would be in the school by now.
All that was missing was the preeminent member of the congregation.


Landau was back at Buzzard's Point by 6 a.m., having gone to the embassy
to sleep.
On his way, he'd stopped to pick up Rachel at her house. A polite good
morning was the extent of their conversation during the drive.
Kaelin Recce was in the ready room, talking quietly with the duty officer
and a couple of members of the hostage rescue team. She nodded to
Landau, then drew Rachel aside to the coffee machine.
Landau picked up the overnight reports from the duty officer and
made a show of nipping through them. He knew there wouldn't be anything
because his sleep had not been interrupted.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Recce and Rachel talking in low
tones. It would have been easy to take offense, so pointed was their exclusion
of him.
The women approached him together.
"Tell me what's happening with the search for Ben," Rachel said.
Landau wondered if Rachel had taken a little something to soften the
edge to her voice.
Landau tapped the overnight reports. "Our friend, Abbott, was as
good as his word. He's thrown a fine net over the area between here and
Baltimore, south to the coast, west into Virginia. Every sheriff and highway
patrol station has been alerted." He pulled out a blowup of Ben's
driver's license. "It's a good likeness and now it's posted on the hot-
sheers and on the dashboards of the cruisers. Every officer on the
6 A.M.-4 p.m. shift picked one up with his coffee."
"But no one's seen him," Rachel said.
Landau let her bitterness slide off him like greasy rain. Recce surprised
him by speaking up.
"Rachel, you've got to believe that the all-points will shake something
THE ASSISTANT 307

loose. Jamal is very good, but he doesn't know that his hostage is a
wanted man. Someone will see something and call it in. When they
do"--she nodded toward the HRT agents in the room--"we're ready to
move."
"You talk as if Ben's still alive." Rachel looked from Recce to Landau.
"Do you think he is? Why would Jamal keep a hostage around once he
got what he wanted out of Ben?"
"For insurance," Landau replied. "Ben's alive--"
"Possibly alive."
"No, probably. Probably, because Jamal has been moving very quickly.
He has a lot on his mind right now. Yes, Ben gave up what he knew. And
I hope to God he did it quickly. But it's exactly his confession that might
make him valuable. Think about everything Ben could say. Suddenly,
Jamal sees him as someone who might carry weight. The son of dead
sayanim? Not a bad ace to have if things turned ugly. Jamal could force
both Israel and the United States to listen if he threatened to bring the
sayanim issue to light."
Maybe, Rachel thought. Maybe this time Landau wasn't lying. Or not
as much as he usually did.
"The truth is that you won't know if he's alive until that damn phone
rings," Rachel said. "You find Jamal, you'll find Ben. That's the way it
will play."
Landau did not disabuse her of the notion. If the phone rang, it meant
a solid sighting of Jamal. But that could be after Jamal had accomplished
what he had come here t® do.
The feeling that he--that everyone--had overlooked, something
gnawed at Landau. Washington and its suburbs were not the easiest
place for an Arab to hide. His own teams had been scouring ethnic neighborhoods
without pause and still nothing. The police and FBI had taken
the more upscale and lily-white areas with similar results. Yet Jamal could
not have gone to ground too far away. Every mile he had to travel increased
his risk of being spotted and--disguised or not--recognized.
The terrorist had found a safe nest, some place where he felt secure,
where no one would bother to look.
Not a warehouse or a loft or an industrial space. Not an abandoned
building. These had all been combed by D.C.RD. The tenants or owners
of recently leased or purchased apartments had been questioned by
detectives. The FBI's legal division had waded through the real estate
SOS J. PATRICK LAW

records and files in the recorder's office with nothing to show for its efforts.
Detectives.... Records ...
"Rachel," Landau said. "I've asked you this before, but indulge me.
Besides Timberland, is there any other place Ben could have gone? A
special place that he might have mentioned?
Rachel stared at him over the rim other cup. "Are you asking me if he
had a treehouse when he was a kid? No, I don't believe he did."
Her sarcasm seemed not to register.
"Okay. Let's try another tack: You knew the Pokareks pretty well. Did
they have a place somewhere? Some cottage or retreat they no longer
used, and so maybe didn't talk about it very often."
"Sid and Rose were city people," Rachel said. "When they traveled,
they stayed in upscale resorts--"
"Sometimes resorts sell time-shares," Recce broke in. "Even the ritzy
kind."
"If they'd had something like that, I would have known about it,"
Rachel insisted. "The Pokareks were hotel people. Vacation time was
precious to them. They wanted to relax and be pampered, not cook for
themselves. Landau, where are you going with this?"
"Nowhere, it seems. But here's the thing: Jamal has gone to ground
where no one can find him--even though the authorities are doing everything
short of tearing up the streets. Jamal took Ben with him. No.
that's not right. He deliberately went back for him--"
"But that's because he wanted to ... to question him."
"That's one reason. But what if there's another? What if Jamal is hiding
somewhere that belongs to Ben? Here we are, eavesdropping on
schvEarma cooks in chickpea-paste restaurants, checking suspicious-looking
busboys. If I were Jamal, that's what TWwant the police to be wasting
their time on."
"You think he's using Ben as a cloak?"
"Not Ben himself. Something that Ben has or knows about..."
Landau's voice dwindled into silence. Rachel watched him lose himself
in the myriad of possibilities, pouring them through the sieve of his
fine-meshed intuition.
"You're headed in the wrong direction with this," she said flatly.
"Even if Ben had such a place, it doesn't make sense that Jamal would
take him there."
THE ASSISTANT 309

"It does if you remember that we can't find Ben, either."
Landau steered Reece by the elbow into a corner. "We need to do
something."
"Fine. You're just a little short on the 'what.'l"
"Yes. So what have we missed?"
"Jesus, Landau. Don't you ever take a breath? We're hunting two now.
You said so yourself: find one, find the other. Short of asking the President
to declare martial law--"
"It's more simple than that. Jamal is not dealing in complexities. He is
operating on foreign terrain. His operation depends on simplicity."
"He has the American to help him."
"Yes. But help him only so far. Maybe the American is the close-in operator,
or the triggerman, someone who can't help Jamal with logistics.
Logistics is what's keeping him alive, why he doesn't have to show his
face any more than is absolutely necessary."
"You sound like you're about to grub, Landau."
"I don't understand."
TGrub.' To bow and scrape before asking a favor."
"I don't think that the head of Homicide is enamored with me."
"I don't imagine Abbott's alone in his feelings."
"I need to see some files."
"Whose?"
"Priestly's."
"Priestly's?" Reece's voice was rich with wonder.
"And his file on Pokarek. Everything from the minute he stepped into
that apartment."
"We've been down that road. Landau. We know Priestly was bought
and paid for. He was the one who made sure that Jamal knew where
Poltarek was--"
"But what else did Jamal buy and pay for? If Priestly was birddogging
Poltarek for Jamal, what other information was he providing?"
"You're saying that Priestly did a more detailed report than the one we
pulled up."
"One way to find out. But I can't do it."
Reece held his gaze for a moment, then reached for the telephone.
T,
wenty-eight


A

r 8:15 a.m.,the presidential motorcade left the White House for
the 5-minute ride to St. John's Church.
At the same time, in classroom B-6, Susie Tompkins, pointer in hand,
finished outlining the Israelites' flight from Egypt on a map of the Middle
East.
She handed the pointer back to Judith Sawyer and, while walking
back to her seat, grinned at Kim Woodbridge.
A minute later, as Judith was assigning reading for the following Sunday,
the bell rang, signaling the end of class.
In the construction yard, Jamal lifted his head to the sirens from the
outrider escorts in the motorcade. From where he stood, he caught
flashes of black cars sweeping by.
Jamal opened the rear doors of the van and checked his handiwork.

* * *

"Gum?"
Jeb Rawlins had watched Judith Sawyer approach him, a pack of gum
in her hand. He noted that it was half-full and had seen her pull out a
piece for herself and pop it in her mouth.
"Thanks."
Protecting the First Kid was easy duty and was not without its perks.
Rawlins got to meet a lot of young teachers, nurses, and doctors, one-stop
THE ASSISTANT 311

shopping as far as dating went. He thought Judith Sawyer looked pretty
good, though maybe a little stiff in that suit. But there was a lot of potential
in those wide, smiling eyes.
Rawlins was focused on Judith, but he didn't miss her smiling at Kim
and offering him some gum, too.
What the hell. Kim was a good kid, not like some brats the old-timers
had had to baby-sit during previous administrations. The First Lady was
a little over the top when it came to what he ate--a lot ofgranola bars and
fruit. Rawlins remembered Kirn's long face when the other kids hightailed
it over to Fat Mac's for a snack. A piece of gum wouldn't kill him.
Between the distractions of Judith Sawyer and his ruminations, Rawlins
wasn't as focused on Kim Woodbridge as he should have been. The
problem was one of routine. Every Sunday was the same. Rawlins could
recite the sequence in his sleep.
The class was finished. In two minutes, he and Kim would go upstairs,
where the boy would meet his parents as they entered the church.
There'd be some chitchat before they took their seats, then more whispers
before the reverend appeared.
As soon as Rawlins was upstairs with the boy, Kim would become the
responsibility of other agents, who covered the First Family as a threesome.
Until then, Kim was completely his charge. But that was fine. The
only other adult in the room was a good-looking woman who seemed fascinated
by his White House anecdotes. Her fingers were conspicuously
devoid of rings, and her attitude suggested that she wouldn't mind if
Rawlins segued into askingtier out.
Rawlins had tucked the gum behind his left molar, sucking more than
chewing it. The taste of mint flooded his mouth, made his tastebuds tingle
pleasantly.
Then he became aware that his voice sounded faraway, as if it were an
echo. The skin on his face and neck was very hot, as though he had a
fever. Rawlins shivered like a dog shaking off water. His eyes glazed over
as the woman reached for him. In the back of his mind, a voice born of
training screamed. Rawlins opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The image of a dying fish, flopping in the bottom of a boat, flashed
through his mind.
The woman guided him to his desk and helped him sit. The narcotic
soaked into the gum had not yet gripped him completely, so Rawlins
could still think about the boy, panic about not being able to protect him.
312 J. PATRICK LAW

He lurched to one side, looked past Judith Sawyer, and saw Kim by
the classroom door, talking to a friend.
He's okay. I'm the one...
Rawlins found it impossible to complete the thought. The drug was
now inducing confusion as well as paralysis. He forgot about hitting the
emergency button on his wrist mike or drawing his weapon. He watched
the woman's lips move, heard none of the words. He sat rigidly in the
chair, as though his buttocks and spine were glued to its seat. His limbs were numb and he felt his heart racing. Jeb Rawlins knew he was dying.
What terrified him was not why, but how--how quickly, how painfully?
Judith moved away from the agent, keeping her body between Rawlins
and the boy.
"Miss Sawyer?" This was Dwight. "Kim doesn't look so hot. I think
he's sick."
The President's son was exhibiting the same symptoms the Secret
Service agent had, but in a milder form. The stick of gum Judith had
given him had been treated with less of the toxin than Jeb Rawlins had
ingested.
Judith glanced at her watch. Two minutes until the bell rang for the
church service.
"Dwight, why don't you go to the bathroom and bring me some paper
towels?"
"Sure, Miss Sawyer."
"If I'm not here, then look for me in the reverend's office. Know where
it is?"
"At the end of the hall."
"That's it. On the left side. Go on now."
Judith draped an arm around Kirn's shoulder. "You'll be fine.
Promise."
She locked the door to the classroom and stepped into the hall, which
was teeming with children. A smile was pasted on her lips as she
clutched Kirn's hand, steering him through the mass of small bodies.
Twice Kim stumbled and Judith had to jerk him up sharply so that he
didn't fall. When he looked up at her, his face so flushed that it appeared
swollen, she thought he might die.
Judith pushed on, silently cursing Jamal. He had assured her that he
knew Kirn's exact height and weight and that, from what he had gleaned
from publicly available sources, the boy was in good health. On that
THE ASSISTANT 313

basis, Jamal had determined how big a dose to give the boy, enough to
anesthetize him, make him malleable, but not so much as to bring about
collapse.
What if it vsas too much? "What if he's having some kind of reaction?
Judith reached the gray fire door that Jeffery had shown her. She had
already taken the key out from under the brick. She was far enough
down the hall that no one noticed her and Kirn disappear.
In the corridor now, with its earthen floor and weak overhead bulbs.
Kim mewling, dragging his heels. It was no effort at all for Judith to scoop
him up in her arms without breaking stride.
Up to the opening where she had pried off the wood. No one had noticed
the damage or fixed it. The air colder now, the wind gliding under
sleeves along her skin. Goose bumps. Into the elevator, closing the gate,
the car rising to street level.
"Here!"
More of a hiss than a call.
Judith stepped out of the rehab, glimpsed Jamal as he jumped into the
van and drove it to where Judith and the boy stood.
She had the rear doors open even before he came to a full stop. Jamal
climbed back, hauled the boy in and laid him on the blanket-covered
floor. Then he gripped Judith's hand and pulled her in.
"Stay with him!" he ordered.
Climbing forward to the wheel, Jamal slipped the parking brake, and
drove straight into the cut-up Cyclone fence, flattening it. He edged the
van through the narrow-alley out to Fifteenth Street.
Over Jamal's shoulder, Judith saw that the street was relatively clear.
The presidential motorcade and escorts parked along H and Sixteenth
Streets.
Jamal swung left and headed up Fifteenth Street. Less than four minutes
had elapsed from the time that Judith had stolen the President's son
from the classroom, where Agent Jeb Rawlins now took his last, labored
breath.

* * *

The bell for the church service rang. Dwight braced himself against
the rush of bodies headed for the staircase and upstairs to the connecting
hall that led to the church. He still clutched a bunch of brown paper towels
in his hand and looked around to find Miss Sawyer.

314 J. PATRICK LAW

The din passed into silence. Dwight went over to the classroom and
tried the door. Locked. Where could Miss Sawyer and Kim have gone?
He tried the bathroom. Nope.
Dwight wadded the towels and thrust the ball into the wastebasket.
As he trotted down the hall, he thought that Kim and Miss Sawyer were
already upstairs. Dwight may have been only seven years old, but he'd
hung out with Kim long enough to know that when the Prez's kid even
sneezes, everyone snaps to. Kim was okay.

* «

At the church, the President and the First Lady were in the vestibule,
talking to the director of the Kennedy Center and his wife.
"Everybody seems to be going in," the President observed.
The First Lady touched her husband's arm. "Where's Kim?"
The President glanced inside, where children were making their way
into the pews where their parents sat.
"You know Kim," he said. "Always has a question for the teacher. I'm
sure she's bringing him up." He took his wife's elbow. "Why don't we
go in."
But the President didn't move. Two Cabinet officers came up to say
good morning. Ninety seconds passed before they were finished.
Hovering half an arm's length from the President, Agent-in-Charge
Steve Casey had overheard the exchange between Charles and Mary
Woodbridge. While the President chatted with his advisers, Casey kept
one eye on the staircase. Any second, he expected to see Kim and Jeb
Rawlins step up onto the landing.
When they didn't, he whispered into his wrist mike. Then again.
The third call sent the agents outside scrambling into the school.
Come on, Jeb. Don 't/io this to me...
Rawlins's mike was down. Things like that were known to happen.
Casey did not have to imagine the scene taking place downstairs. He
got the play-by-play even as he and his men escorted the President and
his wife to their pew. He winced when a sharp report rattled his earpiece.
Casey's number-two told him that they'd had to go through a locked door
to get into one of the classrooms.

Silence.
Number-two again, his account succinct but his voice hoarse, as
1 HE A3S13 lAl^l 1 313

though he were choking. Rawlins was down. The boy, code name Brave-
heart, was gone. A search was underway.
Steve Casey allowed himself one nonprofessional thought. He remembered
the first time he'd been introduced to Kim Woodbridge. He'd
explained to the boy that he'd need a code name and asked if he had anything
special in mind. The boy's face had lit up and he'd answered instantly:
Braveheart, after the hero in the movie of the same name.
Reports were flooding in as agents searched every classroom, the
teachers' lounge, canteen, and washrooms.
A message crackled in Casey's ear: "We got a door here we can't find a
key for."
"Pop it."
The Secret Service always had two demolition specialists on the
squad. It would take them a minute or so to blow the door. Casey could
do something in the meantime.
The Reverend Winslow Garrett was walking into the sacristy, and the
congregation was quieting. Usually at this point, the agents retreated up
the aisle, except for Casey, who always sat beside the President.
He leaned over, cupped his hand around the President's ear, and whispered,
"We have a Q-level message."
Q-level relates to a terrorist event somewhere in the world that affects
U.S. interests.
Charles Woodbridge stiffened. He was very quick, leaning in to his
wife, whispering. She too was a pro, smiling, giving him a reassuring pat
on the arm. Anyone watching would think nothing was amiss.
Casey was talking to his men at the school even as he hustled the President
into the vestibule.
"What's going on?" Woodbridge demanded.
Casey shushed him by holding up his hand. The door had been
popped, agents were in a tunnel that seemed to lead to the adjacent
building.
Casey talked to the agent being held in reserve outside the church.
"The rehab next door. Shut it down. Nobody moves. Get the cadaver
dogs over here."
Casey saw the President pale at the word bomb. He switched frequencies
and spoke to the duty officer at 1800 G Street N.W, requesting the
dispatch of cadaver dogs and their trainers.
316 J. PATRICK LAW

Charles Woodbridge gripped Casey's arm. "What the /iell' going on?"
Woodbridge was a well-read man. He knew all about cadaver dogs,
hounds trained on pig fetuses or chemical human decomposition to find
buried bodies.
Casey's breath poured into the President's ear: "The agent guarding
your son has been found dead. Kim is missing."
Casey felt the President falter, go limp. He saw the terror and the
questions explode from Woodbridge's eyes.
In this situation, Casey could go one of two ways. He could assume
that Kim Woodbridge had met with foul play that was part of an overall
plan to kill the President. A bomb would be the most likely weapon. In
that case, his responsibility was to get Woodbridge and his wife the hell
away from the church now and, as soon they had been evacuated, sound
the alarm to evacuate the rest of the congregation.
But there was a problem. Such an evacuation would create a public
spectacle that would immediately be seized upon by the media. This result
could have severe, if not terminal, repercussions on the second possibility,
Casey's worst nightmare.
Kim Woodbridge had been kidnapped.
In this scenario, it was absolutely imperative that there be no public or
media knowledge of the incident. Not even a whisper. Not if Wood-
bridge and key members of the government were to have any chance to
negotiate with the kidnappers. The pressure would be intense; it would
be unbearable with the country looking over their shoulders.
Call it.
Casey pulled Woodbridge closer. "Mr. President, they took your son. I
do not believe that this is part of a greater threat against you at this time.
But we have to get you out of here right now. The kidnappers will want
to establish contact. There's only one place they'll be calling."
Woodbridge shook off his daze. "Yes. Of course. But my wife--"
"If we pull her out now, people will wonder what's going on. They'll
assume it's a personal matter, and we don't want them going down that
road." Casey paused. "It's a lousy thing to do, Mr. President--and your
wife will be very pissed off with you when she gets back to the House.
But leaving her here maintains the illusion. It gives us and you time."
Woodbridge shook his head. "I want her with me."
"It's your decision, sir."
THE ASSISTANT 317

"Tell her that it's her brother. He's in a Florida hospital with a kidney
infection." Woodbridge paused, his distaste for the white lie evident.
"It'll be better than ... than the other thing."
Forty seconds later, Casey had the President in the back of the limousine.
While Woodbridge waited for his message to be hand-carried to his
wife, Casey was talking to the teams that had, by now, found the cutout
section of Cyclone fence and tire marks nearby. The second-in-command
sketched out a scenario.
"The kidnapper takes out Rawlins. We don't know exactly how, but
she didn't--"
"She?" Casey interrupted.
"All the teachers are accounted for except for a Judith Sawyer. Get
this: She was hired just this week."
The hell? "Give me the rest."
"Someone cut a section of fence at the construction site, flattened it
when they came through. I'm thinking a sport utility vehicle or a van.
Maybe a pickup. We'll get good prints off the dirt."
"How many involved?"
"At least two. The woman and the van driver. Could have been more,
though."
"What do we have on the woman?"
"We busted into the good reverend's office to get into his files. We
have a picture, some background."
"Is it possible the woman--Sawyer, right?--is it possible she was
picked off, too?"
"That would mean at least two guys, Steve. One to take out Rawlins,
one for her and the boy. I don't think they could have done that without
spooking the other kids, no matter how slick they were."
"To get to and past Rawlins, they were pretty slick."
"You want an all-points on Sawyer?"
Casey noticed Mary Woodbridge hurrying out of the church. He
thought about how much lead time the kidnappers had--going on
twenty minutes. Casey had no ID on the getaway vehicle, which had
probably been abandoned by now anyway. He had information on one
possible perpetrator but no idea in which direction she and her partners
were headed. In short, the little he had was almost useless. Putting out
an alarm now would only bring on a media frenzy. Which meant that
318 J. PATRICK LAW

Casey and the Service would be second-guessed on every step they took.
They wouldn't be able to do their jobs, nor would the President be able
to do his.
"No all-points," he said to his second. "Get a crew over to Sawyer's
house or apartment and look for her there. Get it done quietly."
Casey lifted the wrist mike to his lips. Drivers in the motorcade
shifted gears, ready to move.
When Casey jumped into the back seat of the presidential limousine,
it was Mary Woodbridge who spoke.
"What's this about my brother? What happened to him?"
Casey took it on the chin. "Your brother's fine, ma'am. We're not aware
of any change in his condition."
"Then what is it?" she turned to her husband. "Charlie?"
"It's Kim," he managed.
The motorcade was moving fast, sirens bleating. No one outside the
armored limousine, with its tinted windows and Lexam soundproofing,
saw or heard Mary Woodbridge scream.
T,
wentynme


t

raffic was negligible so early on Sunday morning. Hafezjamal
had the van parked near the subway stop at L'Enfant Plaza just as
Casey's men were discovering Jeb Rawlins's body.
The vehicle he had stolen in the early hours of that morning was common
enough in Washington: a dual-axle, twenty-four-seat minibus. It
was painted a deep blue, with the tour company's name in red lettering
along the side. The oversized windows were coated with antiglare material,
which blurred the passengers' faces.
Hatem wore a windbreaker with the company logo that he'd found behind
the seats. As Judith stepped in, holding Kim between them, he
handed out Orioles baseball caps.
Judith slipped Kim onto the bench seat at the very back, which ran the
width of the bus. The boy was groggy, barely able to stand. If anyone had
been watching, they would have seen a boy being half-dragged, half-carried
to the minibus. Fortunately, the area was deserted.
Judith laid Kim down on the seat, using the seatbelts to strap him in as
the minibus shuddered and moved off. She touched his forehead, felt
how warm he was. She ripped away his tie and undid the top button on
his shirt. She noticed the slim gold chain around his neck, felt something
beneath the fabric of his shirt, tugged the chain until she saw what she
thought was a piece of jewelry.
32U J. PATRICK LAW

When Judith turned it over, she realized it was a MedicAlert bracelet.
"Hafez!"
Jamal was beside her instantly. He frowned when she showed him the
bracelet, turned it over in his fingers.
"He's asthmatic. The medication in the gum--"
"Won't hurt him at all." Jamal ran his fingers over the boy's throat. He
pressed his ear to Kirn's chest and listened to his breathing.
"His lungs are clear. He'll be all right as long as he doesn't have an anxiety
attack. You will have to soothe him, tell him that all will be well."
"Will it be well?"
Jamal pulled her onto one of the seats. "Remember in Amman and
Cairo, how we planned this out? Woodbridge is the President, but he is
also a father. And a husband. His wife will pressure him to get the boy
back. When she learns we are not threatening annihilation, that all we
want is an admission of guilt and an apology, she will become our ally.
Woodbridge's political advisers will find it difficult to fight her."
Judith considered the logic. It was still as clear and simple as the first
time Jamal had outlined his plan. What else co»///Woodbridge do except
acknowledge guilt and make a show of humility?
"It will all be over quickly," Jamal was saying.
"Woodbridge will never allow this... incident to become public. How
safe would America feel if it knew that the President's son could be
taken? No. Woodbridge will need time to create a framework for what he
has to do, find a reason or an occasion to make the announcement. But
after that, matters will proceed quickly."
Judith glanced at the boy. "He may need medicine. We don't know
what kind--"
"When I make contact, I will ask," Jamal promised. "Such a gesture
will reassure the mother, and indicate to Woodbridge that he is not dealing
with animals."
The image of the Israeli helicopters flooded Judith's mind. The
streaks of orange and red, the black smoke and crackling flames. Men,
women, and children burning. Her child. Her husband. She had thought
the Israelis animals, to stalk innocents like that. If so, how was she different,
stealing away with this child?
"Manar," Jamal whispered, using her Arab name. "Manar, the boy will
be returned unharmed. I swear it. When the Woodbridges learn of your
sorrow and suffering, they will realize how their God has favored them."
THE ASSISTANT 321

Judith returned to the boy. She sat with him, wiping away the sweat as
the toxin worked its way out through his pores. In time, she heard nothing
but his breathing and the soft, reassuring hiss of the tires taking them
to sanctuary.

