Anderson noted the softening of her eyes when
Mirit spoke of her father. He said, 'I wish I could say that I know how you must feel but the truth is that I don't. I couldn't possibly. You must have lived your entire life under threat of violence and war.'
Mirit
smiled and leaned towards him. She said, 'I will confess a secret fear to you. Sometimes I don't think we could survive without the threat from outside. It's the thing that keeps us together. The will to simply survive is the most powerful force in Israel. Take away the threat . . . who knows.'
'I can't see the threat disappearing just yet,' said Anderson.
'You're right. The Palestinians are a problem.'
'They have a point,' said Anderson, taking a gamble on the intelligence he felt sure lay behind the dark eyes. For a moment he thought that he had got it wrong. There was an uncomfortably long silence during which
Mirit stared at him stonily. Then she said slowly, 'Have you ever seen a bus full of children after it has been blown up by an Arab bomb?'
Anderson felt his pulse quicken but kept calm. He returned
Mirit's stare and said, 'No, I haven't. But then I've never seen an Arab village when your air force has finished with it. The emotions of personal involvement never solve anything. Your answer was a cop-out . . . and you know it.'
The hardness left
Mirit's eyes. She looked at Anderson as if seeing him for the first time. 'Yes, it was,' she said quietly. 'But what made you so sure?'
'I read it in your face.'
'You keep doing that,' smiled Mirit. 'So what is your answer to the Palestinian problem?' she asked.
'I don't know. Do you?'
'No, I don't know either,' confessed Mirit.
Anderson asked how long she had been in the army. 'Five years. I did national service then stayed on to make it my career.'
'Why?'
'You won't deny that we need an army?' smiled Mirit.
'No, I certainly won't do that,' agreed Anderson. 'But why you personally?'
Mirit smoothed the hair away from her forehead. She said, 'My parents owe everything to Israel. They went through hell on earth, like so many of our old people, before the foundation of our country. We, the younger generation, owe it to them to see that Israel survives, that what happened in the thirties and forties never happens again. I am an only child; I have no brothers, so it was up to me.'
'Do you like being a soldier?' asked Anderson.
'I am good at my job,' said Mirit.
Anderson believed her. 'But you don't have women in the front line?' he asked.
'No, we don't. But that doesn't mean to say that we wouldn't if the need arose.'
Mirit
and Anderson left the restaurant and walked slowly back to the Jaffa Gate. They stopped on the pavement outside.
'I'm grateful to you for coming,' said Anderson.
‘I’m sorry I couldn't be more helpful. I only wish we had caught your attacker. But you will go to the police now? They can obtain a copy of my report from Hadera.'
'Not just yet. I’
ve something to do first. Perhaps you can help.' Anderson showed Mirit the address he had written down for Shula Ron.
'It's on my way. I'll take you there.'
It was a ten minute drive from the Old City through the broad, busy streets of modern Jerusalem with its traffic and office blocks. Mirit pulled the white Fiat into the kerb and stopped.
'Along there,' she said, pointing with her finger.
‘Third on the left.'
‘
Thank you again,' said Anderson, reluctant to get out and say goodbye. He wanted to see her again. 'Mirit . . . if I should need to get in touch with you . . . ' he began.
'What for, Neil?' asked
Mirit, with just the hint of a smile in her eyes.
‘
To ask you out to dinner,' confessed Anderson, dropping the search for some kind of official excuse.
Mirit
took a notepad from the dashboard and scribbled something down. ‘This is my telephone number here in Jerusalem. Don't call me at the post.'
For a moment Anderson felt as if he were thirteen years old. He grinned broadly as he took the piece of paper. 'When would be a convenient time for you?'
'When did you have in mind?' asked Mirit.
‘
Tonight?' Anderson asked in mock trepidation and looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She burst out laughing and Anderson followed suit.
'I think that would be very nice,' she said. 'Call me at that number when you
’ve finished your business.'
Anderson stood on the pavement looking after the Fiat, still smiling till the peculiar looks he was attracting from passers-by made him stop. He walked along the street in the direction indicated by
Mirit and found the address he was looking for. The flat, in an old building that smelled strongly of cats, was on the third floor. Anderson pressed the bell and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing heavy, metal-framed glasses. He said who he was and asked to speak with Shula.
'
Shula is working today.'
'Working?'
'She is a guide in the Old City during her vacation.'
Anderson smiled and said that he had just come from there. 'Whereabouts in the Old City?' he asked.
'She is one of the promenade guides.'
‘
The promenade?'
'Yes. It is the walk along the top of the old walls.
Shula works from