* » »

Mary Woodbridge followed her husband into the Oval Office. Thank
God it was Sunday, she thought. There was only a skeleton staff on hand,
squirreled away in the small offices around the office.
She sat on the couch, watching Charlie do what he did best. Her husband
had a rare ability to compartmentalize tasks. Looking at him behind
his desk, one would never suspect that his child had just been
kidnapped, unless one noticed the slight tremor as he reached for the
phone.
Mary Woodbridge listened as he got Yakov Admony, the Israeli prime
minister, out of a family dinner. The conversation was terse and strained,
Woodbridge driving questions across the satellite link.
"I'm keeping it contained on my end, Yakov," she heard. "No, I'm not
interested in doing that. The fewer people who know--"
The Israeli must have been persistent--and persuasive--because
Woodbridge changed his mind, grudgingly.
The President finished his call and went to his wife. Her skin was cold
beneath his touch.
"The Israelis are scrambling everything--and I mean everything--
they have on known terrorists. Every contact, informant, deep-plant
agent will be touched. Nobody's going to get any sleep over there
tonight."
He paused, stroking her cheek with his knuckles. "I need you to back
me up here, Mary. We gotta ride this out together."
Mary Woodbridge looked into the eyes of the man who had stolen her
heart when she was a senior at the University of Chicago. She'd known
way back then that he was destined for greatness. She also told him that
while he dueled in politics, she would continue in the fine arts and education.
Mary was a gifted painter as well as a skilled teacher. She had
none of the wiles or guile of that other Chicago-area native, Hillary Clinton.
As far as Mary was concerned, the Queen of Denial and Doublespeak
had helped make feminism a dead, bankrupt religion. Her popular
children's book should have been titled // Takes a Village to Raise an Idiot.
3-22 J. PATRICK LAW

Mary had her child, her husband, her painting, and the students who
came to the White House once a week for her tutorials. She knew
enough about life to realize how beautiful hers was. She never asked for
more, just as she never believed that what she most prized and guarded
could ever be wrenched away from her.
She gripped his hand. "Do you have any idea who they are, Charlie?
What they want?"
There was a soft knock on the door. "I suspect we're about to find
out." He called out, "Come in."
Steve Casey had a file in his hand and anguish in his heart. He did a
quick scan of the pair on the couch. They were tough, he decided. They'll
make it through this if it doesn 't drag. And it couldn't drag because then the
b-oy would be dead.
"We have preliminary information on the teacher, Judith Sawyer."
The Woodbridges needed his details, not his condolences.
"A woman was involved in this?"
"By the looks of it, yes, ma'am."
Casey walked them through the file. "The reason we have so much information
so quickly is because Sawyer didn't bother to cover her tracks.
She just came back from the Middle East and became an American
a^ain. One thing Her passport is original, but the renewal date was dummied
up. Someone wanted her back here fast."
"And she's disappeared," the President said.
"Vanished."
"Maybe someone hurt her..." Mary Woodbridge began.
"I think that's unlikely, ma'am. This thing came down so fast, there
would have been no time to hide the body. And no point for the kidnap-
p-crs to ride around with it."
"Do we know what she was doing in the Middle East? Specifically?"
"We're piecing that together right now. First reports indicate that she
spent time as a gopher for an archaeological dig outside Cairo, then went
ra-ative. Never finished the dig, never returned home. Until now."
"That's a big chunk of her life missing," Woodbridge said.
"We're filling it in, sir. The Israelis have had their hotline open. I take
ic you talked to them."
"They won't be holding back anything. Admony gave me his word."
The President seemed to flinch, as if what was coming next was too
painful. "Could this be connected to Jamal?"
THE ASSISTANT 323

"Who's Jamal?" Mary Woodbridge asked.
Her husband told her that a known terrorist was suspected to be in the
capital area, that security had been upgraded as a result.
"Was he after you, Charlie?" she demanded. "Was he intending to use
Kim to get to you?"
"We have no evidence of that, ma'am," Casey said hastily.
"Then what do you have evidence of?"

"Mary--"
"No! You don't tell me there's this ... this creature out there and now
Kim is gone!"
"He is gone, Mrs. Woodbridge. I believe Jamal took him. Jamal and
this Sawyer woman."
The First Lady whirled around at the voice. Landau and Recce stood
in the doorway, framed by a pair of Secret Service agents.
"My name is Landau, and I have something to tell both of you. Mr.
President, you have spoken to Yakov Admony. He mentioned me, yes?"
"Yes."
"You must be Steven Casey," Landau said. "Has anyone briefed you?"
"No." Casey was clearly unhappy.
Landau nodded to Recce. "This is FBI Special Agent Recce. She will
tell you everything you need to know."
"Mr. President--"
"It's all right, Steve. Mr. Landau and Agent Recce are known to me.
Just be sure to give him everything. Miss Reece."
The door closed and the President said, "You have something to tell
us, sir?"
Landau had pieced together his words during the brief, furious drive
from Buzzard's Point to the White House. Word that the President's son
was missing--probably kidnapped--had come not from within the
United States but from five thousand miles away. Landau's number-two
had talked to him even as Yakov Admony had been on the phone with
the President.
Admony's subsequent instructions had been precise: Landau was to
brief the Chief Executive on any and all events relating to Hafez Jamal.
That included the reason for and planning of the raid on Samarra. Admony
did not want the Americans to discover anything for themselves
after the fact.
Landau thought that the Woodbridges were all right--so far. The wife
3^4 J. PATRICK LAW

settled down. She asked short, tight questions about Jamal, about Israeli
suspicions as to why he was in the United States, about the Samarra raid.
"The truth is," Landau concluded, "»<? one believed Jamal would go
through your son to get to you, Mr. President."
"You mean blackmail," the First Lady said.
"Yes."
"Does Jamal want money? Does he want to threaten us with a suitcase
bomb?"
"No, ma'am. It is something else. What exactly, well, we will learn
soon enough when he contacts you. Let me say one thing here. It is of
small comfort, I know, but still... Jamal will not hurt the boy. It is not in
his interest to do so. He is clever enough to appreciate that if Kim is
harmed, there is nowhere he can hide. No country will harbor him; informants
will be falling over themselves to turn him in."
"What if I can't give him what he wants?" the President asked.
"I believe that Jamal thought that part through very carefully. He
would not have taken the boy if he believed you couldn'tor wouldn't give
him what he will ask for. No, that will be in your power.
"He has also anticipated that you will not make the kidnapping public.
Such a decision is in both your favor and his. Jamal is hiding, but not
too far away. If you do not let loose your police, he does not have to move.
If he doesn't feel threatened, the danger to your son diminishes accordingly."

"The question is what, Mr. Landau. What does he want? I'm told you
know him better than almost anyone. Tell me what he wants."
"I will not guess, Mr. President. As I said, we will know soon enough."
Landau broke off as Casey reappeared with an update. The White
House switchboard operators had been alerted to forward any unusual
calls to the family quarters.
"Where two of my people will be sitting on the phones. As soon as we
get a hit--"

"Won't you have to screen for cranks?" Landau asked.
"You'd be surprised how few of those we get," Casey told him.
"Cranks think we have superinstant tracing facilities--which is fine with
us. Plus, we've made it known that such calls to 1600 constitute a felony."
Casey handed the President a note. "A short list of those people who
have to know on my end. You'll want to add your names. Cabinet officers--"
THE ASSISTANT 3Z5

"Not until the call comes in," Woodbridge said. "Not until we know
exactly what we're dealing with. Then I'll decide who to bring in."
"We also checked the place Sawyer was staying at, Mr. President. I'd
like to take a minute and bring you up to speed."
Landau wondered why Mary Woodbridge shook her head when her
husband asked her to join him. She continued to sit on the couch, her
face to the windows, a faraway expression in her eyes. To someone else,
she might have seemed to be in a state of mild shock, confused, disoriented.
Landau thought it was something else. There was a hard, working
intelligence behind those eyes. The First Lady sliding into self-pity, she
was thinking. Somewhere, just beyond her grasp, was something she
needed to grab hold of, something too important to ignore. Landau knew
better than to disturb her.
Mary Woodbridge surprised him by saying, "You're waiting for me,
aren't you, Mr. Landau? How clever of you."
Landau said nothing.
"You know what I think, Mr. Landau? Why no mention of a woman?"
Landau didn't stir. "Yes, a woman. Here you are telling me how your
people attacked Samarra. Your account is vivid, even graphic. You have
a flair for details. You talk about Issim Hassan, his son, how they were
killed." She paused. "But you never mention Hassan's wife, the child's
mother. Why is that? What happened to her? Did she die? Disappear?"
It was the word "disappear" that galvanized him. Judith Sawyer
had "disappeared" from Cairo--that's what Casey had said. "Gone native . . ."
With Hassan?
As Hassan's wife?
"You didn't think of that."
Landau jerked his head toward Mary Woodbridge. Her words came
out as a statement, not an accusation.
"That Judith Sawyer could have been his wife? No."
"I don't understand."
Landau's mind was racing. He wanted to snatch up the phone, not explain
himself to this woman. But he owed her some consideration.
"Arab mores are different from Western ones," he said. "When it
comes to wives, women in general, they are not so enlightened."
"Clitoridectomy and infibulation. I have done my share of traveling,
Mr. Landau."
326 J. PATRICK LAW

"We have documented that, as a young man, Issim Hassan knew many
women, Mrs. Woodbridge. We had some photographs, some background
reports. Hassan favored tourist girls--Germans, Scandinavians. There
would be romp and romance and then they would go home. Admittedly,
this was curious to us. Hassan was a very intelligent man, well educated,
from a good home. Yet, he was not a part of Cairo society. The Arab
equivalent of debutantes held no interest for him."
"So after a while, you didn't watch him anymore. Or not as closely."
"Hassan disappeared for a while. Afterward, when he surfaced in
Palestinian politics, our interest in him changed."
"Was he married by then?"

"Yes."
"But you don't know to whom."
"Hassan kept his wife well away from his politics. In and of itself, this
is not unusual. Most Arab leaders keep their families away from the office,
for security if nothing else."
"What 'nothing else' would that be, Mr. Landau?"
"Women do not play a large role in politics. It is an arena in which they
are not heard, much less seen."
"So in all this time, you knew that he had a wife, but not who she
was--or is." Mary Woodbridge paused. "What if she turns out to be Judith
Sawyer?"
Landau dreaded the question. Hassan's child had been burned alive
by the Apaches. His father with him. The woman of this man and child
had watched, helpless. Then she had come home, to America, and took
for herself another's child.
Eye for an eye? Could a mother become so demented by grief that she
would destroy another child? Of course.
"Will she hurt Kirn, Mr. Landau?"
"I do not believe she will. Ifjamal were not involved--if this were the
work of a lone sociopath--I would not hold out much hope. But Jamal is
political. He would not commit time, resources, and risk to such an operation
only to squander everything. Your son is meant to be traded for
something Jamal wants."
"And Sawyer? Does she want the same thing?"
"She would not be here otherwise. Jamal would have made sure of
that before he brought her in."
"But she might still hurt him."
THE ASSISTANT 327

Landau would have touched her had it been possible for him to reach
across such a barrier.
"He will be frightened, but not hurt. He must be returned to you
whole."
Mary Woodbridge nodded. "You seem antsy, Mr. Landau."
"I'Antsy'?"
"Anxious. Desperate to get on with something."
"A call, Mrs. Woodbridge. There is a very important call to make."
"To Tel Aviv?" Landau nodded and she continued. "Use the phone
on my husband's desk. I'll go tell the others what we've come up with."
Dressed in Sunday best, Mary Woodbridge rose and took a moment
to compose herself. Then with her head high and shoulders back, she
left, vaguely conscious of Landau on the phone talking in soft, urgent
tones.

* # *

When they arrived at the Chesapeake house, Jamal scooped up the
boy and carried him upstairs. This time Judith followed him. Jamal did
not care because Ben Poltarek was asleep. A blanket covered him up to
his chin, hiding the gauze taped to his arm.
Jamal laid Kim Woodbridge on the other twin bed. From the armoire,
he plucked another set of handcuffs and bound the boy's wrist to the
bedpost.
"Is that necessary?" Judith asked.
"We don't want him wandering around, do we?"
"What about the drug?"
"It will wear off in an hour, maybe less."
"He needs a bath, and fresh clothes. We should have thought of the
clothes."
Judith's eyes never left Ben. Jamal had talked about him, but this was
the first time she had seen him. She thought he looked all right, pale, but
otherwise unharmed. Maybe Jamal hadn't had to do too much to induce
his cooperation.
She felt Jamal touch her elbow. "There is food downstairs. You should eat."
Judith took a last look at the captives. "I want to take a bath, and rest."
She shook off his hand, as if his touch made her feel even more dirty.

* * *

328 J. PATRICK LAW

Kim Woodbridge opened his eyes and took stock. The first thing he
did was listen to his breathing. Good. No wheezing. His parents had
drilled it into him: As soon as he was short of breath or heard wheezing,
grab the inhaler.
With his free hand, Kim checked his jacket and pants pockets. No inhaler.
Either he'd dropped it or that dickhead who called himself Jamal
had taken it. That was okay, for now. He'd just have to be careful.
Next, the room. Smelled like camp, all musty. The cabbage rose wallpaper
was awful. But at least he was warm and dry.
Okay. His stomach. Bad guy Jamal had said the drug--whatever it
was--would be out of his system in an hour.
Jerk. Kim still felt a little nauseated, but no worse than that. Whatever
they'd given him had been awful, but it was wearing off fast.
Jeb. What happened to you, dudePY^m. liked his Secret Service escort. Jeb
was pretty funny when no one was around, more one-liners than Seinfeld.
Hope you're okay.
Now, for the guy on the next bed ... Kim turned on his side for a better
look. Whoever he was, he didn't look good, pale like a fish belly. And
so quiet that Kim would have thought he was dead if not for the faint rise
and fall of his chest.
Not much hope there. Kim rattled the cuffs. Not there either.
He understood exactly what had happened to him. His parents had
explained kidnapping to him, how careful he had to be, how he could
never slip away from Jeb or whoever else was assigned to protect him.
Kim remembered Jeb telling him that no one had ever kidnapped a
President's kid. Never. Like it was against the rules.
Obviously, this Jamal hadn't read the rules.
Something else came to him: Jeb telling him about backup plans, in
case they should become separated; Jeb saying that Kim should stay very
cool. He had to remember that hundreds of Secret Service agents would
be out looking for him. Every policeman in the country would have his
picture. He had to stay calm and--what was it? Yeah, focused. Don't give
the bad guys any excuse to hurt you. Go along with what they want you
to do and hang on. Help is on the way.
Although the boy was unaware of it, it was his knowledge of who he
was to the world, plus his implicit faith in the adults around him, that
cooled what could have become anxiety and panic. He was cognizant of
THE ASSISTANT 329

his circumstances, but for the time being at least, he maintained faith in
those who always protected him. It had not yet occurred to Kim Wood-
bridge that those who could mastermind the kidnapping of a protected
person were also clever enough to keep him hidden as long as circumstances
demanded.
"Hey, kid."
Kim nearly jumped out of his skin. He stared wide-eyed at the guy on
the next bed. His eyes were still closed and he didn't seem to be breathing.
But he had spoken. Unless Kim was hearing things.
"Too weird," he muttered.
"You don't know have weird."
Ben opened his eyes and rolled over. He blinked, then stared at the
boy. "I know you. I've seen your picture. Kim Woodbridge?"
"Yeah. Who've you?"
"Ben."
"They got you too, huh?"
"Me, too."
"Why?"
"They think I know something."
"About me?"
Ben saw that the boy was confused, trying to place him in his world.
"You don't know me. I'm a lawyer..."
"That's why you're here? Because you're a lawyer?''
"You make it sound like I'm pond scum."
Kim shrugged, like. You said it, not me.
"Tell me what happened to you."
Kim was instantly wary, his imagination kicking into overdrive. Who
knew who this turkey was? Maybe that Jamal guy had put him there to
try to get information out of him.

"You first."
The lack of blood had left Ben weakened. But he'd had a chance to
rest, and a few hours ago an Arab had come in with something that tasted
like very sweet lemonade. Ben had almost gagged on his first sip, but
forced himself to drink it all. The sugar was fuel for his system.
Ben looked at the boy. He still could not believe that the plan he'd
overheard had been carried off. How in God's name had Jamal and the
woman kidnapped the president's son?
330 J.PATRICK LAW

"Mister?"
"My name's Ben," he reminded the boy. "You don't have to call me
'mister'or'sir.'l"
"What's your last name?"
"Poltarek."
"Is that Jewish?"
"Yes."
Ben had never heard that question from a child. He liked the ring of
innocent curiosity, devoid of innuendo.
"So tell me what happened to you."
Ben had never been anything less than honest with a child. Children
gave into illusion, but they could spot a con or a fib quicker than any
adult.
Ben was careful not to be graphic, but neither did he shy away from
the facts. People had been killed. The boy had to understand and appreciate
that. Ben talked softly, not only to avoid being overheard but so that
he could still listen for anything that might rise out of the vents. For the
time being, the house was quiet and he was grateful that he did not have
to stop. As he talked, he gauged how much strength he had. The boy
would have questions later.
"That's it. That's all of it. Your turn."
For a moment, Ben thought there was something wrong with the boy.
His eyes were glazed and he was breathing through his mouth.
"Is it true?"
"Yes, it's true. Now tell me what happened to you."
Kirn's head was still spinning from what he'd heard. This guy was
something out of Mission: Impossible.
Unconsciously imitating the adult, Kim poured out his story slowly,
carefully, making sure he described things exactly as they had occurred.
"How do you think they managed to knock Jeb out?" Kim asked.
Ben doubted that the Secret Service agent had been "knocked out."
But there was no reason to strip the boy of the notion that his friend and
protector was still alive.
"What was the last thing you and Jeb did together?" Ben asked.
A wrinkle appeared between the boy's eyes. "I don't know."
"I think you do. Close your eyes. Imagine Jeb and you entering the
school. You're in the classroom. He's sitting in the back." The boy nodded.
"Okay. Now class is over. You're ready to leave--"
THE ASSISTANT 331

"No, we're not. I mean, we are, but we don't." Kim opened his eyes.
"Miss Sawyer went up to Jeb. She gave him some gum, then me, too."
"Was she chewing any?" Kim nodded energetically. "So what do you
think happened?"
"Jeb's gum was poisoned?"
"And yours?"
"Sure. But only a little bit because I'm not as big as Jeb."
"And Miss Sawyer was chewing a piece she didn't poison."
"That's gotta be it," Kim agreed. He glanced at Ben, puzzled and
clearly hurt. "Why would she do that? I mean, she was new. It's not like
I ever did anything to make her mad."
How to explain to a child that people have reasons that are the stuff of
nightmares?
"I don't know," Ben said.
"I don't think she's a bad person," Kim said somberly. "The other guy,
yeah--he's a creep. But not Miss Sawyer."
Ben was not inclined to agree. He shifted to prevent the cuff from
chafing his wrist. Talking had scorched his throat and he desperately
wanted something to drink.
"Ben?"
"Yeah?"
"What are we going to do?"
Ben grimaced. The kid had chutzpah--and that beautiful, innocent
belief that an adult always has a way out of any problem.
Ben had been thinking along those lines for a while now, a way out.
When he was listening or talking to Jamal, when he watched his blood
ooze from his body. one part of him was focused on escape.
But he had been alone then. Planning escape for one was easier and
simpler than for two. And for all his composure and poise, Kim Wood-
bridge was still a child. He could not lead, only follow; he could not share
a burden, only become one.
"Are you going to leave me here?"
Ben wasn't sure which startled him more, the boy's matter-of-fact tone
or the question itself.
"No. I'm not going to leave you here. I was thinking how the two of us
could get out."
"You were planning to escape?"
Ben wondered if Kim had it in him to be sarcastic. Sounded like it.
332 J. PATRiCK LAW

"Of course."
"But you didn't do it."
"I was a little busy." With Jamal making me a one-man blood bank.
"I don't think you could go anywhere. I don't think you can even get
out of those handcuffs. You would have done it if you really could."
Ben fixed him with a stare. "You think so?"

"Yup."
Ben never took his eyes off the boy as he jiggled his wrist lightly, then
curled his fingers over the ratchet. The nail of his forefinger marched
across the teeth on the ratchet. When it reached the fourth one, Ben gave
a slight tug. The handcuff snapped open and fell into his uplifted palm.
The kid's eyes were larger than full moons.
"I'm outta here, partner," Ben said.
"Hey, wait a minute--"
"Shh. Kidding, all right? Want to learn how to do it? Here, give me
your finger."
It took Kim a few tries, but finally he mastered the intricate motion.
"Magic!" he whispered.
"Yes, it is. That's what I do."
"You're a magician? I thought you said you were a lawyer."
"What. I can't be both?"
"Why didn't you get out of here before?"
"Because I was tied up. Now listen. We have to put these back on, in
case someone comes up."
"But--"
"Nobody's going anywhere yet. We need a plan first. We need to know
what they're up to."
"How are we--?"
Ben pressed a finger against his lips. "Listen. What do you hear?"
Kim strained to listen. What he heard were soft voices, the kind you
heard in scary movies, when you didn't know where they were coming
from. He cocked his head, then slipped quietly to the floor and put his
ear against the duct grille.
Then he looked up at Ben, who gave him a thumbs-up.
Whatis this placet'Kim asked himself. He stole a glance at ^>w.Andvsho
is this guy?
1 hirty

DOWNSTAIRS, OTHERS WERE ALSO LISTENING.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Jamal kept one ear tuned to the
faint splash of water in the bathroom directly above him. What he would
say to Hatem and al-Rahim when they finished eating was something Judith
could never be privy to.
Maybe it was the sound of the water or the scraping of forks on cheap
china, but Jamal never heard the stirring of small bare feet on the floorboards
upstairs.
Kim Woodbridge looked over his shoulder at Ben, lying on the bed.
He felt exposed and afraid, his feet cold on the wood.
"Open the closet door," Ben called softly.
He wouldn't have sent the boy if he hadn't felt light-headed. Ben did
not want to risk blacking out, stumbling, or worse, falling. Also, the boy
weighed much less than he did and this was a house that betrayed footsteps.

Kim opened the closet. It smelled of mothballs. There was nothing in
it except old clothes on rusty hangers.
"Look behind the clothes. There's the door."
Kim remembered what Ben had told him. He lifted the hangers,
didn't scrape them along the pole. Here was the door.
He reached for the half-moon grip and pulled. The shrieking of an334 J. PATRICK LAW

cient hinges met his ears. He turned fearfully to Ben, who gave him the
okay. Was he crazy?
"Close ... the ... closet... door."
Kirn got it. He didn't much like dark places, but he sucked up his fears
and closed the door. This time, he slipped both hands through the grip
and yanked back, hard. The shriek wasn't so bad and now he had his
opening.
"The light switch is on the left of the first step"
Yup. There it was.
The bulb was weak and covered with dust, but it gave enough light for
Kim to see the short staircase to the attic.
"There's another switch at the top of the stairs, also on the left."
There a'betterbe. Kim thought how good a baseball bat would feel in his
hands right now.
He edged his way up the stairs, tentatively reached out, and slid his
fingers along the two-by-four support beam. The light switch.
The attic rafters were high enough for Kim to stand up straight. He
breathed the stale air through his mouth. Ben had told him it would be
dusty up there and not to sneeze.
A series of low-wattage bulbs cast shadows over large rectangular
pieces of wood. Kim was in the drama club at school. The wood reminded
him of theater sets, the kind that were rolled into place to provide
background scenery.
There was a lot of wiring, Ben had warned him about that too. Why
would a house need so much? Maybe because it was old? There was the
junction box.
The panel cover came away with a shower of dust. Inside were rows of
circuit breakers.
"Flip all the ones on the left"
Okay.
Nothing happened. Kim didn't know what he was expecting--lights,
sirens, loudspeakers. Anything to get somebody's attention.
"Don't waste time. Grab the bag and go."
Kim spotted it easily. It was shaped like those doctor bags he'd seen in
Westerns. This one was three times the size, and heavy. Kim hauled it to
the stairs and bumped it one step at a time. At the bottom, he gripped the
handles with both hands and set the bag gently on the floor.
THE ASSISTANT 335

"Got it?"
Kim peeked out of the closet. "Yeah. But I can't carry it all the way
over to you."
"Don't have to. Look inside."
Ben's description was good. Kim tiptoed across the floor carrying a
black rectangular box. Ben popped open the top, checked the batteries,
and frowned. He couldn't remember when he'd last changed them.
"Do they still have juice?" Kim asked.
"We'll find out." He placed the box under the bed, as close to the vent
as he dared. "Pull the clothes back into place. Hide the bag as best you
can."
Kim was closing the closet door when Ben motioned for him to get
back into bed. There was just enough time to reset the handcuffs and
dive under the covers before the whispers drifted into the room.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Jamal watched Hatem and al-Rahim
smoke cigarettes. He had promised them important news and he enjoyed
their anticipation.
"The ransom demands have been modified slightly," he said.
Hatem stirred. "I thought the issue had been settled in Amman."
"As did I," al-Rahim rumbled.
Both men were pan ofjamal's inner council. While most of the tactical
planning belonged to Jamal, their quick, savage skills had been invaluable
in Paris and elsewhere.
But in Amman, Jamal had not told them everything. Manar--Judith--
was too close, swathed in her widowhood, revered, party to all discussions
and decisions.
Jamal sat back in his chair. "Did you really believe I would settle for
contrition, squander this great opportunity on apologies that would be
nothing but lies?"
"What is it you wish, Hafez--exactly?"
"Exactly this: The American President will force the Israelis to withdraw
completely from the territories they currently occupy. Building of
new settlements will cease. America will guarantee the Palestinian existence
just as over the decades she has guaranteed the existence of Israel.
She will match foreign aid to our homeland with what the Israelis receive,
dollar for dollar. And the President will embrace me as the new
prime minister, the only legitimate authority, of Palestine."
336 J. PATRICK LAW

Haiem and al-Rahim exchanged glances. Jamal saw the doubt in their
eyes, but also the blazing light of possibility. For years, leaders like
Arafat had kept such men sustained on promises, until the promises had
become hollow, the words worthless and ridiculed. But neither Arafat
nor anyone else had ever had the leverage Jamal now possessed; no one
had ever gotten even close to the elusive goal. Instead of perpetual
stones, Hatem's mouth now watered with the taste of milk and honey.
"Will the American do this?"
"We have his child." Jamal gestured at the radio on the counter, tuned
to an all-news station. "No mention that the boy is missing."
"So the President agrees to all your terms," al-Rahim said hoarsely.
"What is to prevent him from going back on his word once we have returned
the boy?"
"Woodbridge will give his word in front of the whole world, at the
United Nations. He will never be able to renege. If he tried, who then
could ever trust him or America again?"
Jamal looked away, his voice becoming dreamy. "There is more. The
President will also give me Jerusalem."
In the silence of shock, Jamal heard water gurgling in the pipes and
the flush of a toilet. Judith must have finished bathing.
"Jerusalem!" Hatem whispered.
"The capital of the new Palestine. And I will be the soldier who re- ;
turns it to the Arab people." |
"The Jews will eat toads before they surrender Jerusalem!" al-Rahim 3
said. ^
"Then they had best acquire a taste for them. Because, my brother, ?
Jerusalem mil be ours." ;
Hatem looked up, hearing the shuffle of feet on floorboards. "Does |
she know any of this?" |
"No," Jamal replied. "Nor will she ever know. This is understood." ^
"I still do not see how--" al-Rahim began. |
"It is quite simple," Jamal said. "If the President does not give me I
Jerusalem, I will give him back his son--one piece at a time." |
Judith appeared in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a sweater. Strands |
of wet hair were plastered to the back of her neck, and her face was |
flushed pink from the warm bath.
Jamal moved to get her a cup of tea. "Are you feeling better?"
THE ASSISTANT 337

"I wasn't sick, Hafez," she said, accepting the cup. "It was an ... unsettling
experience."
Hatem glanced up and Jamal registered the contempt in his eyes.
Other than to marry Issim Hassan, this woman had done nothing to earn
her stature. Hatem had a frontline fighter's disdain for such people.
"How is the boy?" Jamal asked. "Did you look in on him?"
"Just for a moment. He was asleep. The other one, too. Hafez, we
should discuss exactly how to phrase our demands."
Jamal inclined his head. "Of course. But we are agreed on the major
point: the President must acknowledge that America was directly responsible
for the deaths of your husband and child, and that she will support
the establishment of a Palestinian state."
"Through dialogue," Judith added. "By seeing that Issim's work is
completed, peacefully and for all time."
"Peacefully and for all time," Jamal echoed. "The words have a statesman's
ring to them."
"Words are all I have left to live with," Judith said. She looked from
Hatem to al-Rahim. "Would you leave us, please?"
"How will you deliver our demands?" she asked when the two were
gone.
Jamal took his time explaining, allowing Judith to consider every step.
"Very good," she said finally. "Which method do you think is better--
a letter or a tape?" .
"Tapes provide better security."
Judith smiled sadly. "For my protection? We are beyond that, are we
not, Hafez? By now the police and FBI have discovered that I'm missing.
They will have searched my room and run my name through their computers.
They are ninety-nine percent certain that I kidnapped the boy.
They will show me no mercy. In fact, they will hate me more than if I
were an Arab, since I am one of them. A traitress."
Jamal's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"
"I wish to write our letter to the President in my own hand. And sign
it. Let Woodbridge--let the world--know that this is the grievance of a
wife and mother."

"Woodbridge will never allow the world to see your letter."
"Not now. But later, when our demands have been met, he might release
it, to justify his actions.
338 J. PATRICK LAW

She is insane, Jamal thought, staring at Judith's dreamy expression.
Truly, she believes she can raise the dead.
"What ifWoodbridge never tells the world about the letter?"
"Then I will. I will write out a copy. It will be Issim's last testament."
And the ax upon my neck. Such a letter would make Judith the most powerful
woman in the Arab world. No! The most powerful individual. She
would transform herself into a combination of Mother Teresa and Indira Gandhi, a long-suffering martyr melded with a shrewd, charismatic political
leader. The idea of having to seek her council, her permission, to rule
revolted him.
But all he said was, "I agree. What you propose would be a powerful
testament--and a fitting tribute. But it needs to be done quickly. Wood-
bridge must hear from us tonight."
In the bedroom upstairs, the boy stirred and rolled over on his side.
Kim Woodbridge had heard every word percolating up the duct. Jamal's
cold promise resonated: "... I will give him back his son--one piece at a
time."
"They're gonna kill us, aren't they, Ben?"
"No. They'll trade."
"No, they won't. That Jamal guy's a liar. You heard what he told Miss
Sawyer. That's not what he's gonna do." Kim fell silent for a moment.
"You know, I hear a lot about what goes on in the White House. Most
people, when it comes to kids, they're really lame. They think that just
because you're small, you can't see or hear. I remember my dad talking
with some guy from the CIA or something, saying how we'll never negotiate
with terrorists, never give them what they want."
Ben saw the boy's lip tremble, his eyes glisten with tears. "Your father
will come for you," he said with as much conviction as he could muster.
The wholefriggin' government is hunting. But Jamal is moving fast. And the
woman...
Ben had hoped that Judith Sawyer would act as a counterweight to
Jamal. But after listening to her, he realized that she was swathed in her
own particular insanity.
"Nobody's going to die," Ben said, more to himself than to the boy.
"You and I, we're getting out of here."
Kim stared at him, angry. He didn't appreciate anyone trying to con
him.
"Getting out of the cuffs was a neat trick--"
THE ASSISTANT 339

"Not a trick. An illusion. Remember: The cuffs were never really
closed."
"So whatr
"So maybe we have a few more illusions."
Kirn's eyes darted to the closet door. He imagined the big, heavy bag
sitting there in the dark. He looked back at Ben, who nodded.
1 hirty- one

the national security adviser was in Mexico City, discussing
drug-traffic interdiction with Central American counterparts. Landau
and Recce made his office their temporary operations center.
Landau had pushed for the arrangement. Besides access to the Oval
Office, only three doors away, the adviser's office gave him absolutely secure
communications. Landau had open lines to Tel Aviv, to the embassy
katsa, and to the FBI hostage rescue team at Buzzard's Point. Recce had
her own channels with Bureau headquarters and the special agents in
charge in Baltimore and Quantico.
At the President's express instructions, the hunt for Hafez Jamal was
scaled down. Media alerts that made every news cycle were quietly
dropped. Interim reports and queries meant to jog memories no longer
appeared on police hotsheets. Charles Woodbridge did not want his son's
kidnapper to feel too pressured. If Jamal were spotted and captured--or
worse killed--what would happen to the boy then?
The hunt for Judith Sawyer was equally furtive. Since she was an
American, Landau was content to let Recce take point. The FBI has
hundreds of superbly qualified investigators. Those on duty or living
within a hundred miles of Washington were not enjoying the Sabbath
rest.
"When do you think he'll make his move?" Reece asked. She was inTHE ASSISTANT 341

trigued by Landau's seeming fascination with the national security adviser's
collection of Franklin antique pewter cars.
"Tchotchkes"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. When will Jamal come? Soon. I think he may be on his way
now."
"And you're playing with toys."
Landau blinked. "It's not my collection. Please, what would you have
me do? I don't even have my sidearm in case we have to move fast."
That was true. The Secret Service did not allow a foreign national to
carry a gun in the President's presence. Landau had argued, and even
Yakov Admony had intervened. Both had been told pointedly that the
Service didn't care if Landau was the Messiah--no gun.
"Be patient, Kaelin. Jamal will establish contact. We need that first
step."
Landau did not have to explain. Both he and Reece knew about the
vast arsenal of locating and eavesdropping equipment the security forces
had marshaled. At great expense, two of the newest KH-14 satellites had
been reprogrammed to maintain a geosynchronous orbit over the capital.
The images they sent back were so fine that they could capture a man
smoking a cigarette. If the way he held the cigarette was opportune, the
cameras could make out the brand name printed on the rolling paper.
Nightwind helicopters--the army's newest and quietest machines--
were also airborne, equipped with heat-imagery cameras and other devices
that had not been discussed in Landau's presence. Landau
imagined that if Jamal made. contact via phone, fax, or computer, the
Nightwinds, working with the techies at the National Security Agency,
would fix his position in less than a minute. The helicopters would then
alert the ground units, and Jamal would be in the fishbowl. Still untouchable,
but constantly in sight. Landau thought the Americans
would, under the circumstances, take great pains to remain calm. The
temptation to snatch Jamal, drug him and sweat the truth out of him
would be close to overwhelming. But they would wait, allow Jamal to
lead them to his nest. Once they determined that the boy was there, they
would decide on the best way to extract him.
But now, the waiting. Landau felt Reece strain as though she were on
an invisible leash. The whole damn government--at least those who
were privy--was straining. In a brief moment of indulgence. Landau al342 J. PATRICK LAW

lowed himself to pity Jamal. To have such power massed against you and
not even know it...
"What does he want?" Reece pressed.
"Want? I don't know."
The question was still being debated, intensely, ceaselessly by those
involved in the situation.
"Not freedom for political prisoners," Landau mused. "There aren't
any left. Money? Maybe, though not likely. There are a number of enlightened
statesmen in the Middle East who have adopted terrorism as
their charity of choice. What else can you give him?"
Reece frowned and remained silent. Landau wondered if she knew
but didn't want to say, or she just didn't know.
For most Americans, the dispute between the Arabs and the Israelis
was a tiresome canker. After a while, you put on more balm and hoped
that this time, the sore would all go away. Because you didn't live there,
with fanatics strapped with explosives getting on buses or going into
restaurants. You were tired of watching limbs fly on the evening news, of
Arab homes being bulldozed, of Israeli children in gas masks practicing
air-raid alerts. The world was problematic enough without the Jews. So
no--intelligent, capable people like Reece might not think it through.
There was only one thing Hafez Jamal could want, that the Arabs had always
lusted for. Now, one of them had the wherewithal to realize the
dream.
"Jamal must want something" Reece said, worrying the issue as if it
were a hangnail.
"I always said that you should let me get close when we tag him,"
Landau replied. Reece thought his smile would intimidate a reptile.
"I don't think anyone ever gets close to you," she shot back. "They
don't live long enough to do that."

*

Through that strange connection that binds ancient enemies, Hafez
Jamal was thinking of Landau. His thoughts were not ragged with trepidation
or anxiety; rather, he experienced an exuberance that left him almost
light-headed. Here he was strolling among the crowds in Union
Station, and he felt invisible. The boy was his talisman. As long as Jamal
had him, he was invincible.

THE ASSISTANT 343

Two hours earlier, Jamal and Hatem had arrived at BaltimoreWashington
International Airport in the minibus. Jamal had gotten off at the
international terminal. He waited until a group of Spanish tourists
trudged out of baggage claim, then slipped in among them and boarded
the express coach to Washington. He got off at the first stop. Union Station.

Dressed in the casual clothes of a tourist, Jamal swung down the wide
halls to the rows of pay lockers. His sharp eyes surveilled constantly, settling
on faces, evaluating, moving on. The pattern broke when he noticed
repair work being done on some marble columns. The gouges were
unmistakably bullet holes, evidence of the gun battle between the fleeing
Jew, Tarnofsky, and Jamal's men. Good men, dead now, martyrs waiting
to be avenged.
And so you shall be.
Jamal fed coins into the slot, retracted the key, and opened the locker.
He placed the envelope containing the letter inside the cavity. On the
envelope, written in black felt pen, was a series of numbers. Meaningless
to others, they would instantly be recognized by the President or the
First Lady.
Jamal walked to a bank of telephones and dialed the general switchboard
number.
"Good afternoon, the White House."
"I wish to speak with Kim Woodbridge."
"Excuse me ..."
The Secret Service agent monitoring that bank of the switchboard was
very quick. She transferred the call to her line, at the same time disconnecting
from the switchboard. Now, the operator would think that the
caller had hung up.
"You wish to speak to Kim Woodbridge?" the agent asked, watching
the trace timer count down.
"You are not the operator," Jamal said.
"No, sir. Whom do you wish to speak to?"
"Let me save you the trouble of trying to trace this call. I am at Union
Station. Tell your people to go to the B. Dalton bookstore. In the third
aisle on the left, halfway down, is the political-history section. On the
second shelf from the bottom is a book called The Illustrated History of
Torture. Inside, you will find a key to a station locker; inside the locker
344 J. PATRICK LAW

will be a message. You need not worry about explosives or booby traps. It
is in my interests--and certainly yours--for you to read the message.
Now, the book containing the key is not a best-seller, but I would hurry,
in case someone else finds it as entertaining as I did."
Jamal hung up and walked away. He entered the book-store and
slipped the oversized volume from the shelf. The illustrations were gruesome,
depicting methods of torture dating back to the Dark Ages. Jamal
found them tame. He had already placed a piece of clear tape across the
key; now he placed the key in the center of the book and pressed the
tape firmly to the page. Carefully, he returned the book to its place on the
shelf, making sure to push it all the way back so the spine was less visible.

Jamal checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed since he'd hung
up. He exited by the doors that opened on to the National Postal Museum
across the street. The cab he got into was pulling away from the
curb just as the first of the black Suburbans caromed around the corner.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
Jamal glanced through the rearview, envisioning the impending chaos.
"The Hilton."
He remembered that the Hilton advertised a nice all-day buffet on
Sundays.

* * *

The Secret Service communications specialist needed another sixteen
seconds to complete the trace.
"It doesn't matter," Landau said, listening to the playback. "That's
Jamal voice."
"How can you be sure?" Recce demanded.
"Because he wants us to find what he's left for us."
"I still have to send the bomb squad in," Casey said.
"A waste of time. Where are your men?"
"They should be at the station now."
"May I suggest you tell them to pick up the key. Then let me open the
locker."
Casey shook his head. "You have a death wish?"
"No," Landau replied. "But bringing in the bomb squad would cost us
valuable time. The sooner we know what Jamal wants and how he wants
it, the more time we have to fashion a response." He paused. "If Jamal
THE ASSISTANT 345

lied, if the locker is wired, he will be very pleased that I was the one who
took him at his word."
Landau glanced at Recce. "If I should be blown into the next world,
promise me you will slap Jamal's face. Just a slap. It's a terrible insult. It
will be like me spitting at him from the grave."
Casey continued to shake his head. "Slapping, spitting--you people
are crazy."
"Then get me down there and lei's do this thing."
Casey turned to Reece as Landau swept out of the room. "Is he
crazy?"
"As a loon. But he's oar crazy."
The ride to Union Station took less than fifteen minutes. The two
agents sent in to retrieve the key were waiting outside. One held the key
by its edges between thumb and forefinger.
"In case you wanted fingerprints," he said.
"We know whose we'll find." Landau turned to Casey. "Tell them to
give me the key."
Casey stamped from one foot to the other. "Collins, Johnson, get everybody
away from the locker area. Fifty feet minimum. And out of those
stores. Too much damned glass."
The station was strangely quiet when Landau finally walked inside.
Yellow tape cordoned off the locker area. The surrounding retailers were
empty, doors locked. The slap of leather-soled shoes sounded like gunshots. '

"The media are on the way," Casey said conversationally as he walked
beside Landau. "It'd be nice if you could get the damn thing before they
arrive and we could all get out of here."
"I see. So now it would be nice."
"You know what I mean."
"Ten minutes."
Fifty feet from the lockers, Casey put his hand on Landau's shoulder.
"Good luck." He handed him the key.
Landau examined the key as he walked on. It looked like any one of a
million others, no special cuts or abrasions, no filamints or coating to indicate
that it had been tampered with.
In front of the locker now, the keyhole almost exactly at eye level. Had
Jamal chosen this locker deliberately, forits height? If he wants to blow my
head off, yes.
346 J. PATRICK LAW

Landau thought there was something Jamal wanted much more than
that: Landau alive to hear or read the demands, to feel sick and outraged--above
all, helpless. This was mother's milk to him.
Once in motion. Landau did not stop. The key went in and turned
smoothly. Landau pulled open the door, saw the envelope, picked it up,
and turned on his heel.
He did not check the envelope, but the thought occurred that Jamal
could still toy with him, coat the adhesive in the flap with a minuscule
charge, enough to tear off Landau's arm.
"At least let me put it through a fluoroscope," Casey called out.
A portable version of the machine had been wheeled in and set up
next to a candy store. The technician was bulked out in protective gear
that made him look like an astronaut.
Landau placed the envelope on the tray and watched the technician
roll it through the machine. The buttons lit up one by one, all green.
Using a three-inch stiletto, Casey slit open one end of the envelope
and, using gloves, pulled out legal-size sheets that had come off a laser
printer.
"What are those numbers on the envelope?" Landau asked.
Casey's voice was dead. "The kid's MedicAlert registration. Only one
of its kind. I guess we're hearing from the right people."

* *

Al-Rahim had no respect for the woman. Neither did he fear her. To
him, Manar Hassan was a Western whore, the kind he saw occasionally in
the white-slave-trading cellars throughout the Middle East. Only she
was uglier.
But some time had passed since al-Rahim had been with a woman.
Watching her move about the kitchen, preparing food for the prisoners,
stirred him.
Al-Rahim's next act almost cost him his hand. The woman was by the
sink, bent over slightly. The Arab reached out and ran his fingertips along
her buttocks. He felt her twist, was ready to grab her hand when she tried
to slap him, as he anticipated she would. What he didn't anticipate was
the ten-inch chef's utility knife she snatched up as she whirled around,
the blade slicing the dust motes, flashing by his eyes.
Al-Rahim looked down at the bracelet of blood on his wrist, saw the
sinews in her arm tauten like cables as she poised to cut deeper. He could
the ASSISTANT 347

not hold back his terror, saw its reflection in her eyes, the satisfaction it
gave her, the shame it heaped on him.
"Get out!" Judith hissed.
When he was gone, she put down the knife and ran cool water over her
wrists. Although her mind raced, her hands were steady. This was not the
first time she had handled a knife, and Issim had taught her well.
Judith dried her hands and finished making lunch. She wondered how
people could eat such spongelike bread, and vegetables that were artificially
colored and tasteless. When the soup was ready, she placed everything
on a tray, along with plastic spoons and forks. Jamal had been clear
on that: no metal cutlery.
Ben heard the creaks on the staircase. He glanced at Kim, who nodded.
Ben had hoped that he would get one shot at the woman when she
was alone. It was the only real chance he and the boy had.
Ben had heard the exchange in the kitchen between Judith and the
Arab. He tried to put images to the angry words and thought that the
Arab might have made a pass at her. Whatever had happened, it had created
a fissure between the kidnappers. Kim had told him as much as he
could about Judith Sawyer, comments and impressions that Ben folded
into what he already knew. Now, Ben thought hard about how he might
exploit this new antagonism.
Judith set the tray on the dresser. Ben watched as her eyes nickered
over him, as though she didn't want to linger, then settled on the boy.
She remained silent, but her movements around the boy were tender,
maternal. She felt his forehead, then reached around and fluffed his pillow.


"Hello, Kim."
"Hi, Miss Sawyer."
"Are you feeling better? You're temperature is almost normal."
"I'm okay. Thanks."
Ben was pleased. The boy was playing it just as they had scripted it:
polite, but not too friendly.
"Would you like soup first, or the sandwich?"
"The sandwich, please."
Judith set a paper plate where Kim could reach it with his free hand.

"What about me?" Ben asked.
His voice seemed to startle her, as if she'd been pretending that he
didn't exist. Wordlessly, she set a paper plate within his reach.
348 J. PATRICK LAW

Ben took a bite and spoke to her back. "This is good. It'll help with
the blood."
That got her attention. When she turned her head, Ben locked eyes
with her.
"You didn't know? Jamal never told you that he tried to bleed me dry?
An inducement to get me to talk." She turned away, and he hurried on.
"Don't believe me? See for yourself." He rattled the cuffs, then heard
Kim say, "It's true. Miss Sawyer. That's why he looks so white."
For a moment, Judith didn't stir. She rose to remove Kirn's plate, then
hesitated before picking up the soup. Turning to Ben, she lifted his arm
as if it were a slab of meat. But her mouth fell open when she saw the
gauze and tape.
"Go ahead, remove it. Jamal was a doctor, wasn't he? He knew just
how far he could bleed me before I'd lose consciousness. He was careful
not to let that happen."
She let go of his arm as though it were maggot-infested.
Judith returned to the boy, sat him up, and began spooning him the
soup. Ben forced himself to eat half a sandwich.
"How does it feel to be back home, Judith?" he asked, his tone light.
He let a beat go by. "Lots of changes, I bet. Were you planning to stop off
at the university, see if your pals are still around? How surprised they must
have been when you didn't show up for the flight home--what was it,
eight, nine years ago?"
He tossed the questions as lightly as he would a softball. When she
kept her back to him, he knew he had to prick her deeper.
"Was he everything you ever dreamed of, Judith?"
He saw the spoon stop in midair. At last, she turned around.
"What could you possibly know?"
"Maybe not so much. But more than you think." She went back to
feeding the boy. "I'm sorry for your loss, Judith, as long ago as it was. I'm
sorry for what you're doing now."
Jamal had warned her not to talk to either of them. Yet, a part other revolted
against this. Maybe if she hadn't seen the bandage on his arm ...
He wasn't lying about having been bled. Jamal was perfectly capable of
inflicting such cruelty.
"I'm doing what is necessary," she heard herself say. "What is just."
"Because of what happened to your husband and son?"
THE ASSISTANT 349

"You don't know what happened to them!" she said fiercely. "You
know nothing!"
She returned to the dresser, rattling the spoon against the soup bowl,
and was ready to pick up the tray when Ben called out; "Samarra. Israeli
helicopters coming out of the night. Your home on fire, your life burning
away."

Judith swept the tray from the dresser. "too are you?'
"An orphan," Ben told her. "Jamal murdered my parents."
She hadn't known that, he was sure. Her shock was genuine. Ben
spoke quickly now, not knowing how long he could hold her attention.
"Did you know a man called Mustafa Manshur?"
"No."
"Your husband never mentioned him? Maybe Jamal did?"
She shook her head.
Ben sketched out for her what had happened in Paris and then later by
the Kennedy Center.
"Why are you telling me this?" Judith cried. "It's meaningless--"
"No, it's not. Because Mustafa Manshur told my father that Jamal
would be in Samarra that day."
"Ridiculous!"
"My father kept a record, on disk. He was a careful, organized man."
"Even if he knew about Samarra, what difference does that make?"
"A lot. Because it wasn't Jamal who was killed, was it?"
Color drained from her face as the realization slammed into her consciousness.

"Why, Judith?" Ben« asked softly. "Why was Jamal not in Samarra
when Manshur knew he would be? When mj father knew? When the Israelis
knew? There was no mention of Issim Hassan anywhere, by anyone.
No one expected him to be there. Certainly, no one thought he
would be." He paused. "Where was Jamal, Judith?"
She looked away, as though staring through a window into the past.
"Riding. I saw him coming out of the sun. He was riding and then the helicopters
came."
"My father never figured out why your husband was killed. There was
no reason for the Israelis to get rid of him. He was a moderate, someone
they could actually talk to at the peace table. So why would Israeli helicopters
go to Samarra if Issim Hassan wasn't supposed to be there--if
350 J. PATRICK LAW

there was no reason to hurt him or his family? Who vsas supposed to be
there, Judith?"
"Stop it!"
"Jamal. Only Jamal. But he wasn't alone. He brought along his best
friend, his comrade, his brother-in-his-arms. And the brother's wife, their
child. How did he manage that, Judith? What did he say to get Issim
down there? The reason must have seemed innocent...."
The words were like acid eating away at the mistruth in which she had
clothed herself. Judith felt its fabric dissolve, felt the sting of the words
on her flesh. It was the sting that forced her to remember. Here was
Jamal speaking.
"Tonight, but later. When we reach our destination.'"
Now she: "'Destination? Where are we going?'
And Jamal: "... this may seem an unnecessary precaution. But old habits..
. Arrangements have been made in another place..."
A place called Samarra.
"'The reason must have been innocent." The reason was a precaution, an
old habit. An excuse Issim would never have questioned, suspected, or
doubted.
Because Jamal was like a brother, and one brother would never betray
another.
"Judith, listen to me."
She started, glancing over her shoulder at the far corner; she could
have sworn that the voice had come from there.

"Judith ..."
Throwing his voice had worked, unsettling her enough so that when
he spoke a second time, Ben had her attention. Now, it was his timing, her vulnerability.
"It was Jamal. It couldn't have been anyone else. Jamal does not believe
in what your husband did, but he craves what Issim Hassan possessed--the
power and charisma. He craves to become the leader Issim
would have become. Now, having the boy, he can satisfy that craving.
Jamal wants to be Issim Hassan. But he couldn't be, not as long as Issim
was alive!"
She flinched, as though his words pummeled her.
"He lured Issim to Samarra. He knew whom he left on the tether. And
he was careful, wasn't he? Careful with you. There were horses for you in
Samarra. He knew you loved to ride in the dawn, alone. He told you
THE ASSISTANT 351

about the horses the night before, didn't he? He wanted you away from the house. He offered you something irresistible ... Then he let the Israelis
come and kill for him."
"Stop it!" Judith screamed.
Ben heard voices downstairs, then pounding feet. He had only seconds
left.
"You are a prisoner, Judith! As much as Kim and I. Test me on this.
Tell them you want to walk along the bay shore. The path goes on for
miles, no one around. See if they let you--"
Al-Rahim burst into the room, his pistol looking like a child's toy in his
hand. "I heard shouting."
Judith picked up the tray. "It's nothing. This one"--she tossed her
head in Ben's direction--"was rude to me. But now he, like you, knows
better. Come, take this for me."
She thrust the tray at al-Rahim, who had no choice but to take it.
After the door closed, after a moment's silence, Kim said, "Ben, you're
crazy."
"But did I get through to her? Will she at least try?"
"Take the walk?"
"Yeah."
"She will."
"How--?"
"She's a teacher. I know about teachers."
1 hirty-two

the fbi has some of the best hair and fiber and latent-prints experts
in the world. They were sec up and waiting in the subbasement
of the White House when Jamal's three-page missive was
delivered.
The technician had a long sheet of fine white paper spread across his
worktable. Above it was a row of powerful spotlights. He draped each ?
page, one at a time, over a dowel and peered at it through a powerful
magnifying glass. Then he lightly tapped the paper with a spatula to dislodge
any debris--hair follicles, tiny grains of dirt, carpet, or upholstery
fibers. S
"Your boy was very careful," the technician pronounced. "The only
thing left behind was some cellulose fiber that came off the envelope. |
Sorry."
Latent Prints struck out too.
"The laser pulled up two skin-oil smudges," the technician told
Casey. "But they're old. I'm thinking that someone besides your guy
handled the paper--maybe the clerk who sold it to him, or another customer.
You know how this stuff is displayed at copy shops, piles of it. I
wouldn't bet the skin oils would match those of your guy. But we'll test
him when you break his ass." I
Casey appreciated the vote of confidence. ;
The Secret Service Documents Section took over from there. The '
THE ASSISTANT 353

paper was identified as a Hammermill brand manufactured especially for
laser printers--in this case, a Hewlett-Packard desktop model. The ink
was blended by Lippincott.
"Not so good," the Service tech told Casey. "The paper is made in lots
of a one hundred thousand sheets and is distributed cross-country. The
printer can be picked up at any Office Depot or variation thereof. The
ink comes in standard cartridges and is brewed in sixty-thousand-gallon
vats. Your boy could have gotten this stuff anywhere."
Casey went to the conference room and presented his findings.

"Nice try," he told Landau.
Landau had pushed for the scientific analysis on the off chance that
Jamal had gotten careless and let one of his accomplices handle the letter.
Landau had quietly pointed out that Jamal and Judith had to have
operational support. Two people couldn't possibly manage everything
that needed to be done. It would have been useful to narrow down the
number and identities of the supporting cast. Quite possibly. Landau
might have had prior dealings with them.
Casey led Recce and Landau into the Oval Office. Charles Wood-
bridge and his wife were sitting side by side on the couch. He was holding
her arm as she read the letter.
Casey cleared his throat. "Forensics can't help us, Mr. President."
Woodbridge seemed not to hear him, then stirred. "We didn't expect
they would, did we? We know who we're dealing with."
Mary Woodbridge let the pages slip from her hand to the carpet. The
President leaned down and picked them up.
"You can't give him what he wants can you, Charlie?" the First Lady
said. She looked at Landau. "And you can't find my son, so Jamal will kill
him."

"Mary--"
"Don't bullshit me, Charlie. Okay? Not where Kirn's concerned."
To Landau, the President seemed to deflate. His fine political skills
counted for nothing. His powers of persuasion, debate, and horse-trading
were useless before the woman who knew them probably better than he
did.
"We have something, Mrs. Woodbridge," Landau said. "Not much,
but something."
She gazed at him as though he were an interesting but repulsive specimen
in a zoo cage.
354 J. PATRICK LAW

"And what would that be, Mr. Landau?"
"Jamal has given us a timetable. Certain demands he makes can be
met without compromising your government--and doing so would
demonstrate good faith. This would help keep your boy safe."
"Go on."
Landau proceeded carefully. Yakov Admony had warned him that the
Americans would bridle at being told what to do. Landau's job was to advise,
not dictate.
"Jamal wants the President to issue a statement for the early evening
news," he said. "To the effect that a major policy announcement will be
made tomorrow, Monday. He also wants both the United Nations and its
Security Council alerted to an emergency session to be held no later than
Tuesday."
"Where are you going with this?" Charles Woodbridge demanded. "I
can't make any damn 'policy announcement. T
"Mr. President, Jamal has left us some ... I believe you call it 'wiggle
room.' He does not specify the exact text of the announcement. I believe
that is an oversight on his part. He would have made it harder, if not impossible,
for you to act if he had included a text. As it is, would it not be
possible for you to issue just the kind of statement he desires? You announce
the unveiling of a new policy. Period. No details of any kind. No
defining whom or what part of the world this policy will affect, when it
will be implemented, or its purpose or duration."
"Keep it vague," Charles Woodbridge murmured.
"Exactly."
"There will still be questions--not from the media, but from members
of Congress."
"It's Sunday night, Mr. President. Certainly, your congressmen will be
curious, but will they badger you for details? I think not. After all, you
might be referring to the political situation in the Balkans or the financial
troubles in Asia. Who's to say?"
"Nonetheless, I'm still committed to say something the next day."
"There are a lot of hours until then," Landau said softly.
"I see where you're going with this, Mr. Landau," the First Lady
spoke up. "You're holding out the carrot of a rescue operation. But you
don't know where to begin. You haven't a clue as to where Jamal is hiding,
do you?"
THE ASSISTANT 355

Landau steeled himself not to glance at Kaelin Reece. Priestly s report
on the homicide in the Poltareks' apartment had been delivered only an
hour ago. There hadn't been time to get to it and now he was sorry he
hadn't done so.
"No, madam. I don't know where Jamal has your son."
"Tell me, Mr. Landau. Would it be such a terrible thing for Israel to
give Jamal a part of what he wants?" Mary Woodbridge demanded, her
voice rising. "Wasn't the creation of a Palestinian state the reason behind
the Oslo Accords?"
It came, jusr as he'd known it would. Landau hurried to say his piece
before the President, pained, found a gentle way to quiet his wife.
"The Oslo Accords, yes. Mrs. Woodbridge, imagine Fifth Avenue in
New York. Imagine that east of it live a people who, in fifty years, built
up the thriving area they now call home. Then other people arrived, settled
on the West Side, demanded to call it their home. But that was not
enough: They wanted to cross Fifth Avenue, take the East Side, too.
"I do not exaggerate. The boundary between Israel and the West
Bank is not much larger than Fifth Avenue. Terrorists, killers, saboteurs
cross it every day. Would you stand for such an arrangement, Mrs. Wood-
bridge? Would you allow your kin to live under such a threat? Because
that is exactly what Hafez Jamal is--a threat. He will not go away, he will
not be reasoned with, he will not be appeased. He has told you what he
wants, but believe me, these are only his first demands. If your husband
were to cloak him in America's power, if he were to legitimize the man
and his aspirations, he would be planting the seeds of so much terrible
bloodshed--"
"That's enough!"
Charles Woodbridge s voice sounded like a gunshot. He settled back a
little when his wife touched his arm.
"Your input and expertise are appreciated, Mr. Landau," he said formally.
"As are yours, Agent Reece. However, dealing with Jamal's demands
is my responsibility. Yours is to find out where he's holding my
son."
Dismissal was implicit in his words.
Using his bulk like a tugboat, Casey steered them out.
"You were out of line in there," he told Landau.
"People who haven't had personal experience with terrorists have no
356 J. PATRICK LAW

idea what they're dealing with," Landau replied harshly. "I didn't want
her to think Jamal was some carpet merchant she could haggle with."
- "No, you wanted her to know that Jamal is the Antichrist. That's your
agenda: to paint him black. For God's sake. Landau. He's holding her
son!"
In his mind's eye. Landau saw a barbwire perimeter fence running
along the West Bank, swinging around by south Lebanon, encircling Israel
like a noose, slowly squeezing, choking...
"I wanted her to know that no Jew is going to sit at a conference table
and let someone sell out other Jews. End of agenda."
In the Oval Office, Charles Woodbridge stood beside his desk, gazing
out across the lawn. The weak sun caught and cast shadows of the roving
guards.
"You never answered me, Charlie," Mary Woodbridge called to him.
"You can't force the Israelis, can you?"
Woodbridge ran his fingertips over the telephone console. Touch one
button and he could have the best minds in the nation either inside his
office or on the line. Except that no amount of advice could sever the
Gordian knot under which his life and his wife's lay. Advisers would propose,
argue, debate, bleat, scream, and for what? He knew what could be
done. He knew what had to be done. The tragedy was that they were
mutually exclusive.
"Jamal is asking me to carve up a country, this from a terrorist kidnapper
who also wants me to sponsor him as a statesman."
"Couldn't you go along for a little while, at least until we get Kim
back?"
"Jamal won't give Kim back until I stand up in front of the whole
world and support him. Do you realize the political firestorm that would
unleash--here and around the world?"
Mary Woodbridge held back the obvious retort. Her husband didn't
deserve it. He wasn't putting the nation's interests before those of his
child; he just couldn't find a way to give them equal footing.
"If I go to the U.N., bully Israel, I might be able to get Kim back.
Then I could announce that everything had been done under terrible
duress, that none of the agreements were valid. Our credibility would be
finished. Oh, sure, most people would make all the right noises, but what
would be going through their minds the next time we sat down to bargain
or sign a treaty?"
I HE A3313 t Rl^ 1 aa»

"I want Kim back, Charlie. I know the rest of it. Just tell me how we
get him back. Do that and I'll support any decision you make ... that you
can make."
The President looked across the row. "Jamal is like a water moccasin
living in your boat shed. Landau is our king snake. He's the only play we
have, Mary. He has to find out where Jamal has hidden Kim."
"After that?"
"After that the SEAL team goes in to get him."

* * *

The Americans liked him even less now, if that were possible. Landau
saw it in the set expressions of Casey and others. Even Recce was keeping
her distance, telling him she had a meeting to attend at the Hoover
Building, pointedly giving no details. Clearly, his presence was neither
required nor desired.
"The Service will notify us as soon as Jamal makes contact again,"
Recce said as she and Landau walked to her car in the underground
garage.
Landau thought she might be trying to mollify him. He watched her
dig the key into the door lock.
"Priestly's file," he reminded her.
"It's in the back seat."
Landau got it out himself and was surprised when she fired up the engine.
"Aren't you going to take me back to the embassy?"
Recce pointed at the Service agent who'd escorted them out and who,
Landau now realized, had never left.
"He'll take you. I gotta run. I'll call if I hear anything."
The Service agent swung the car onto Pennsylvania when Landau
told him, "I've changed my mind." ,
Ten minutes later, he found himself standing in front of Rachel's century-old
townhouse in Georgetown, with its brass vase, filled with flowers,
where the knocker was usually affixed. The door opened even
before he touched it.
"Are you going to stand there, or do you want to come in."
Rachel stood framed by the doorway, in jeans, sweatshirt, her red hair
a naming ponyiail. Landau thought she looked exquisite.

"Anything?"
"No, I'm sorry."
358 J. PATRICK LAW

Landau followed her into the living room. Shaker furniture and cheerful
Indian rugs, flowers and plants in gaily painted ceramic vases. A private
side of Rachel he'd never seen: her refuge. The television was
tuned to CNN.
"I've been watching the news," she said. "They're saying it was an attempted
robbery gone bad."
Anger tinged her words; Landau could feel their heat.
"They have to say something, Rachel."
"But why say Ben is 'missing'? How could he be missing when you
know Jamal has him?"
Landau measured exactly how much she didn't know. He understood
that nothing but the truth would work here, if he wanted her help.
"Would you make us tea? This will take a little while."
He told her about Kim Woodbridge as she fussed with the tea. He
wanted her hands busy, her mind focused on minutiae as he laid out the
terrible facts as impassively as a blackjack dealer servicing his players.
He monitored how deeply the horror bit into her, how much poison it secreted,
how she fought to expunge it. By the time he was finished, the
tea had cooled. He sipped it slowly, measuring her stillness.
"The news people haven't connected Ben to the President's son," she
said at last.
"No."
"They're hunting for the boy."
"With difficulty."
"And so Ben doesn't matter a whole lot, does he? Jamal has him, but
no one cares. He might be dead, but no one cares."
"You care. So do I."
Rachel laughed bitterly. "No, you don't. You think that if you find the J
boy, you'll find Ben. If it comes to a choice--who lives, who dies--you I
would sacrifice Ben."
"The President has the best troops standing by. It doesn't take much
imagination to figure out what their orders are." He paused. "But maybe
there's still a way for us to help him."
She was wary of him, like an animal who's been abused too many
times but can't refuse the proffered hand. Not if it means helping Ben.
"What are you saying?"
Instead, he showed her Priestly's file, pages thick with glued photographs,
rife with bad grammar and spelling mistakes.
THE ASSISTANT 359

"I don't understand," Rachel said as she riffled through it.
"Priestly did a lot of background on Ben," Landau said. "Here's the
problem: I don't know Ben. Neither does Recce. I think Priestly discovered
something that Jamal is using, but I can't recognize it. I'm hoping
you can."

« * *

Jamal finished his brunch at the Hilton, paid, and went to the meeting
rooms and conference halls on the second floor. Two hours had passed.
More than enough time. He found the bank of telephones.
"I wish to speak with Kim Woodbridge."
The White House operator answered smartly, "Yes, sir." Jamal knew
she wasn't an operator at all. He surmised that after his first call Secret
Service agents would have replaced the switchboard personnel.
"This is Robert Stone."
"And who might you be, Robert Stone?"
"Would you please tell me what you sent, sir, as well as the alphanumeric
code."
Jamal recited Kirn's MedicAlert ID numbers. "There are no letters,"
he added. "Now. Who are you?"
"My name is Robert Stone. I'm a Secret Service negotiator."
"Hostage negotiator."
"In this case, yes."
"Am I to understand that the President will make an announcement in
a few hours?"
"Preparations are under way. But we need--"
"Something in return? You already have it, Mr. Stone. The boy's MedicAlert
number."
"We need to know the boy is alive. / need to know what your name is,
or what you want me to call you."
"Don't waste time, Mr. Stone. You know who I am. You know that the
woman who abducted Kim Woodbridge is Judith Sawyer. That is all the
confirmation you get until I hear the President speak. After that, I will
provide evidence that his son is alive and well."
"We need assurances--"
"No more than I do, Mr. Stone. You are familiar with my message to
the President. It is not in my interest to hurt the boy. Surely you have
concluded that much. Give me what I want and I shall return the ges-
360 ]. PATRICK LAW

ture. "Good-bye, Mr. Stone. I will speak to you after the announcement."

In the White House crisis room, three stories beneath the swimming
pool, Robert Stone peeled off his featherweight headset. He was a middle-aged
man who, because of his sedentary job, was starting to run to fat.
His voice was as gentle and calm as a baby's breath; his eyes were as blue
as arctic ice. Robert Stone had been a negotiator for fifteen years, first
with the FBI, now with the Service. During his career, he'd lost only
three prisoners in hostage situations. He considered each of these failures
a personal affront and swore that he would never experience another.
He would get Kim Woodbridge back, no matter what.
"What do you think, Bobby?" Casey asked.
Stone rolled back his executive-style chair. He was surrounded by
monitoring and tracing equipment, lines to Quantico, the SEAL force,
and the Oval Office. Too damn much equipment.
"Tell the President to make the announcement," he said softly.
Casey shifted uncomfortably. "I don't mean to tell you your business,
Bobby. But you've spoken to the guy only once. We have psyche evaluations
coming--"
Stone held up his hand, gestured at the files stacked like a parapet
around his desk. "I'm knee-deep in profiles. A lot of them are based on
the same sources, most are repetitive. This guy knows exactly what he
wants, Steve. He has the means to get it. If the President tries to do an
end run, Jamal will spot it and send us the kid's thumbs."
Stone studied the perforated soundproof ceiling tiles. "He's thought
this through so well. He knows we won't go public with the kidnapping.
He knows that if the President refuses his demands, he kills the boy and
crows about it later."
"Crows?"
"You bet. If ]amal doesn't get his nation-stale, he'll make sure the
world knows that he waltzed into D.C. and plucked the kid right from
under our noses. In one stroke, he'll be the most feared and admired terrorist
in the world. A lot of wannabes will think that if jamal could get
away with it, well...."
"He'll be feared and admired until we drop his ass in a grave," Casey
said tightly.
"You probably will. But by then it'll be too late. ]amal will have set an
example, a precedent for the rest of them."
THE ASSISTANT 361

saying (o-won't be able to negotiate this guy down?"
K.ook his ^ "What I can do is help keep Kirn Woodbridge

3to ^ -irnal willllcvcr ^et me g" ^"^ enough to g° one on one with
alive. ^^yofl the line long enough to give us a location. So un-

nlm' have some '^c "P Y01" sleeve md can get a hard fix on him,
s 11 he Presided^ ^e only way hisson stays alive is if he starts to
^"'Tamal whathc^."
1 was follo'»°8 ve^y much the salne ^g10 pattern, except his
as on Stone ^ ^ men around him. His years of medical train-
t, i} included a generous amount of psychology and clinical psychia- ing . ^ards in wb"1'^"^ negotiators toiled. As he strolled to the
i 's front entrant J^al was quite certain he hadn't left any bolt- f r Robert SloiieB'^apG Int0' t^en csc^ back and pounce on him.
would recoinin""* ^at the President obey Jamal's directives.
There was no other A"-
The thought of pos^^g such leverage over the most powerful man
h world ihrilkdN'1!- His mood bordered on euphoria as he slipped
taxi under the teel portico. There was plenty of time to get to
n n Station and "ri the train to Baltimore, where Hatem would
u.m. Thenit*25^^ to ^ Chesapeake house to wait for the inevitable.

» * »

Judith washed the dishes from lunch and set them out to dry on the
rubber draining rack .The task had taken her longer than usual because
she scrubbed each ptoand glass thoroughly, sometimes cleaning the
same piece twice. She ^s not conscious of doing this. All she could
think of, all she heard,™ Ben Poltarek's voice in her head, a gristmill
grinding awavherhclirfi" Hafez Jamal.
Judith dried her 1'ards and stepped out onto the from porch. Al-
Rahim saionaduavW^1" at the end of the porch, gnawing on a leftover
piece of million I" fr0"! other were stairs to a dirt path that swung
away from the house and disappeared into the tall grasses. Beyond, she
made ouipanofaiioclimd some of the rocky beach Ben Pokarek had
described.
The wind felt cool "r1161" race, and the sea salt beckoned her. All she
had to do was step offIhe porch and head down the path. Then she
would be cenamihaiF'^k hadn't lied to her.
36U J. PATRICK LAW

ture. "Good-bye, Mr. Stone. I will speak to you after the announcement."

In the White House crisis room, three stories beneath the swimming
pool, Robert Stone peeled off his featherweight headset. He was a middle-aged
man who, because of his sedentary job, was starring to run to fat.
His voice was as gentle and calm as a baby's breath; his eyes were as blue
as arctic ice. Robert Stone had been a negotiator for fifteen years, first
with the FBI, now with the Service. During his career, he'd lost only
three prisoners in hostage situations. He considered each of these failures
a personal affront and swore that he would never experience another.
He would get Kim Woodbridge back, no matter what.
"What do you think, Bobby?" Casey asked.
Stone rolled back his executive-style chair. He was surrounded by
monitoring and tracing equipment, lines to Quanrico, the SEAL force,
and the Oval Office. Too damn much equipment.
"Tell the President to make the announcement," he said softly.
Casey shifted uncomfortably. "I don't mean to tell you your business,
Bobby. But you've spoken to the guy only once. We have psyche evaluations
coming--"
Stone held up his hand, gestured at the files stacked like a parapet
around his desk. "I'm knee-deep in profiles. A lot of them are based on
the same sources, most are repetitive. This guy knows exactly what he
wants, Steve. He has the means to get it. If the President tries to do an
end run, Jamal will spot it and send us the kid's thumbs."
Stone studied the perforated soundproof ceiling tiles. "He's thought
this through so well. He knows we won't go public with the kidnapping.
He knows that if the President refuses his demands, he kills the boy and
crows about it later."
"Crows?"
"You bet. If Jamal doesn't get his nation-state, he'll make sure the
world knows that he waltzed into D.C. and plucked the kid right from
under our noses. In one stroke, he'll be the most feared and admired terrorist
in the world. A lot of wannabes will think that if Jamal could get
away with it, well...."
"He'll be feared and admired until we drop his ass in a grave," Casey
said tightly.
"You probably will. But by then it'll be too late. Jamal will have set an
example, a precedent for the rest of them."
THE ASSISTANT 361

"Are you saying you won't be able to negotiate this guy down?"
Stone shook his head. "What I can do is help keep Kim Woodbridge
alive. But Jamal will never let me get close enough to go one on one with
him. He'll never stay on the line long enough to give us a location. So unless
you have some magic up your sleeve and can get a hard fix on him,
you tell the President that the only way his son stays alive is if he starts to
give Jamal what he wants."
Jamal was following very much the same logic pattern, except his
focus was on Stone and the men around him. His years of medical training
had included a generous amount of psychology and clinical psychiatry
vineyards in which hostage negotiators toiled. As he strolled to the
Hilton's front entrance, Jamal was quite certain he hadn't left any bolt-
hole for Robert Stone to escape into, then circle back and pounce on him.
Stone would recommend that the President obey Jamal's directives.
There was no other choice.
The thought of possessing such leverage over the most powerful man
in the world thrilled Jamal. His mood bordered on euphoria as he slipped
into a taxi under the hotel portico. There was plenty of time to get to
Union Station and catch the train to Baltimore, where Hatem would
meet him. Then it was back to the Chesapeake house to wait for the inevitable.

* * *

Judith washed the dishes from lunch and set them out to dry on the
rubber draining rack. The task had taken her longer than usual because
she scrubbed each plate and glass thoroughly, sometimes cleaning the
same piece twice. She was not conscious of doing this. All she could
think of, all she heard, was Ben Poltarek's voice in her head, a gristmill
grinding away her belief in Hafez Jamal.
Judith dried her hands and stepped out onto the front porch. Al-
Rahim sat on a dusty rocker at the end of the porch, gnawing on a leftover
piece of mutton. In front other were stairs to a dirt path that swung
away from the house and disappeared into the tall grasses. Beyond, she
made out part of a dock and some of the rocky beach Ben Poltarek had
described.
The wind felt cool on her face, and the sea salt beckoned her. All she
had to do was step off the porch and head down the path. Then she
would be certain that Poltarek hadn't lied to her.
362 J. PATRICK LAW

The wide planks covering the dirt path creaked beneath her weight;
the grasses and reeds brushed against her legs like cats seeking attention.
She could see the whole of the small dock now, the beach, and the shoreline.
It was just as Poltarek said it would be, so peaceful and lovely--
"Stop! Do not go further."
The guttural voice startled her. Judith turned and saw Al-Rahim
standing on the porch.
"I am going for a walk."
"You cannot. Jamal does not permit it. He wants you to stay in the
house."
Involuntarily, Judith laughed. "He does not permit it? How stupid of
him."
She took two more strides before an overhanging tree branch snapped
off and fell at her feet. The second shot from al-Rahim's silenced pistol
spun by her ear and buried itself in the tree.
Trembling, Judith faced him. "Hafez will kill you for that."
She couldn't believe that he was laughing at her.
"Kill me? No, slut. When Hafez has completed his mission, he w\
you to me. Then I will teach you to be useful and obedient."
Her shock and fear amused him. "Oh, yes. You think of yourself as the
famous grieving widow of a noble man. Fool! Issim Hassan is only a
memory. His name will be like dust upon the wind when Jamal is finished.
The memory of a slain hero will no longer protect you. Now, go
back into the house and prepare food. Jamal and Hatem will return soon.
Do it swiftly if you wish to keep your knees."
Because Judith knew he was mad, she obeyed. Inside the house, she
gave silent thanks that he did not follow her. She forced herself to move
quickly about the kitchen, setting the food out on the counter so that if
al-Rahim looked in, he would be satisfied. Next, she filled a water jug,
set it and two plastic glasses on a tray. She held her breath as she passed
through the foyer, relieved to hear the creak of the rocker on the porch.
The squeaks masked her footsteps all the way up to the master bedroom,
where she looked at Jamal's captives and in their eyes saw herself.
1 hirty-three

upstairs in the bedroom, Ben looked across at Kirn Woodbridge.
The boy's face was pinched white, his eyes rolling in fear.
"Do you think she's dead?" Kim whispered.
Ben shook his head. "Listen.... The door, the footsteps."
The porch door had a peculiar squeak and the footsteps were light. Judith
Sawyer was still alive. And with her, the plan he'd fashioned out of
spit and desperation.
With Jamal and one Arab gone, that had left only two people in the
house. Using the swinging porch door as his guide, Ben was able to
judge when Judith and the second Arab were outside. He used the interval
to creep into the closet and take inventory of what was in the bag
Kim had lugged down from the closet. Ben removed certain items and
hid them in the bedroom dresser, where they would be within easy
reach when the time came. There were other things in the attic he
could use, but they were bulky. If the opportunity presented itself, he
would get to them.
Ben had been walking Kim through the plan for a third time when
they heard the Arab on the porch shouting for Judith to stop, and her contemptuous
response. They did not hear the muffled shot, but the cracking
and falling of the tree limb was distinctive and clear. The Arab's
curses and threats followed. That was when Kim had asked if Judith was
dead.
364 J. PATRICK LAW

"Listen," Ben whispered. "Water running in the pipes. She's in the
kitchen."
Then footfalls in the foyer and steps on the staircase.
"Close your eyes," Ben said. "If you don't, she'll know you overheard."

Ben pretended to be startled when the door opened. Judith entered as
a night nurse might glide to the bed of a sleeping child. When she
touched Kirn's forehead, the boy stirred but did not open his eyes.
Silently, Judith held up a glass of water in front of Ben, who nodded.
He forced himself to sip slowly through the straw.
"Thank you."
No response, and now she was turning to leave. Ben wondered about
the fortitude it took to maintain her dignity in the face of a big, crazy man
with a gun who, when the time was right, would take pleasure in brutalizing
her. He asked himself how much of it Judith had already expended,
how much she had left. Maybe it would be enough.
"Judith."
She caught a different timbre in his voice and responded to it. Ben
cleansed his eyes of fear before he looked up at her.
"Under the bed, by the post."
She was wary, coming around and kneeling by the bed in such a way as
to always keep his free arm in sight. Her fingers curled around something
hard, made of plastic. When she pulled it out, she found herself holding
a small, executive-style tape recorder.

* * *

The FBI had sent "bullets" to every field office in the nation. The
subject was Judith Nancy Sawyer, an American citizen born in Laguna
Beach, California, wanted for questioning. Calls had poured in after that.
Was the "bullet" incomplete? There was no mention of what Sawyer was
wanted for or where she had last been seen. The reply from the Ho0ver
Building was terse: Sawyer was wanted--period. The SACs in the field
offices were to dig deep and hard, pulling in as much manpower as they
needed.
The break came in the big New York field office. The computers
didn't strike on Judith Sawyer immediately, but they lit up a Lester
Sawyer. Sawyer had made it into the federal data bank because years ago,
THE ASSISTANT 365

in a Manhattan federal court, he had blown his brains out on the witness
stand.
Within minutes, the computers had made the correlation and the results
were flashed to Steve Casey at the White House.
"Shithouse mouse!" Casey muttered, staring at the fax sheet in his
hands.
His heart rate had rocketed when the Bureau warned him that hard information
about Judith Sawyer was on the way. Now he wished he'd
never seen it.
Casey walked out of the communications room and took the elevator
to the family quarters. Charles Woodbridge was in his study, watching
the winds sweep away what was left of the gray afternoon. Casey had
hoped to see the President alone, but Mary Woodbridge came out of
the master suite just as he was about to close the study door behind
him.
"You have something," the First Lady said, her back against the closed
door.

Casey winced. He hadn't had time to prepare himself for her.
The President gestured toward the faxes. "Steve?"
"Background on Judith Sawyer."
Hope sprang into Woodbridge's eyes. "Something we can use?"
"Mr. President.... Sir, do you remember your days with Watson, Frick
and Marshall?"
"My old law firm. I started with them right out of law school, back in
the early seventies."
"Do you recall a case you handed in January 1975?"
"Steve, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Do you remember, sir?"
Woodbridge swept his fingers through his hair. "Jesus, 1975."
"A case you second-chaired ..."
Woodbridge snapped his fingers. "The embezzlement case. Who was
the guy?"
Casey pitied both of them as the awful realization leeched the color of
the President's face, as his wife, set to miss nothing, was at his side, her
questions shrill, insistent.
"What's he talking about, Charlie? What case?"
Woodbridge didn't take his eyes off Casey. "Sawyer?" he managed.
"Lester Sawyer?"
366 J. PATRICK LAW

"She's his daughter."
Woodbridge took a moment to compose himself. When he could, he
described to his wife the grisly events that had occurred when he had
Lester Sawyer on the witness stand. Casey saw that she, too, remembered.

"Oh my God," Mary Woodbridge whispered. She turned to Casey.
"She's the daughter. There's no mistake?"
Casey shook his head.
The First Lady gripped her husband's arm. "She has our son?
Why. . .?"
"Because her father was set up. Sawyer was innocent, Mary. He was cooperating
with the feds. He wasn't an embezzler . . ." His voice broke.
"But it was my business to paint him as one. The people he was accusing
would have gone to jail unless I broke Sawyer's credibility."
"You never told me any of this," his wife shouted. "You said he was
sick, deranged. You never said his daughter was in the courtroom!"
"What did you want me to tell you?" Woodbridge whispered. "That I
had deliberately destroyed an innocent man? A man who, by virtue of his
suicide, became guilty in everyone's eyes? A man I could have saved, but
didn't? Jesus, Mary. I was terrified of what you'd think of me. I kept asking
myself how--or even if--you could still love someone like that. So
no, I couldn't tell you. I didn't have the courage. I wouldn't take the
risk."
"But she has," Mary Woodbridge said stonily. "After all these years,
she's come back to punish you. Us. She came and took our child, Charlie!
Knowing what we know now, do you think we'll ever see Kim
alive?"
Casey moved because of training and instinct, but he stopped just
short of laying a finger on Mary Woodbridge. The sound of her palm
striking the President's cheek was like a gunshot. Then she was running,
the echoes of doors slamming in the hall.
Immediately, agents started calling Casey, who gave them the code
word for a domestic spat. He kept his eyes averted as the President
slumped down in his chair.
"I'll make the announcement, Steve," he heard Woodbridge say. "I'll
do any fucking thing I have to to keep my boy alive. Give me five minutes,
then send up the chief of staff."
THE ASSISTANT 367

Rachel had never had a problem concentrating. She'd had roommates
in college and med school who cranked up the stereo or the television.
None of it had ever gotten to her.
With Landau, it was different--and he wasn't even in the same room.
She was in the kitchen, working on her second cup of tea; he was in the
living room, she assumed. That's where she'd last seen him, but just because
she hadn't heard him didn't mean that he hadn't moved. She didn't
think that anyone had ever really heard him move.
She was on her third pass through Priestly s thick file. The detective
had a lot of background on Ben--school records, legal experience,
trips--domestic and foreign, holidays and business--real estate records
on his townhouse, including information on the contractors who were
doing the rehab.
To Rachel, it seemed excessive, even in the context of a homicide investigation.
Of course, it was a great deal more than that, as Landau had
pointed out. But whatever Priestly had been looking for, it must have
been something particular--something that might prove useful and
maybe had.
Rachel looked up from the file to rest her eyes. Everything she'd
known about Ben and his parents was in here. She knew a whole lot
more, too--Rose's favorite perfume, Sid's preferred brand of cigars, the
way Ben cupped her below the small of her back when they made love.
Making love the day he'd bought his townhouse, before the remodeling
started, on an old sofa that shook and wheezed.
Rachel smiled. She looked down at the page, but the words were
blurred. Her mind was elsewhere.
Ben's townhouse . . . Not the renovations. Him buying it. The transaction.
Something odd he'd said when he was going through the process.
But not about himself. This had nothing to do vsith him.
Rachel brushed the air with her fingers, as though shooing away a fly.
What she wanted was circling just beyond her grasp. She knew better
than to press.
Rachel read three more pages, trying to ignore her frustration. Then
suddenly she flipped back to the part about real estate. Ben joking that
he would leave it to her in his will because that way....
She snatched up the phone and dialed the Poltareks' law office. Mary,
the office manager, answered on the second ring.
"Mary, it's Rachel."
368 J. PATRiCK LAW

A moment of exchanging condolences, another taken up with Rachel
fibbing that Ben was fine, he was out of the city for a few days, she was
joining him tonight. And by the way, Mary....
Rachel hung up the phone and was very still. In her mind's eye, she
beheld what Mary had told her, turning it this way and that, seeking flaws
the way a jeweler would search for clouds or splinters in a diamond.
She did not turn around because she knew that Landau had come into
the kitchen, although she hadn't heard him.
"I know where Ben is."

* * *

Kirn wanted so badly to break the silence, but he didn't dare. The
room was almost dark. In the next bed, Ben lay still and silent, reminding
Kim of a picture in a history book, a sculpted crusader lying on his
tomb.
Kim had heard Ben tell Miss Sawyer to listen to the tape. Despite
what Ben had said, he had opened his eyes and watched her. The tape
recorder volume was very low and she'd held the instrument close to her
ear. Twice her eyes had fallen on him and he had met her gaze. He
wanted her to believe what she was hearing, needed her to believe. But
in the end, she said nothing. She listened, and when the tape played itself
out in a hiss, she placed it in her pocket. What terrified Kim was the
utter lack of expression on her face, as though she were beyond reach. At
that instant, Kim thought she was the scariest thing he'd ever seen.
"Ben? Did I mess up? Was it my fault? I couldn't just lie there. I
couldn't help looking..."
"You didn't mess up. No one did." Ben shifted so that he faced the
boy. "She just didn't buy it."
There, he'd said it, the ugly truth. She'd come in, listened to a betrayal
from the mouth of the betrayer, and said nothing. No reaction. Nothing
but cold and blackness where her heart should have been.
Ben heard them talking downstairs. Jamal and the other Arab were
back. Most of what was said was in Arabic, but the back-and-forth was
animated, the way ballplayers talk after winning a close game. Ben
gleamed what he could whenever Judith broke into the conversation.
Then Jamal switched to English. Yes, the White House had been contacted
and by now the letter she'd written would be in the President's
THE ASSISTANT 369

hands. Proof of this was an hour away, on the early news programs. Jamal
was confident that the President would make the announcement.
To buy time, Ben thought. How the hell can anyone think he'd'really carve up
a sovereign nation--even if he could?
Jamal thought that way, for sure. The two Arabs as well. And Judith?
As far as Ben was concerned, she was as crazy as the rest of them.

"Ben?"
"We stick to the plan," he said, staring at the ceiling. "It'll be a nice
night. Maybe one or two will be outside. It'd be easier if they were. Either
way, we go." He looked over at the boy. "We don't have to do this if
you don't want. We can wait--"
"No, we can't." Kim remembered Miss Sawyer's masklike face, like
that creepo in Hallwaseen. "We gotta go."
"All right, then."
"All right."
Kim shivered. One part of him knew for a fact that they would never
make it. Get outside? Maybe. But not much farther.
But another part told him that there was nothing to wait for except
those terrible things that Miss Sawyer carried around inside her. Kim didn't want any part of them.
"All right," he repeated softly, and said nothing more.

* * *

"You have a problem?"
Rachel was seated in an oversmffed leather chair, leaning forward, elbows
on knees. Landau stood leaning against the fireplace mantelpiece.
The tableau struck her as absurd; he reminded her of some matinee idol
lothario, the "gentleman caller."
Landau ran his fingertips over the mantel, as if checking for dust.
"A problem?"
"Yes. About what to do."
Almost an hour had gone by since Rachel had told Landau about
Mary, the house on the Chesapeake, how one time--at an anniversary
party?--the subject had somehow come up. She recalled Sid Poltarek
hugging Mary, describing the arrangement, Mary beaming, proud but a
little embarrassed.
She had walked Landau through her reasoning, made sure it stood up
370 J. PATRICK LAW

to his scrutiny. Landau poked and probed, but he could not break it.
Rachel knew he believed her when he asked if she had a map of that
part of the Chesapeake. She had dug out an old but still serviceable
ADC guide. The relevant grids were now smudged from Landau's fingers.

"About what to do?" Rachel prompted him.
"What would you have me do, Rachel?"
His tone was very soft, as if he were whispering during funeral rites.
"Tell the President? Set things in motion to rescue them?"
"It's not so simple," Landau said. "For one thing, we're not certain that
Ben and the boy are at the Chesapeake. Ground reconnaissance could
confirm that...."
Now, in his faraway gaze, she saw the possibilities unfold, the combinations
and permutations he juggled, waiting for each piece to fall into its
designated space.
"You don't want to tell the Americans, do you?" she said suddenly.
When he didn't instantly deny it, she realized she was right and plowed
on. "You want to take Jamal yourself. Why? Are you still smarting over
the way he tricked you in Samarra?"
"I have the resources I need, Rachel. My men and I know Jamal better
than the Americans ever could. We know how he thinks, the way he's
set himself up, the booby traps and other little surprises he'll have waiting."

"This isn't the Middle East," she retorted. "This isn't your turf. It's
not your child." She bit off the words about Ben. She wouldn't let him
that close to her heart. "You don't have a choice. Landau. If you don't tell
the President, if you go after Jamal and Kim Woodbridge gets hurt, Israel
will become a pariah. Congress will see to it that she never gets another
dime of aid money. Are you willing to risk that, all because of pride and'
revenge?"
"It's not pride and revenge. You know I don't travel with that Semitic
baggage."
You 're so clever, Rachel. There is something else, but if I told you, you would become
old before your time.
"I will tell the President," Landau said. "You have my word on that."
She listened very carefully to the inflections of his voice, seeking any
hint of a lie.
"Is there anything I can do?"
Landau made to leave. "Have you ever been to thfe
house? Do you know the area?"
"No, on both counts."
"Maybe the President will still want to hear how i
this. Will you be at the hospital?"
"I'll be right here waiting. Landau. When they're^
Call me as soon as it's ... finished."

"I will"
1 "" ,;<».<
« -.^l
r.iiA
At five o'clock, the press secretary stepped-upldi
the press corps assigned to the White House. Hfe-li
he had a brief but important statement to make. Hi
questions afterward. :: ,;.;i
The media were fidgety; this last-minute sunntt
their dinner schedules. Their interest was piqued i
tary announced that the President had just cornple
a bold new plan for peace in the Middle East. T0K
unveiled at the United Nations tomorrow. ?|||
That created a stir and raised questions becaua
had had any inkling that such a plan had been in i
was far enough along to present to the world.
The secretary maintained his best Cheshire ca
steady stream of honeyed assurances that moreN
coming first thing tomorrow morning. He made a;
barrage of questions allowed.
Most of the reporters took the story at face val»»e:|
order to make the early evening news cycle. Thoseal
lead time made some calls and discovered that
the United Nations had no idea what the Pres
about. A presidential appearance before the full i
agenda.
The spokesman for the Israeli ambassador s
only that his government "was giving serious con
rive."
On the West Bank, Yasser Arafat proclaimed the <
ble breakthrough in the stalled peace talks" butwooftil
until more details were available. "Vj
372 J. PATRICK LAW

"What the hell is going on?" Yakov Admony demanded, speaking to
Landau over the secure satellite link between Jerusalem and the embassy.
"The Americans aren't talking to Laudenberg--hell, even / can't
get through to Woodbridge."
Laudenberg was the ambassador, a political appointee with an abrasive
personality. The Americans didn't speak to him even in the best of
times.
"Yakov, listen to me."
Landau walked the prime minister through the minefield, slowly,
carefully, elaborating when he had to. He finished by saying that he was
almost certain he knew where he could find the President's son.
Amony was very quick. "Have you told Woodbridge yet?"

"No."
"You want to go in and get Jamal Yourself."
"I think that would be best, yes."
Admony's sigh was like the soul escaping the lips of a dying man. "I
can't let you do that. Landau."
"Yakov, my team is here, ready. It's night. We could reconnoker, then
move in--"
"No! Listen to me. If something were to go wrong, if the boy is injured,
or killed--"
"I know, Yakov."
"Tell the Americans. Let it be on their heads."
"When do you want me to tell them?"
The faint crackle of the connection sang in Landau's ear.
"Am I to understand that you're not a hundred percent sure that the
boy is there?"
"That's right."
"I think you should be certain of your facts before you speak, no?"'

"Absolutely."
"Even if it took you, say, two hours to carry out reconnaissance, the
Americans would still have all night for their operation."
"They would."
"Check out Rachel Melman's story. Make sure she isn't imagining
things. It would be equally embarrassing if American Rangers or whoever
descended upon an empty house. This is a delicate situation. We
must be sure of all the facts."
THE ASSISTANT 373

"Yes, sir. All the facts."
Landau replaced the phone and turned to the men standing around
him. All six were dressed head-to-toe in black, their faces smeared with
camouflage paint.
"Weapons and communications gear?" Landau asked.
"Already in the truck, sir," the lead commando replied.
"Then let us take a ride in the countryside."

* * *

The odor of dinner cooking wafted up through the ducts, snuck underneath
the door.
"If it's like before, they'll bring us our food first," Ben said. "Don't eat
anything. Push it around on your plate. Slop some under the bedcovers if
you have to."
Kim nodded. The cuff had chafed his wrist and the tried to move as
little as possible.
"When are we gonna do it?"
"After they finish eating. Hopefully, they'll be relaxed. Maybe one or
two will decide to take a walk--"
He cocked his head. New sounds traveling up the ducts--a drone, actually.
Then Jamal shouting in Arabic, undisguised triumph. Breaking
into snatches of English.
"... told he would do it! He han}a do it! do you what... this means,
Judith?"
Then the woman's voice, oddly subdued, as if she couldn't share
Jamal's exhilaration. Or maybe she was just stunned.
"What's going on?" Kim whispered.
Ben thought he knew: Charles Woodbridge had given Jamal a piece
of his demands. But he'll never give him the whole loaf. He's buying time.
Then something else occurred to him: A rescue operation! Should we wait?
Ben almost missed the creaking on the staircase. Judith, carrying a
tray, entered and turned on the lamp in the corner. She set down two
bowls of canned stew on the beds. Ben tried to catch her attention, but
her gaze was an vacant as the dark windows of an abandoned house.
As soon as she was gone, Ben placed his bowl on the floor. Kim followed
suit. From downstairs came the sounds of men eating, talking in
Arabic with their mouths full.
374 ]. PATRICK LAW
A little later, the clatter of dirty crockery in the sink and the smell <
strong coffee. The porch door opened and slammed shut, followed fc

voices trailing up along the eaves. .
"Now that we heard the President, we need to talk," Judith said.

Let's take a walk."
Jamal's reply had an expansive ring to it: "Of course."

"Ben? Now? We gonna do it now?"
Go or wait? Is the cavalry on the way? Go, and die. Wait, and die.
A Shadow snaked through the crepuscular light, slithering up the wj
as Ben reached up and sprang his cuff. Across the way. Kirn did the sag
They slid off the beds and faced each other.
* * *
^;
The blue van that boomed along U.S. 50 had the name of an electrfi
service stenciled on its sides. Landau had debated using one of the el
bassy vans--big, reinforced stretch models that could carry twelve'^
withstand a direct impact from a grenade. He had also considered^
with diplomatic plates, which would keep the police from thinking al^
a speeding ticket, but had passed on that one, too. If jamal was at |
Chesapeake house, if the takedown didn't go cleanly. Landau dii|
want the American reinforcements to find unmistakably Israeli P"1!1!

at the site. "^
Landau twisted around in the passenger seat and pulled back|
cover on the peephole. His men sat on benches, facing each other,^
bodies rocking to the rhythm of the truck. Several were busy with ^
they had pulled out from canvas tote bags; none of the items rCseBCit
' ssll

electricians' tools. ^
None of the men carried ID of any kind. Their armament hadiltj
manufactured in a number of different countries, but not a sit^l6 |S
had been made in Israel. Each man spoke at least three language-"
some stretch of the imagination, any were taken, their captors ^ouNj
themselves talking to a Frenchman, an Italian, or a Spaniard. '-N
"Mordecai." The lead commando raised his head. "Ready?"
A flash of white teeth in a painted face. "Always." l
"Do something about the teeth." Landau paused and ad^ed^

"Luck." "I
He pushed the cover. Luck would have plenty to do W*1" "
thought grimly. He was sending his best people into unkn^" '
THE ASSISTANT 375

unknown number of enemy. In the middle of the hostiles were
i.ges whose faces his men now knew by heart. The trick would
:.e the guards down first. That would provide the opening to
d the woman, who could not be allowed to see death coming.
-»e other would have a remote-controlled detonator for the ex-
rarliat would surround the hostages. Landau was sure.
-priced at the digital clock on the dash, then at the speedometer.
foe had them moving along at sixty-five miles per hour, keeping
fftijne flow of traffic.
r much longer?"
^wry-five minutes to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge."
iuu flipped open a panel cut into the floor of the cab, pulled out
:ed submachine gun, and began to check its action.
374 J. PATRICK LAW

A little later, the clatter of dirty crockery in the sink and the ;
strong coffee. The porch door opened and slammed shut, follov
voices trailing up along the eaves. ^
"Now that we heard the President, we need to talk," Judith
Let's take a walk."
Jamal's reply had an expansive ring to it: "Of course."
"Ben? Now? We gonna do it now?"
Go or wait? Is the cavalry on the way? Go, and die. Wait, ana die.
A Shadow snaked through the crepuscular light, slithering up then
as Ben reached up and sprang his cuff. Across the way, Kim did thea
They slid off the beds and faced each other.

* » «
»
The blue van that boomed along U.S. 50 had the name of an el
service stenciled on its sides. Landau had debated using one oft
bassy vans--big, reinforced stretch models that could carry tweh
withstand a direct impact from a grenade. He had also considcrc
with diplomatic plates, which would keep the police from thinking;
a speeding ticket, but had passed on that one, too. If Jamal was a
Chesapeake house, if the takedown didn't go cleanly. Landau <
want the American reinforcements to find unmistakably Israeli pro
at the site. ;
Landau twisted around in the passenger seat and pulled bad
cover on the peephole. His men sat on benches, facing each other^|
bodies rocking to the rhythm of the truck. Several were busy with tl
they had pulled out from canvas tote bags; none of the items reseni
electricians' tools. ;
None of the men carried ID of any kind. Their armament had;
manufactured in a number of different countries, but not a single j
had been made in Israel. Each man spoke at least three languages, i
some stretch of the imagination, any were taken, their captors woukfcj
themselves talking to a Frenchman, an Italian, or a Spaniard.
"Mordecai." The lead commando raised his head. "Ready?"
A flash of white teeth in a painted face. "Always."
"Do something about the teeth." Landau paused and added s
"Luck."
He pushed the cover. Luck would have plenty to do with this
thought grimly. He was sending his best people into unknown ter
THE ASSISTANT 375

ainst an unknown number of enemy. In the middle of the hostiles were
hostages whose faces his men now knew by heart. The trick would
to take the guards down first. That would provide the opening to
nal and the woman, who could not be allowed to see death coming.
ie or the other would have a remote-controlled detonator for the ex-
)sives that would surround the hostages. Landau was sure.
He glanced at the digital clock on the dash, then at the speedometer.
iThe drive had them moving along at sixty-five miles per hour, keeping
Jam with the flow of traffic.
I "How much longer?"
I "Thirty-five minutes to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge."
I Landau flipped open a panel cut into the floor of the cab, pulled out
|the silenced submachine gun, and began to check its action.
1 hirtyfbur

ben pushed aside the window curtain. Judith Sawyer and Jamal
were on the path leading from the house to the water. One of them;
must have found the right switch because both the path and the dock
were faintly illuminated by lights set under rusty, weatherbeaten metal
shades, f
';
Ben's eyelids fluttered. He told himself that this was the best chance^
he had--the only one, with two Arabs in the house. Everything he'd|
planned revolved around there being only two people. Two, he could;
deal with. No more. ;
In his mind, Ben retreated to that cool, dark place where the magician!
in him dwelled. Carefully, he went over every aspect of the illusions he?
had prepared, checking timing, positioning, angles, and equipment. Still,';
doubts bombarded him. Images of things going wrong mocked his carefully
constructed plans. Fear and uncertainty crept up his limbs like a
strangling vine, choking his ability to move.
"Ben?... Ben, what's wrong?"
He dared not look at the boy, lest he infect him with his fear. But
something in Kim Woodbridge's voice hailed to him, not the words
but their intonation, as though it wasn't Kirn's voice at all but someone
else's.
The image of his brother rose, wavered, and settled before him. They
THE ASSISTANT 377

were kids again, and Sam was teaching him how to box, making Ben
pound the heavy bag until his muscles screamed.
"You'redoing this to learn that you never have to run away" Sammy was
saying. " You and I, we don'/ run. Now raise those gloves and give me your best
shots"
Ben smiled at the memory. He hadn't recalled that specific moment
for years and now it's return was a rare, precious gift.
He stepped over to the armoire and quickly slipped the black suit out
of its dry-cleaner's plastic. He put out of his mind the creaks made by his
movements; there was nothing he could do about them.
Ben felt as though he were moving through water, silently, purposefully,
filling his pockets with objects that, even ifjamal noticed them in a
search, appeared harmless: pieces of paper, some powder that looked
like dust, a pair oflightbulbs, other things.
Ben drifted across the floor to the closet. More props went from the
black doctor's-type bag into his pockets. Then he removed the panel
and climbed up to the attic. His fingers traced around the base of the
electrical box and found an object the size of a television remote control.

Next, he pulled open the cover of the box, felt the familiar switches,
and snapped all six on the right side, finishing what Kim had begun. Now
he should be in control of all the electrical current in the house.
Ben climbed back down. "Ready?"
Kim nodded, his nose twitching involuntarily.
Moving as quietly as possible, Ben led him to the landing at the top of
the stairs. In magic, as in life, timing is everything. He needed to attract
enough attention to get one of the Arabs to come up. But only one.
He positioned the boy in the exact center of the landing. "Remember
what I told you: Don't move. I'll walk you through this."
"Bet you tell that to all your assistants," Kim mumbled.
"Only those who want to reappear. Now, stay still."
Ben reached for the remote unit and pressed one of the twenty buttons
on the pad. Instantly, the lights in the landing and the upper half of
the house went out.
Al-Rahim was sitting in an old chair with musty upholstery over sagging
springs. He felt sated and pleased with the state of affairs; his annoyance
was with the television set, which tuned in only three channels
through a blizzard of poor transmission.
378 J. PATRICK LAW

Al-Rahim was positioned in such a way that he caught a sliver of the
sudden darkness upstairs. He frowned, pushed himself out of the chair,
and walked to the foot of the stairs. The landing at the top, normally
lighted, was dark.
Listening, he heard the rustle of newspaper in the kitchen, where he'd
left Hatem. He debated calling his partner, then decided to investigate
by himself. This was an old, drafty house. A bulb had gone, or maybe a
fuse. He would find out.
Al-Rahim was halfway up the steps when he stopped short and his
mouth fell open. In the darkness, far above the landing, a lightbulb suddenly
appeared. But it wasn't attached to the fixture in ceiling. In fact, al-
Rahim was certain that it wasn't connected to anything. It was just
floating. Yes, Floating? He blinked to reassure himself that his vision
wasn't impaired. It wasn't. Because now, as Allah was his witness, the
lightbulb was dancing, up and down, side to side. Entranced, al-Rahim
climbed the remaining steps.

* * *

Judith's canvas slip-ons made no sound as she walked along the length
of the dock. Beneath the bowed, warped boards came the sloshing sound
of the evening tide spilling into the marshes, carrying nutrients for what
lived in the grasses and the reeds. Judith walked halfway to the end, took
a deep breath of the salt and decay, and turned to Jamal who had been
following her.
"What will happen now?" she asked. "Will the President obey?"
Jamal zipped up his jacket against the damp chill. The woman had
told him she wanted to talk privately. Now she was asking questions she
could have put to him in front of a cheerful blaze in the living-room grate.
"He has no choice," Jamal replied, stuffing his hands into his jackef
pockets. "He will give us exactly what we demand. Tomorrow, at the
United Nations--"
"Don't you find it strange, Hafez?" she interrupted.
"What is strange?"
"That Woodbridge didn't mention that his son is missing. That all we
require of him is an acknowledgment, an apology. Why would he go before
the United Nations just to apologize to me?"

"Perhaps that is how he interpreted your letter. After all, you did say

THE ASSISTANT 379

that he had to present his complicity in the tragedy at Samarra before the
entire world."
"He could have done that just as easily, and as meaningfully, from the
Oval Office."
Jamal stirred uneasily. "I don't understand what you are trying to say."
"Just that I find Woodbridge's response odd. No one has asked him for
any kind of ransom, no one has threatened the life of his son, or forced
him to do anything that is beyond his power." She stepped close to
Jamal. "No one has done that, have they, Hafez?"
"Of course not."
"You're absolutely sure? I have your word on that?"
"You are not making sense!" Jamal snapped.
"No? Then maybe this will make sense for me."
Judith brought her hand out of her pocket. In her palm lay a small
black tape recorder.

* *

Al-Rahim was transfixed by the lightbulb. He was a brutish man who
had great faith in his physical strength. But he was descended from the
Jabal hill people, who lived at the base of mountain ranges populated by
ghosts and demons. The specter of the demons prickled the hairs on the
back ofal-Rahim's neck.
He uttered a low moan. The lightbulb had moved to illuminate the
impossible: a telephone booth.
Al-Rahim shuddered. He wanted to reach for his pistol, but his hands
betrayed him. Because inside the phone booth, which could not possibly
exist, was the boy. He'd been cut in half, and there was a series of multicolored
lights where his torso should have been. He was staring at al-
Rahim, unblinking, accusing.
A synapse fired deep in the primal cortex of al-Rahim's brain. He
lunged up the last few steps, knees pumping hard, arms held out to crush
the telephone booth in his powerful embrace.
Suddenly, all the lights went out. His arms nailed helplessly, finding
nothing.
Four feet away, dressed in a black suit, standing in a black corner, Ben
pressed another button on his remote control. The telephone booth had
slid smoothly into a cavity in the wall. The center section had two forty38U J. PATRICK LAW

five-degree mirrors, reflecting the side walls and the lights, creating the
illusion that the cube where Kirn's torso should be was empty. Kirn was
actually behind'the mirrors, quite whole. Ben's last tap on the control released
a spring that enabled the boy to get out of the box.
The Arab's breath came in heaves and snorts. Ben raised his right arm
and freed a luminous green silk. It weaved and bobbed like a giant leaf
and made al-Rahim curse. He pounded after the silk into a seemingly
empty black space that had once been a guest bedroom.
Now it was something more than it appeared to be. Two years ago,
Ben had used the room to create an illusion that was a variation of the
Egyptian Table of Death.
As the Arab staggered into the room, a section of the seemingly solid
floorboards tilted up, sending him crashing onto his back and into a
comnlike cavity. Eyeball halogen lights, embedded in the ceiling,
popped on. A long board with foot-long spikes detached itself from the
ceiling and began its descent. At the same time, the section of flooring
the Arab lay on started to rise.
Al-Rahim's eyes rolled like those of a steer about to be gored. He fumbled
for his gun and managed to fire three sound-suppressed shots at the
spikes before he felt the first one prick him.

* * *

In the kitchen, Hatem had looked up at his reading when he'd heard
footsteps going up the stairs. It occurred to him to call to al-Rahim and
ask what he wanted with the prisoners. An answer suggested itself immediately:
al-Rahim was known to take a small boy now and then for sex.
Hafez Jamal had said nothing about not molesting Kim Woodbridge.
Then came the soft whir of oiled machinery. Hatem cocked his head,
thinking it might be the furnace. He jumped out of his chair when he
heard the tremendous crash. He was taking the stairs two at a time when
the shots were fired.

* * *

"The ransom demands have been modified slightly ... Did you really believe I
would settle for contrition...?... the P resident vsill embrace me as the news prime
minister, the only legitimate authority, of Palestine"
Another voice, Hatem's: "Does she know any of this?"
"No. Nor will she ever... If the i
give him back his son--one piece at a time"
The wind keened through the reeds,
the tape recorder. He had managed to o
was being stoked by a single question^
"Where did you get this. Manor?" ti
out on the Chesapeake, not trusting hi
"Does it matter?" She paused. "Yfl
Hafez."
"Does it?"
"Before me, your people, and Allah. It
memory of a man you called your brothe»."A^
She watched his anger rise, swelling his mu
wide as a cobra's hood. He could break her like a
afraid of him. Judith felt very light, as though
oddly, that made her happy. Happy in the waya (
erything taken away from her can feel, who has n
to lose.
"How did you come by the tape?" Jamal asked again-.'
present when the conversation took place." "
Judith told him willingly, pleased to skewer his smug invincil
destroy the grandiose palaces he'd built for himself in his miriklel
Pokarek, she said, who'd made the tape. He was able to do so ^c?
voices travel throughout the house in the ductwork. He had waiteA^B» the right conversation then set down the tape recorder. ; r
"But how did he get the recorder?" Jamal interrupted her. "He'd been
searched and was chained to the bed."
Judith shrugged. "Obviously an oversight on your part."
"And he played the tape for you?"
"Yes."
"You believed it?"
"What was there not to believe? It's your voice--and Hatem's."
Then she told him about other things Benjamin Pokarek had talked
about.
"Is he right, Hafez?" she finished. "Did you want the leadership so
badly that you led Issim and me and our child into Samarra to be killed?"
"So badly? I think that is not exactly accurate. It was necessary to re382 J. PATRICK LAW

move Issim. He had grown too soft and too generous. He was giving away
our cause, piece by piece."
"The cause of death, you mean?"
"The dream of Palestine."
"Which now will never be anything more than that. Less, in fact. Because
you have butchered it." She hesitated. "And I, in my foolishness,
helped you destroy it. May Issim forgive me." When she turned to leave,
he took her arm. "What, Hafez? Are you going to kill me, too? Drown me
here and let my corpse rot? That would be unwise."

"Why?"
"Because--"
Judith got no further before a scream sent the terns fleeing from the
rushes.

* * *

Hatem burst into the guest room, his pistol level, tight against his hip.
He had been well and thoroughly trained. That he screamed and fired
twice, the bullets gouging plaster and lathe, were involuntarily reflexes,
understandable given what he'd witnessed.
In the center of the room, seemingly suspended in midair, was al-
Rahim's head. Hatem became aware of two things simultaneously: the
stink of gasoline and the presence of the boy. Kim Woodbridge was a
pale, ghostly figure in the dark. Hatem heard a scratch, then a lit match
appeared in the boy's hand. He stared in utter disbelief as the boy
brought the match close to al-Rahim's gaping mouth, smiled, and pushed
it inside. Al-Rahim's head ignited like a torch. Hatem screamed and fired
again.
In Ben Poltarek's house of illusions, nothing was as it seemed. A system
of moving mirrors made Kim Woodbridge appear to be within arm's
length ofal-Rahim; in fact, he was on the other side of the room.
Ben stepped up behind Hatem and coldcocked him with a length of
two-by-four.
"Help me!"
But Kim was enthralled by the sight of the burning head as its skin and
hair slowly melted to reveal a skull. Ben threw a heavy cloth over the
weak flames, which were nothing more than flash paper and a little
lighter fluid.
"Kim, I need you to help me!"
ML; K3a t» s :;:; ;

The boy snapped out of his trance. He and Ben each grabbed an arm
and dragged Hatem to the landing at the top of the stairs. As Ben
propped him up, Kim slipped a noose over the Arab's neck.
Shouts could be heard outside.
"Get to the back stairs!" Ben whispered.
He checked the braces, then followed Kim through an opening in
what appeared to be a solid wall.
On the porch, Jamal drew back his leg and kicked in the front door.
Training his gun on the empty foyer, he whirled around to check the dining
room and the parlor. Nothing. .. except for the soft whir of machinery
somewhere in the house.
Jamal was looking up the staircase, at the landing, when the lights
flickered. He was a third of the way up when they went out altogether.
Then the steps beneath his feet disappeared, folding into one smooth
board. The wind went out of him as he fell forward, but he managed to
grab hold of a railing on the banister to keep from sliding to the bottom.
He needn't have bothered. Beneath the staircase, gears and pulleys
spun to straighten out the floor so that no Jamal lay on it. He scrambled
to his feet, squinting into the blackness. Then eerie bluish green lights
flickered above, a dreadful chuckle reverberated in the air, and a sudden
draft swept into his face.
As did Hatem, swinging down from the landing, his body jerking as it
dangled from what seemed a hangman's noose around his neck.
Jamal jumped to the side as Hatem's body reeled toward him like a
mannequin tied to a clothesline. Except that this mannequin was alive,
his fingers working frantically at the rope around his neck, a gurgle escaping
from what was left of his throat.
Without warning, Hatem jerked savagely and collapsed to the floor, as
though the rope had been cut by an invisible knife. Then came a mechanical
cackle--a sound effect that made Jamal curse.
Ben and Kim Woodbridge burst through the door at the back of the
house. Never breaking stride, Ben turned and pointed the remote control
at the house. Instantly, high-intensity floodlights bathed the front of
the house in searing white light. It would have blinded anyone who had
his eyes open.
Reaching for Kirn's hand, Ben ran on, to the flat, grassy area where the
vehicles were parked. The keys he'd found in Hatem's pocket did not fit
the Cherokee, but they opened the door of the minibus.
384 J. PATRICK LAW

"Get down behind me!" Ben ordered as he slipped behind the big
wheel.
The engine caught on the first crank. Ben shoved the gear lever and
mashed the accelerator, spinning the rear tires. The minibus bucked and
shot forward just as the windshield to his right was riddled by automatic-
weapon fire.
Ben spun the wheel and jammed on the brakes, sending the minibus
into a shuddering slide. When it finally stopped, rocking on its springs,
he sawjamal in the headlights, holding a submachine gun.
"Get out now!"
Jamal, standing in the fringe of the lights, his face leeched like that of
a corpse dredged up out of water. Behind him, the house, bathed in hot
white light, the grass sparkling silver, the trees liquid mercury.
Didn't make it. The thought speared Ben.
"Get out!"
He twisted in the driver's seat and reached behind the chest-high partition.
Small fingers clamped onto his hand.
"He's not going to hurt you," Ben said as Kim stood up. "When we go
out, stay behind me."
Kim Woodbridge was old enough, and frightened enough, to pick up
the inflection in his voice.
"He'll kill you," he said.
"He's sure thinking about it. But he'll think twice."
"When--?"
"Come on now. He's pissed off enough as it is."
Ben had his hands up as he exited the minibus. "I'm not armed!" he
called out.
Jamal was twenty feet away. He watched Ben move away from the vehicle.
Now came the boy, blinking like a fawn caught in headlights, scurrying
over to the Jew. The boy's proximity to Poltarek was the only
reason Jamal didn't fire.
"Tell the boy to come here!"
Kim looked up at Ben and shook his head. In a throwback to childhood,
he wrapped his arms around his thigh.
"Tell him to move or I will shoot out your knees!"
"You better do as he says, partner," Ben said. He leaned down and
pried away Kirn's fingers. "Go on, now."
"I won't!"
THE ASSISTANT 385

Ben gripped Kirn's shoulders, turned him around, and shoved him toward
Jamal, but at an angle so that the boy wouldn't be caught in the line
of fire.
"He's out of it, Jamal! Just you and me now."
Jamal stepped forward, seized the boy by the neck, and flung him behind
him. The submachine gun rose like an extension of his arm.
As did a shadow, which only Ben saw. A shadow that seemed to detach
itself from the earth, rise above Jamal, and silently fall upon him.
The sod tiller that Judith had found was old and rusted, but its three
curved prongs at the end of a broomlike handle were still sharp. They cut
through Jamal's jacket and into the meaty part of his shoulder. The Arab
screamed and fell to his knees, firing, the bullets stitching the night sky.
"Run!" Judith shouted. "Take him and run!"
Ben moved toward her. Judith gripped the handle of the tiller in both
hands, rocking back and forth to free the prongs that had caught in the
fabric of Jamal's jacket. As Ben reached her, she gave the tiller a final
wrench and shoved the business end in his face.
"Take the boy and go! Leave this to me!"
Judith raised and swung the tiller again. Hearing Jamal's grunts and
screams only drove her to redouble her efforts.
With the exception of the first blow, which had set his shoulder on fire,
Jamal felt nothing. The knife was in his hand as the tiller came off him.
Jamal took advantage of the opening, scrambled to his feet, and lunged.
Her breath was rancid on his face as the life went out of her, the knife
twisting once, twice, before it pierced her heart.
Jamal stepped back and let the corpse fall off the blade. He did not
need to look at her to know she was dead. Instead, it was a sound that
caught his attention: the roar of the engine and the fierce grinding of
gears as the minibus fishtailed down the dark road.
1 hirty-five

the minibus and the truck carrying the Israeli commandos converged
on the intersection at Route 50 and Swallowtail Road. The
minibus got there first, turned, and was roaring up 50 when the truck
flashed by. Both the truck's driver and Landau were too preoccupied to
take note of it.
Seventeen minutes later, the truck edged up the drive to the house,
lights out. At the tree line, the driver killed the engine and the troopers
piled out.
Landau, wearing Kevlar armor under civilian clothes, lagged behind.
He was neither dressed for nor equipped to participate in. the assault,
much less lead it. Up front, he'd only get in the way.
The team covered the distance between the tree line and the front
yard of the house in ninety seconds. A woman lay near the crushed oyster-shell
driveway. She did not move when the laser sights of the raiders'
submachine guns played over her face.
Voices could be heard from inside the house, which was bathed in
white light. The commando leader looked at Landau, who'd caught up
with the team.
"She's dead," Landau said with soft certainty. His night vision was
better than an owl's. He'd noticed the dark trail from Judith Sawyer's
midsection, darker than the shadows cast upon her, dark as blood by
moonlight.
"How many inside, do you think?"
The assault leader raised two fingers. "Downsu^^i^^teea racket
And why is it dark in there?" , ^It-asa&fa:: .
It all felt wrong to Landau. He sensed that something terrible had
happened here, something he could not define, did not understand.
"Get inside. Take down whatever's moving. If Pohattk and the boy
are alive, they're upstairs. Anyone tries to run that way, shoot to kill."
"Jamal?" -..^ ^st.; -
"Jamal, too." / ;^ U$j.;: ,
Except Jamal wasn't here. Landau sensed it the way Ac blind can
sometimes feel empty space in front of them. AndifJartiaI^Wasgone ...
He would know the answer soon enough. His meii'Wel^'ii^thedoor,
then inside. The light coughs of suppressed fire punctured the silence,
whispers of "clear" crackled over his headset. .! ^ - .'', :'',"
Landau was standing over Judith Sawyer's eviscerated body when
they brought out Hatem, supporting him under the shoulders because
his right foot dragged uselessly behind him.
"Hatem," Landau said. "Greetings."
The Arab jerked back his head and covered the front of Landau's
jacket with spit.
"The other one was al-Rahim," the assault leader said. "He was already
dead."
"Shot?"
"Heart attack."
"No one else?"
The leader shook his head. "They are still searching. The house--it is
bizarre. Like something you would see at a fair, ago/em's house."

"No violence?"
The leader understood that Landau was asking about blood trails or
any other evidence that Poltarek and the boy had been killed.

"None."
Landau focused on Hatem. "The boy. Where is he?"

Hatem smirked. "Gone. With Jamal."
Landau regarded him thoughtfully. "You're a poor liar," he said at last.
"The boy is dead. Landau!" Hatem screamed as he was hustled away
to the truck.
"No, I don't think so," Landau muttered.
The house, the lights, the carnage that had taken place outside . . .
388 J. PATRICK LAW

Outside. Had Poltarek and the boy managed to free themselves? Could
they have escaped?
Landau looked around. He was in the middle of nowhere. And in the
middle of nowhere, deep into the night, his truck had been passed by .
. . not a car, not a van . . . He closed his eyes and pictured the vehicle,
pictured it against the brilliant blue and white of Ben-Gurion Airport. A
minibus.
Seconds later, the raiders were piling back into the truck.
"Do we tell the Americans?" asked the leader.
"About Hatem? I think not. They haven't yet learned that putting terrorists
on trial only invites reprisal. We will spare them such a consequence.
Hatem goes to Tel Aviv."
The leader jerked his thumb toward Judith. "Her?"
Landau was silent for a moment. "Cover her. I'll tell Recce to come.
She is theirs. She is home."

* * *

"Ben, where are we going?"
The wind sang through the spidery bullet holes in the windshield,
snatching away words that Ben wished the boy had never asked. He was
hunched over the wheel, driving as fast as he dared, the rear end of the
minibus slip-sliding all over the highway.
"Give me a sec." He concentrated on the road as it narrowed at the approach
to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
Ben's eyes kept flitting to the big side-view mirrors. So far, there was
no one behind them. But he had noticed a Jeep parked close to the
minibus.
The kid's right: Where am I going?
The process of converting the Chesapeake house into an experimental
fun house where he could create, construct, and test illusions had
taken several years. Ben had traveled this route often, but he was not familiar
with it. Usually he set his mind on autopilot when he drove, so that
the scenery and landmarks became a continuous blur. Now he had to
look closely for some signpost or marker--anything that would direct
him and Kim to shelter.
"Keep an eye out for those emergency phones along the highway."

"Why?"
"Because we need to get help."
THE ASSISTANT 389

"What about the radio?"
Ben followed Kirn's finger. Tucked under the dash was a radio and »
hand microphone. Ben felt very foolish as he reached down, flipped the
switch, and was rewarded by squeaks and squawks.
"See that knob?"

Kim peered down at the tiny control panel. "The red one?"
"Yeah. Turn it slowly to the right, click by click. Give me enough time
to talk, okay?"

"What are you going to say?"
Ben pressed the transmit button on the hand mike. "Mayday, Mayday,
Mayday. Can anyone hear me? My name is Benjamin Poltarek, traveling
on Route 50.1 need help. Anyone?"

* * *

Maryland State Trooper Brian Tobin was six months fresh out of the
training academy. He was sitting in his favorite radar trap, two miles from
the west end of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Drivers coming off the narrow
span tended to goose it once they were on dry land, and that was just
fine with Tobin. But tonight's pickings had been slim, which was why
Tobin still sat there instead of pulling into the nearby Hojo coffee shop
for his break.
"My name is Benjamin Poltarek, traveling on Route 50.1 need help.
Anyone?" Then a pause. "I'm in a minibus--"
Tobin grabbed his mike and called back, but got only static. The caller
must have flipped past the designated emergency channel.
Tobin was a conscientious recruit. He had a good memory and read all
the posted bulletins before starring his shift. The name Poltarek was unusual
enough to have stuck in his mind, and now he recalled the context
in which he'd heard it--twice, in fact. The first time had been when a
BOLO--"be on the lookout"--had come in from the feds. Nothing radical,
just a guy wanted for questioning. The second reference was the
one that had gotten Tobin's attention. It came straight out of the D.C.
homicide chiefs office. Two detectives had been wasted. An APB had
gone out connecting Poltarek to a Jeep. So whereflirt^ theminibus fitin'f'His
fingerprints had been found on the murder weapon.
Tobin experienced an adrenaline rush that left him glassy-eyed. The
son of a bitch was headed his way--he could feel it. He reached for the
390 J. PATRICK LAW

mike, then stopped. It was the minibus that bothered him. If that had
been the Poltarek on the air, what was he doing in a minibus?
Tobin took a minute to scan the updated list of stolen automobiles.
There it was--a minibus taken from the Capital Tours compound.
And there it went, cruising down 50 at a solid clip, passing less than
sixty feet from the cruiser.
Tobin gunned up onto the blacktop. He drove with parking lights
only, to keep his silhouette low. When he was two car lengths behind the
minibus, he was able to read the plate number. It matched the one on the
stolen vehicle.
Tobin pushed his speed up a bit. He remembered the details of the
description given out on Poltarek. Now he would come alongside the
minibus and get a look at the driver. He wanted to be sure it was Poltarek
before he called his dispatcher and dropped the hammer.
Tobin increased speed a little more and pulled parallel to the minibus.
There was the driver, in profile. It could be Poltarek. Suddenly, another
face appeared, a young boy's. Then Poltarek looked directly at him.

* * *

The squeal of his cell phone startled Landau.
"Where are you?" Kaelin Recce's voice had a hard urgency to it.
"What is it?"
"A Maryland trooper just reported seeing Poltarek driving a stolen
minibus toward D.C."
A minibus... Landau felt sick. "What else?"
"The trooper also saw a child in the bus, but he couldn't identify him."
"Recce, where are you?"
"The White House situation room."
"Does the President know any of this?"
"Not yet. Landau, where are you?"
"On Route 50, not more than a few miles behind Poltarek. Recce, listen
carefully."
He walked her through the discovery of the Chesapeake house and
what he'd found there. He told her about Judith Sawyer dead and Jamal
missing.
"You must tell that trooper to fall back. Stay in sight, but make no attempt
to stop Poltarek. Let me handle it."
"It's not going to happen that way, Landau. The trooper asked for
the ASSISTANT 391

backup and it's on the way. They still think Ben's a cop-killer. Remember
Abbott's APB?"
Landau did. "Then at least tell them I'm coming up on the scene."
"No good. You have no jurisdiction, no authority." She paused, then
gut-punched him: "You should have told me what you were doing. Landau,
taken me along. You could use my badge right about now."
"I'm not going to stop, Kaelin," he said softly. "I don't give a damn if I
create an international incident, I'm not leaving Poltarek and the boy out
there alone."
"They won't be alone--"
Landau switched off his phone. He didn't even have to look at the
driver before the truck surged forward.

* * *

"That was a cop!"
Yes, it was. Thank you. God.
"Get back in your seat," Ben said.
He switched on the blinker and began to slow.
It's a cop. He has a radio. A radio is help.
"We're gonna be okay now, right?" Kim said, squirming in the passenger
seat. He was too short to see the entire side-view mirror.
"Just fine. We're going to be just fine."
Inside the cruiser. Trooper Brian Tobin adjusted his speed. He was
still trying to figure out who the kid in the cab was. The BOLO hadn't
mentioned a child. The word hostage flashed through his mind; but then
why was Poltarek slowing down?
Tobin began to feel a little more confident. A suspect who bolted was
the real danger. One who slowed down, even when there were no flashers
or sirens, was usually manageable, especially with the business end of
a 9-millimeter in his face.
Ben had the minibus on the shoulder. He lowered the window and
heard the crunch of the trooper's car on the dirt. He placed both hands on
top of the steering wheel. Once, in the emergency room at Rachel's hospital,
a cop had told him that what an officer needs to see when approaching
a vehicle are the hands. No hands cause suspicion and a bad
frame of mind.
Tobin, too, was thinking of hands as he adjusted his spotlight to shine
on the door on the right side of the minibus. He had the dash-mounted
392 J. PATRICK LAW

videocam running, but it wouldn't pick up much until the suspects were
out of the vehicle.
Tobin didn't know it, but he was wrong on that point. He registered,
but did not pay attention to, the sound of a big engine coming up the
road behind him. He thought it was his backup. He climbed out, the
safety snap on his holster open, his hand on the butt of his 9millimeter.
Intent on the minibus, he came around the open door, holding a mike in
his other hand.
"Driver! Open the door and climb down!
The bullhorn built into the roof rack lights punched the words into the
night. The volume also drowned out what Tobin would otherwise have
heard.
Tobin stood by the left fender of his cruiser; behind him was the open
driver's door. He was trapped, but never realized it. A figure, arms raised,
was stepping out of the bus.
Tobin heard the roar of the engine and turned, but much too late. His
mind registered that the vehicle bearing down on him was a Jeep Cherokee.
A split second later, the Cherokee smashed into the open door, spinning
Tobin around, exposing his spine to the shredded metal.
Hafez Jamal was a good driver. He knew he had a strong vehicle and
he used it well. He never stopped after hitting the cruiser's door, didn't
turn around to see if the trooper was dead, because he knew he was.
What Jamal did was lift the submachine gun off the passenger seat and,
when he came alongside the minibus, sprayed the large driver's window.
The stairwell in airport minibuses is deep and wide to accommodate
large suitcases. The well saved Ben and Kirn's lives, the bullets traveling
over their curled-up bodies.
After the fusillade, Ben scrambled toward the driver's seat. He peered
over the dash and saw the Cherokee screeched to a stop up ahead. With
startling clarity, he understood what could happen next.
Sweeping away the pebbles of safety glass, Ben jumped into the
driver's seat and shifted gears. The minibus surged forward, its high
beams pinning Jarnal as he was getting out of the Cherokee. Ignoring the
upraised submachine gun, Ben bore down on him and twisted the wheel,
not to avoid hitting Jamal, who, at the last second, had leaped into a culvert,
but to miss smashing into the Cherokee. The minibus was the only
weapon he had; he could not afford to damage it.
he aaaiaian

Jamal scrambled out of the culvert and trained his gun on the tastdis- appearing bus. If he could shoot out the tires-- i,
He never had a chance. The blacktop around him exploded, asnkaj.l
chips like shrapnel striking and cutting his exposed skin.
Jamal whirled around and laid down a barrage at the big van thur
ing toward him. The driver must have anticipated this because
swerved left, the bullets disappearing into the night.
But the hail of gunfire had some effect. The van rocked to a j
Jamal saw figures in black leap out, lay down suppressing fire, then |
to close in on him. He recognized the moves as classic commando ti
Landau. . . . The realization tore at Jamal as he rushed back i
Cherokee and, killing the lights, screamed down the highway. The
pock of bullets striking the chassis made him keep his head down.,
Jamal took two curves before he straightened up and searche
night for the minibus. If it was still ahead of him, he could not see there had also been two turnoffs onto secondary highways. The i
could have taken either one of them.
Jamal slammed his fist on the wheel in frustration. Pokarek,
boy had been so close ... Well, maybe they could be made to con
again. »t,
Jamal watched the exits for the one that would take him int
of Washington.

its glar-
Shift, a
pawning.
"gine roar

Outside the D.C. city limits, on either side of the Am(
small rust belt that both the capital and the Baltimore cv^
ignore. It is a place of machine shops and car chop shoj
units surrounded by razor wire and derelict building^
old cotton interests fading on chipped brick. The
desolation, broken only by the occasional, fortress
a small oil refinery; the second, a truck stop caller i
ing lot that serves it.
Ben stared at the winking strobes of the
ing off polished steel and glossy paint. "
creaky roadhouse with a year-round Chns
rockabilly music spilling out where H
ofeighteen-wheelers pulling in and<
^94 J.PATRICK LAW

Kim was staring at the trucks. "You said we needed a ride, right?"
"Right."
He pressed the boy close for warmth. They needed more than. a ride.
safety, protection, people who could help them. But a ride would be a
^ood first step.
The minibus had died two miles up the road, wheezing until the enine
shuddered and quit. Ben suspected that a bullet had found its inards.
So they had walked to this point, following the railroad tracks, not
he road. Ben had seen enough death on roads.
I-
He had no clue thatjamal had been so close. Nor had he witnessed the
^refight afterward. He presumed that since Jamal had not given chase
. ^nmediately, something must have happened with his vehicle. If there
^as a God, the Jeep had flipped, and exploded with Jamal in it.
Ben had taken Route 17 as far as he could before turning onto a two-
.^ne blacktop that brought him close to the Baltimore-Washington Exressway.
As though to mock his hopes, the minibus had died there,
.caving them no option but to walk.
Ben had been worried about Kim. He was silent and wouldn't let go of
^ hand. Only when they were on the tracks had he relaxed a little.
When Ben asked him if he was okay, the boy had stopped and looked
..t him. "That lame-o was shooting at you. Are you okay?"
Ben thought the kid redefined the term resilience. Kim pointed at the roadhouse. "You gonna walk in there or what?"
Or what? Ben had no money--he'd already fished in his pockets. He
(Tiagined he looked like something that had crawled out of a Dumpster.
Someone inside the Shift might, out of pity, give him a dollar for a cup of
^offee. But a ride?
The kid was tugging his arm again. "Come on. Let's go. I'm cold."
Earl Tate came out of the Shift rubbing his hands briskly against the
,yw night air. He had sixteen ounces ofT-bone and four cups of coffee in
^is belly. In less than forty minutes, he'd be dumping his load of five
..jiousand pounds of Maine lobster at the D.C. food terminal. After pick-
v
. pg up his check, he would crawl into the bunk at the back of his truck
,-ab and sleep for a few hours before hauling back to Bangor.
In his early sixties, Tate was a big man, tall, with a generous gut and
lowing white hair. Other truckers kidded him that he looked like Santa
/^laus or Jerry Garcia. Tate had seen a lot of things during his time on
the road and there wasn't much that he w
ing out of the darkness somewhere her
him.
"Excuse me."
Tate had the door to his cab open.
smooth-worn fish billy in his hand.
"What can I do for you, mister?"
The man approached him the right we
the other holding on to something that'
Both of them looked tired and beat up, li
"If you're headed into D.C., we could sure use a i
"Step out here in the light where I can see you be
Tare looked them up and down. The man wasn'i
unless it was a knife taped to his leg. Probably didn'i
had 'city' written all over him.
Tate squinted at the boy, his face all smudged, clothes torn up. So
thing beneath the grime tugged at him, like the boy was familiafc y,r
"Don't usually give rides to strangers," Tate said. He wanted to hear
their story, but was surprised when the boy stepped forward.
"We need a ride," Kim said. He pulled up his sleeve to show a string
of purple bruises. "Please."
Earl Tare knew more than he liked about people on the run. He was
an arm's-length member of an organization that helped folks disappear. A
phone call would come in, Tate would make a detour, and a woman and
child--they were almost* always women and children--would jump in.
One suitcase for the two of them, a lot of pancake for the bruises, codeine
or Valium to settle the child. The ride might last fifty miles or five hundred,
depending. Rule of thumb was that the fugitives fell asleep after
the first ten. There was something about Earl that allowed them to do
that.
Bur these two were not runners--on the run, sure. But not from domestic
violence.
"Why don't you tell me your name?" Tate said.
"Ben. And this is Kim."
"Ben, you want to slide up into the cab for a minute? Something I
want you to hear. Come on, now. I don't bite. You worried about the boy,
let him stand outside."
396 J. PATRICK LAW

Tate turned the ignition key farenough to power up the radio. The all-
news station was on top of a breaking story about the hit-and-run murder
of a Maryland state trooper on Route 50.
"I was watching it on the television in the Shift," Tate said, studying
Ben's face intently. "They say a guy called Benjamin Poltarek had something
to do with this, that the cops are looking for him. Your name
wouldn't happen to be Poltarek, would it?"
"It would," Ben said. "But I didn't kill the trooper."
"No one is saying you did. Just that they're looking for you, like you
might be a witness."
They're looking for me because 1 have the boy, Ben thought. The trooper saw
Kirn, recognized him, called it in. Then Jamal killed him. Except no one knows
that. They won't broadcast that Kim is missing--they couldn 't. But they 'II hunt
me to get to him.
"If you believe I killed that trooper, or that you have to turn me in,
then knock me over the head with that billy and get it over with," Ben
said. "If you don't, the boy and I would very much appreciate the ride."
Tate thought about that for a minute. "Where is it you want to go?"
"Sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue."
"The White House?"
"Look at the boy--carefully."
Tate did just that. "You're shittin' me," he said softly.
"I'm taking him home. I'm taking him because there's no one else to
do it."
1 hirty-si six

why was that cop after you?" asked Earl Tare.
He had his truck in the center lane, moving a few miles above
the posted limit.
"They connected me to Kim," Ben replied. "They think I had something
to do with kidnapping him."
Earl glanced over his shoulder. The boy was tucked away in the bunk,
his head sticking out between the curtains. He reminded Tate of a
prairie-dog pup.
"He didn't," Kim said. "Can I honk your air horn?"
"So we're just going to drive up to the White House and ring the front
doorbell," Tare said.
"Not quite. But I want them to know we're coming. Do you have a
phone?"
Tare tugged out a cell phone from his jacket pocket and was about to
hand it over.
"No," Ben said. "I want you to do the calling. That way, you'll know
I'm not steering you."
Tate looked at him approvingly. "Who do I call?"
"Directory assistance for the Children's National Medical Center.
When you get through, ask for Dr. Rachel Melman."
After a minute, Tate heard, "This Dr. Melman." He looked at Ben.
"Now what?"
398 J. patrick law

"Listen." Ben took the phone. "Rachel?"
Her exclamation and subsequent words made Tate look away, as if
he'd trespassed into a very private moment. But Ben had told him to listen,
so he did. Twice in the course of what he heard. Tare found his
knuckles tightening on the big steering wheel.
"She's going to meet us on Pennsylvania?" he asked conversationally
when Ben looked at him.
Ben nodded. "When should I tell her to be there?"
"Ninety minutes tops."
Ben relayed the time, lowered his voice and spoke a little longer, then
broke the connection.
"Sounds like a fine lady," Tate ventured.
"One of a kind."
"Think she'll be able to keep Lander and whoever else off our
backs?"
"It's Landau. Yes, she'll do it."
They drove in silence for a while, then Tate said, "No one's said that
Kirn's missing."
"No one." Ben paused. "No one can ever know. I'm sure some people
will be talking to you about that."
"I'm sure they will be," Tate said. "Thing is, even if I wanted to flap
my gums, nobody'd believe me."

* * *

Kaelin Recce was in an FBI helicopter hovering two thousand feet
above the Chesapeake house. Five hundred feet lower were two state
police choppers with belly lights that illuminated the area around the
house.
Through binoculars, Reece watched as two bagged bodies were
hoisted into a morgue van. The van would not be going to Baltimore--
the coroner's seat--but to the Bureau labs. Even now, all the paperwork
associated with the events that had taken place on the upper Eastern
Shore was quietly being expunged.
"Landau, where are you?" Reece said into her headset.
His reply danced on the crackle of static. "Approaching Washington."
Reece sighed. She was on secure communications, but she didn't want
to get into what Landau had been doing there, what he'd left with. Initial
reports indicated gunfire inside the house.
"No contact with Pokarek?"
"No. You?"
"We're chasing him down. Found the minibus in the rust belt with a
hole in the gas tank. They hoofed it from there."
"Somebody must have seen them, a man and a boy walking at
night?"
"If so, we haven't found them yet. Landau, what are you going to do?"
"Return to the embassy."
I bet you are, with whatever goodies you managedto getyour hands on.

"What about Jamal?" Landau asked.
"What about him? He vanished, too. The key is the boy. Let's get him
back to 1600, then we can hunt."
"Where will you be?"
"Headed back to the White House. The President has been informed.
He and the First Lady aren't getting any sleep tonight."
"I'll call you there."
The connection sputtered away. Recce kept staring at the back of the
pilot's head. Landau was holding out on her, she could feel it. She
snorted. Landau always held out.
Now the pilot was looking at her oddly.
"Back to the White House." Reece told him.

* » «

The van carrying Landau and his raiders was in fact very close to the
embassy.
Landau was on the line to the katsa.
"Anything?"
"She got one call, from a mobile. We backtracked the number."
The katsa rattled it off, along with the owner's name.

"Earl Taur
"We're running him down now."
"Where is she going?"
"Pokarek asked her to meet him on the Pennsylvania side of the
White House. He has the boy."
"Why would he call her?"
The tafsa's tone changed. Landau realized he was enjoying this part.
"She's his eyes. Pokarek said he wouldn't go near the area if she told
him you were there."
400 J. PATRICK LAW

The katsa expected profanity. He was surprised by what he heard
next.
"Can't really blame her, can we?" Landau paused. "We're six minutes
out. Have the garage open and a car ready. And get an El Al freighter on
the ground. I don't care where you have to divert it from."

* *

They were in the city proper. Earl Tate concentrating on his driving
now, his big hand working the gear stick. Other than the rattle coming
from the refrigeration unit mounted on end of the trailer, the cab was
quiet. What needed to be said, shared, had all been said.
Ben recognized the landscape as the truck lumbered through the Sun-
day-evening-emptystreets. Every turn brought the boy closer to home,
to safety. With that thought, his exhaustion, held at bay by adrenaline,
began to seep into his bones. He pictured Rachel, how good it would be
to see her, to hold her. He had an absurd notion that he and she and Kim
could all go out for pizza when this was all over.
Losing it, fella.
The phone in Tare's pocket trilled. Ben smiled: He'd been thinking of
Rachel and here she was.
Tate passed him the phone. "For you."
Ben was still smiling until he heard Jamal's voice.
"Congratulations, Benjamin Poltarek. You know who this is."
Ben closed his eyes to keep the world from spinning away into hell.
"Yes."
"I understand you have an appointment to keep."
"Put Dr. Melman on."
"She is safe. There is no reason for her to get hurt."

"What do you want?"
"The obvious. Her for the boy."
Ben found himself nodding. He looked at Tate, whose mouth had
tightened into a grimace. The volume on the phone was set on high. The
trucker had heard everything.
So had Kim, who had crawled out of the bunk and was staring at him.

Ben turned back to the phone. "Her for the boy?"
"That is all you have left to trade, Mr. Poltarek."
"How can you be sure I don't have an escort?"
THE ASSISTANT 401

"Then why call her? Please, don't waste time. Dr. Melman has so little
remaining. She lives for yes, dies for no."
"Yes. Where?"

"Not Pennsylvania Avenue, no, thank you. The Lincoln Memorial."
"It's--"
"Yes, Mr. Poltarek?"

"It's far from where we are. I need some time--"
"Two hours. You and the boy only. I will find you." Jamal laughed.
"Mr. Poltarek, under different circumstances I would have enjoyed those
tricks at your country house. But not even you could manage a repeat
performance on such short notice, hmm?"
The connection was broken.
"Ben?"
He shushed the boy with a wave of his hand. , *
"The Arab?" Tare asked finally. ' ; y,!^
"Oh, yeah." ^«
"I overheard most of it. What do we do?" ,,riy f%',<
"A detour," Ben said. "A really fast one so we have somethift^ftKifa
to the party" ,, ..',»AN^&-

ibag chairs,
ts. Fragrant
bested like

Wanda, of Wanda s Witchcraft and Magic Shoppe on.3
lived in an apartment over the store. Her voice was kind
the intercom. ,^;4=a"
"Who is it?" '. ;., ';<b<E'
"Ben." ' ::.fSin
"After all this time. Come up. Come up." <i,
The light from the open door on the landing UlUt
Wearing a black silk robe, her raven hair curHiQf
ringlets, Wanda embraced Ben. Her perfumtftt^t
he remembered--and her lips were painteda
blood, 'a*
"You bad, bad boy, she said. "People havfc't^
"Hello, Wanda. You look wonderful." ^
Ben stepped into the apartment--'I"®6?!!
^Ltf&n^^ffl
strings of floor-to-ceiling beads thai serwswg
trails of smoke rose from brass incensk p
statues at the feet of Nefertari. stl
402 J. PATRICK LAW

"What people?" he asked.
"It's all over the TV. Haven't you been watching?"

"I've been busy."
Wanda chuckled, throwing her voice so that it came at Ben from half a
dozen directions. Wanda was one of the few female illusionists who stood
on a par with the best of the men in the profession. At forty, she not only
retained her ripe, desirable figure--a clear asset when it came to distracting
an audience--but was acknowledged as the queen of the "haunied-
house" illusions. Many of Ben's ideas for the Chesapeake house had
been brought to life in Wanda's blueprints.
"Busy," Wanda said. "Ben, just what the hell is going on?"
He took three precious minutes to explain, then said, "I need your
help."
"Oh, dear boy, yes, you do."
"The Lincoln Memorial is being cleaned up. Sand or air blasted."
"Yes."
"I'm thinking Omar's Maze."
Wanda's eyes gleamed. "Oooh, yes!"
Out of thin air, she produced pea-sized capsules of flash powder mixed
with granules of phosphorus. The capsules were airtight.
"Flaming Seas," Ben murmured.
He had seen Wanda do this illusion only once, in front of close friends, |
fellow professionals who'd been scared witless. :
"Yes," Wanda whispered. I
"Time. That's the problem." |
"Then why are we still here?" |
Wanda furled a cape around her shoulders, then picked up the phone, f
"Larry, Pete, load up the Maze. I want the truck ready to roll by the |
time I get downstairs." She grinned at Ben. "Lucky for you, dear boy, j

that my workshop is open tonight." |
^
Ben raised his eyebrows. It was poor etiquette to ask another magician s

what he or she was working on. ;
Wanda laughed lewdly. "I plan to call it Bordello of Blood." ;

* *

When Ben hopped back into the truck, Tate asked, "What's up?"
"Wanda is going to help us. Head for the Memorial."

THE ASSISTANT 403

Tate pulled into the street. "Wanda ... Who's she?"
"A magician."
"And she's going to help you."
"All magicians are brothers," Ben said. "If I had the time, I could call
a dozen more people and they'd all be waiting for us, no questions
asked."
Tate drove in silence for a while, then said: "No offense, but I have to
spit this out. If you made one call, couldn't you have the entire Secret
Service or whoever on the spot in two minutes?"
"Yes, I could. And Kim would be safe, but Rachel would be dead."
"You're not seriously thinking of trading--"
"No. Kim won't be in danger. Not for a minute."
"But you think you can scam this Jamal guy?"
Ben looked down at his hands. They had caused thousands of coins,
doves, silks, and other objects to vanish, sometimes not three inches
away from an audience member's eyes.
"I can scam him long enough to get Rachel away from him."
"Then what? You gotta know Jamal will be armed."
"There's nothing I can do about that."
Tare dropped his hand into the space between the driver's seat and the
door. He brought it back out holding a blued-metal .357 Colt.
"Now maybe you can," he said.

» »

Looking at the Memorial, Ben understood why it appealed to Jamal.
Behind it were Intersecting loops and drives that led to the Arlington
Memorial and Roosevelt Bridges. Either one of those would get Jamal
into Virginia in less than two minutes. Or he could take Ohio Drive, hook
up with 1-395, and have a clear shot out of the city.
The Memorial was also good because of the season and time of night.
There weren't many tourists around yet, and with no shelter against
wind slicing off the Potomac, none would be wandering the wide expanses
between the Memorial and the Washington Monument.
No tourists meant fewer police cars, and certainly no foot patrols. Park
Service and D.C. cops would stay bundled up in their cruisers, heaters
going strong.
But lid Jamal know about the scaffolding?
404 J. PATRICK LAW

The cleaning of monuments is a haphazard affair. One day, crews appear
with diesel-powered generators on flat-bed trucks, erect scaffolding,
and start air-blasting.
He doesn 't know. It's coincidence.
Coincidence that Ben remembered. Coincidence that had fired certain
connections, their light illuminating a path to what he dared to call
hope.
To Jamal, location was all-important. If the Memorial was covered
with scaffolding, so what? It neither served nor interfered with his purpose.

"Wanda?"
She had had her helpers park the truck--a long, flatbed affair favored
by moving companies--next to one of the generators. She glided to him
out of the night, her cape billowing like giant wings.
"Where do you want it?"
Ben quickly outlined it for her.
"How much time do we have?"
"An hour, tops."
Wanda's breath sang through the tiny space between her front teeth.
"An adventure!" She nodded toward Earl Tate's truck. "Things'11 go
faster if the old dude in the rig pitches in."

* * *

Landau watched the lights wink out one by one in Rachel's house. He
was in an embassy sedan, with diplomatic plates that gave him license to
double-park. So far, the evening patrols hadn't been by and the street remained
quiet.
The embassy katsa had taped Rachel's conversation with Ben
Poltarek. Landau recalled the cascades of emotion in their voices,
Poltarek being the more reticent, probably because there were people
within earshot. Soon it would be over, he thought. Not quite as soon as
Rachel and her lover expected, because there were debriefings to come.
But soon enough for them to become happy again, to return to their
lives never really knowing how close they had come to losing the future
and--
Landau's eyes narrowed. Rachel was stepping out the front door, into
the pool of light cast by the lamp over the archway. She had her car keys
THE ASSISTANT 405

in one hand, the other behind her, as though she were holding on to
something--
Someone.
Landau's scalp prickled. Hafez Jamal followed Rachel out, pushing
her down the steps and the walkway. Rachel fumbling with the car lock,
opening the door; Jamal pulling out his gun, training it on her as he
skipped around to the passenger side.
Trying to get out of her parking spot, Rachel nudged the car behind
her. Landau sensed that she was unfamiliar with the vehicle. Naturally.
Poltarek had taken hers. This one was a rental.
She finally managed to steer it out into the street and drive toward the
light at the intersection.
Landau dropped his car into gear and rolled toward her, using only his
parking lights. He could ill-afford to have Jamal see him; he would feel
safer once they were in traffic.
Landau dropped his hand to the car phone, then changed his mind. Raising the alarm at the embassy was no good. He had no idea where to
direct an assault force, nor even the number of men he needed or how
they should be armed. For now, he had to follow alone.
"In the end, it's always like this," he said to himself, and was startled
more by his frankness than by the fact that he'd spoken aloud. An image
leaped into his mind, the prime minister's Execution List. There was
number 34, Hafez Jamal, a shortcoming long in need of correction.

* * «

Jamal had told the woman doctor to drive carefully, but not slowly as to
seem like a cautious drunk. She was doing exactly as instructed.
Lights from the bars and restaurants along M Street washed across
Jamal's expressionless face. The plan he had conceived, nourished, and
executed had almost come to a bloody end six thousand miles from his
homeland. He knew now that he should have killed Poltarek as soon as
he'd set eyes on him, never mind what Poltarek knew or how valuable it
might be. By introducing an unforeseen element into so intricately
Grafted a plan, he had upset a delicate balance.
It had been, Jamal acknowledged, a sin of pride. By wanting to leave
nothing to chance, he had, in the law of unintended consequences,
risked everything. Unconsciously, he cursed under his breath.
406 J. PATRICK LAW

"Excuse me?"
Jamal started. "What do you want?"
"I'm sorry," Rachel said. "I thought you said something."
"You have been doing well. Stay quiet and drive."
Jamal thought Poltarek's woman very good-looking. After the outrage
at the Chesapeake house and the failure to stop Poltarek on the highway,
Jamal had thought that all was lost. Hatem and al-Rahim were dead,
Poltarek and the boy were loose, and the devil Landau was on his heels.
Jamal's first thought had been to escape while there was still time and opportunity,
and he was not ashamed of that. But there were different
places to run to, different opportunities to be had.
Given all the information the late Detective Priestly had amassed on
Poltarek, it was easy not only to understand how valuable Rachel Mel-
man could be to him but how to find her. Jamal had never believed that
he might need to remember Rachel Melman's address. But out there on
the dark highway, with Landau shrieking behind him and only flight on
his mind, she had strayed into his thoughts. So Jamal had changed direction,
from BWI Airport to Georgetown.
Jamal shifted as Rachel bore right offM Street onto Pennsylvania Avenue.
He was well versed in the psychology of hostages and hostage situations.
She needed to hear'this now.
"This is a simple trade: you for the boy. As long as Poltarek understands
this, everything will go well." He paused. "It may be that you will
have to encourage him to understand this. It will be in your interest and
the boy's to do that."
"Yes," Rachel said, knowing that not a word of what Jamal was saying
was true.
Her mind was rampant with images of men in black holding long-barreled
rifles.
At twenty-third and C Streets, Jamal began scanning for telltale signs
of a trap. The Americans would be very good at this. Washington was
probably the most protected city in the country; SWAT and counterterrorism
drills were constantly conducted. But Jamal knew what to look
for: shadows that were out of place, an intersection with no traffic, stationary
vehicles such as public-service vans that could hide a dozen
troopers, men in hard hats ostensibly working on a sewer or power lines.
He told Rachel to turn onto Constitution Avenue and take it to Sev-
THE ASSISTANT 407

enteeth Street. Then right, and right again, past the D.C. War Memorial,
all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. Jamal was pleased with his choice
of site. The long Reflecting Pool and surrounding grassy parkland afforded
no cover. The Memorial itself was spanan, with long wide steps
and open areas between the columns. The scaffolding was an unexpected
bonus. Anyone lying on top of those long wide planks would have
no cover at all.
"Go around the back," he told Rachel. "I will tell you where to stop."
Ben saw them walking from the direction of Henry Bacon Drive and
figured that's where they had parked the car. The two of them were so
close together they looked like one person, the way lovers do, hips and
shoulders rubbing together.
They came around the edge of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, past
the giant flag and the "last firebase," a rickety stall where, during the day,
vets passed out leaflets about American MIAs. He could now see Rachel
clearly. She was slightly ahead of Jamal, her head bowed as though she
were on a forest path, watching for roots underfoot. Ben blinked away the
image ofjamal's gun nestled in the small other back.
He held his breath as they went right past him, along the base of the
steps that climbed the Memorial, past the construction trucks loaded
with tarps, humming generators that fed power to the floodlights
swathing the Memorial. He let them walk until they were exactly where
he wanted them.
"Jamal!"
Jamal whirled around at the soft call, at the same time pulling the
woman hard against him. His night vision was excellent and he clearly
saw Ben standing in front of the Reflecting Pool, the wind riffling the
water, turning it into crepelike skin.
With his hands away from his body, Ben took one step forward. He and
Jamal were fifty, sixty feet apart.
"Rachel," Ben called out.
"Ben...."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes...."
"Jamal, look to your left."
The Arab waited a heartbeat before turning. There was the boy, coming
out from behind the thick, rectangular columns that flanked the steps
408 J.PATRICK LAW

to the Memorial. Even at a distance of a hundred feet, Jamal's hunter's
eye detected the tcary sheen on Kim Woodbridge's cheeks.
"Kim. Stop." Then to Jamal: "Get her moving."
Jamal released Rachel's elbow and nudged her forward.
Ben watched her take one step, then another. She hesitated, looked
directly at him.
Don'tstsp. Whatever you do, don't stop.
Ben willed her to continue, prayed that she would see what she had to
do, and do it without hesitation.

"Kim. Move."
The words and the boy's motion distracted Jamal momentarily, long
enough for him to miss Rachel's misstep as she made an abrupt left turn.
She was in Ornar's Maze.
Ben watched as Kim seemed to approach Jamal. Seemed to because
he was in another part of the Maze, nowhere near Jamal.
The Maze... Ben, Earl Tate, Wanda's helpers, all of them unloading
mirrors from the truck. Mirrors six feet by four feet, set in rough frames
with ribbing in the back to brace them. The frames were set on casters so
that they could be moved around like modular partitions in office workstations.

The minors lined the Reflecting Pool, making sixty feet of it disappear.
Another row was set at an angle to the Memorial, creating the illusion
that the edifice was closer than it really was. Two more rows created
a corridor through which Rachel and Kim were now walking. But to
Jamal, it would appear that Kim was walking to him while Rachel was
walking away.
The illusion of Kim was twenty feet from Jamal. Ben thought he could
bring it a little closer before Jamal realized he'd been tricked.
At the same time, he caught a hint of Rachel's perfume as she passed
him, her shoulders shaking.
"Go on," he murmured. "Follow the maze. Someone's waiting."
Kim's illusion was very close now. Ben saw Jamal focus both his attention
and his weapon on what he thought was the boy. Rachel was in the
clear.
Ben shrugged one shoulder, and Wanda's capsules dropped into his
hand.
Jamal was watching the boy when a gust of wind swept past him. The
boy seemed to shiver. No. Something else. He trembled. His entire
THE ASSISTANT 409

image trembled, as though a ripple, beginning at the boy's feet, rose up
through his body, making it shimmy and shiver. When his features distorted
and then righted themselves, Jamal knew.
The barrel of his gun, elongated by the suppressor, bucked. Fifteen
feet away, a mirror exploded.
Jamal whirled around, squeezing off the second round even before his
motion was complete. The image of Ben shattered as the mirror collapsed
in shards.
Running through the maze, Ben squeezed the pellets and dropped
them at the base of the mirrors. Oxygen met phosphorus and lit up the
night.
Hearing a faint crackle, Jamal turned. His scream was involuntary as
his brain registered the waves of flames cascading toward him. The
Flaming Seas.
Ben grabbed Rachel's hand and together they raced around the back
of the mirrors. There was Kim, standing stock-still, exactly where Ben
had told him to be. Ben scooped him up in one arm on the dead run.
Left turn, right, another right, and into a slot that opened to the path
to Henry Bacon Drive. Safety if they could reach the trees.
Ben stopped hard, jerking Rachel's arm. He nodded toward a mirror
just as it exploded. Here was Jamal, crashing through the shards, rivulets
of blood streaming down his face as he turned on them.
"Jamal!"
Wild-eyed, he pivoted in the direction of the voice. He could not
know that Ben was throwing his voice, buying time to raise .the gun that
Tare had given him.
Ben and Jamal saw the image in the same instant: Landau. Two Landaus,
stepping out of the raging inferno, each holding a gun, staring at
Jamal.
Somewhere in Jamal's brain, the idea burst that he was about to be
tricked one more time. He swung back to Ben, Rachel, and the boy,
knowing that he had to kill them all, knowing this with the same awful
certainty whispering to him that he would never get out of here alive,
that he had to take as many as he could with him.
Mirrors shimmered as one of the Landaus stepped between Jamal and
his targets. The gun and the rifle fired almost simultaneously, the bullets
smacking into flesh and bone. Landau staggered, but remained on his
feet long enough to spot the neat, round hole in Jamal's forehead. Pain
410 J. PATRICK LAW	I

flamed in his chest, but he knew he was smiling. Smiling even as he was	|
falling. And here was Rachel leaning over him, lifting his head, her eyes	|
wider than he'd ever seen them.	j
His voice was remarkably clear as he said, "Keep him well." Then he	|
could no longer feel Rachel's ringer on the pulse at his throat, and finally,	|
nothing at all.	|
osue

I speak of arms and of the man. The man who surrendered his life for
that of his brothers-in-arms. The one who did not return to us, who
resides forever in the presence of the Lord...."
Ben thought the words of the soldier's prayer sounded pure and honest
on Kim Woodbridge's young lips. It was always the young who
dressed the dead and kept the vigil, for they were all what was left.
The big doors to the hangar at Andrews Air Force Base were open to
the sky. Armed air police formed a perimeter outside; inside, near the El
Al cargo jet, in front of the coffin resting on a makeshift bier, were the
President and the First Lady, their son, and Ben and Rachel. Behind
them stood the Israeli ambassador and members of Landau's commando
unit who would accompany the body back to Israel.
The cargo jet would also carry the surviving terrorist, Hatem, who was
being held un3er suicide watch in the base lockup and would be shunted
on board when the ceremony was concluded. His presence anywhere
near these last rites would have been sacrilege.
Kim Woodbridge stepped forward. His arm trembled slightly as he
saluted the coffin. The moment brought to Ben's mind the image of another
child who, long ago, had offered his salute at the grave of his father.
Kennedy. // was always the young....
The wind coursed gently into the hangar, rippling the blue-and-white
Israeli flag that draped the coffin. Members of the American honor guard
412 J. PATRJCK LAW

stepped forward and, gripping the edges, began to fold it. Protocol dictated
that since Landau had been killed on foreign soil, one ceremonial
object remain behind to serve his memory. On board, another flag would
be placed across the coffin before it was taken off the plane at Ben Gu-
rion Airport.
Ben looked at Charles Woodbridge and his wife, their faces pale and
drawn. He could not imagine how it must have felt to keep the deathwatch,
not knowing whether your child was alive, if all you would ever
have left would be photographs and memories. Now, they had Kim between
them, each with a hand on his shoulders.
To Ben, it seemed that moments after the deadly standoff between
Landau and Jamal, the whole world had exploded. From out of the darkness
came streaks of light and the shouts of men running hard. The mirrors
that were still intact reflected the spinning lights on cruisers that
were pulling up to the scene and the big belly spotlight of the helicopter
that had arrived overhead.
The Capitol Police were the first to pile in, guns drawn. Ben still remembered
their cursing as they stumbled through the maze. Then they
found Jamal lying twisted on the ground, and Rachel cradling Landau,
and Ben with his arms around Kim.
Dimly, Ben recalled saying something about needing to speak to the
President. The officer in charge was writing him off as a crazy until he
took a close look at Kim. Radios crackled furiously as word was relayed to
the White House.
Steve Casey, in charge of the First Family detail, was on the scene in
twelve minutes flat. He had the police seal off the area while he bundled
everyone, including Wanda and Earl Tate, into Secret Service vehicles.
The bodies went into the Service ambulance. Ben overheard Casey tell
the police lieutenant that what had happened was a construction accident,
related to the cleaning of the Lincoln Memorial. Kim Woodbridge
had never been there. The rest of the people had never been here.
There had been no shoot-out, no killings. If Casey heard anything to the
contrary on the news reports, the lieutenant and his men could count on
finding themselves on the night watch at the Smithsonian.
A full-blown medical unit was waiting at the White House. Kim
Woodbridge was given a quick examination before his parents were finally
allowed into the infirmary. At the next table, Rachel assisted the
White House doctor who was tending to Ben. She would not leave him.
When the doctors had finished and the First Family had been spirited
away, Casey came back, followed by an orderly pushing a cart of hot coffee
and sandwiches. After reading the riot act to Wanda and Tate and
having them escorted out, he went to Ben and Rachel and placed a tape
recorder between them. The reels spun slowly for two hours.
At three o'clock in the morning the President reappeared.
"Kim told me and my wife everything. You saved my son's life, then
risked it all over again, Mr. Poltarek."

For a moment, Ben thought the man would actually strike him.
"Jamal took my family," Ben said. Then he looked at Rachel. "I would
not let him take more. For that, I needed Kim. You won't believe me, but
he was never in danger."

"He says that right at the end, you stepped forward to shield him."
"He only thinks he was standing behind me. It was all an illusion."
"Then why--?"
"Because I was going to kill Jamal. Until Landau...."
"Yes, Landau." Woodbridge shook his head. "People have told me
things about him, but nothing makes sense except that he had been
tracking Jamal for a long time."
"Mr. President," Rachel said. "All any of us needs know is that Landau
saved our lives."
She didn't bother to add that Landau had never told the President
about the Chesapeake house because he knew that Woodbridge would
immediately order an assault--an assault designed only to save his son,
making Ben expendable. This way, Landau had given her back the man
she loved.
"Yes, I suppose." Woodbridge made to leave, then stopped. "My wife
and I owe you a debt of gratitude. Everything that happened on the
Chesapeake, you still brought our boy home to us." He paused. "Kim
tells me you're a hell of a magician."
"An amateur."
"Sure. I hear you work with kids. Maybe you'd join us for the Easter
egg hunt." Woodbridge smiled. "I think I'd like to see your magic."
Rachel remembered little Cheryl Pulaski. "Not magic, Mr. President.
Illusions."
Then it was just he and Rachel, side by side on a lumpy cot, holding
each other in the darkness, their breathing soft and slow as exhaustion finally
overtook them.
414 J. PAIRILR LAW

A few hours later, a nurse shook them awake. Shower and breakfast
were waiting, then the ride out to Andrews in the presidential motorcade.

Ben watched as the honor guard created the last folds in the flag and
carried it to the ambassador, who accepted it on behalf of the country Landau had served.
The bier was rolled toward the conveyor belt that disappeared into the
belly of the cargo jet.
Ben looked at Rachel, who smiled. "He would have liked that."
Ben held up his magician's black wand. Steve Casey had sent one of
his men to Ben's apartment especially to get it. Ben stepped to the coffin
as it was laid on the conveyor belt and, holding the wand high, broke it in
half. Then he released the two pieces, but instead of falling, they floated
above the coffin. As it rolled into the aircraft, the broken wand danced
lightly, then suddenly vanished, and no one who was watching could
ever say where or how.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. patrick law is an international business and government consultant.
He now resides in Hawaii.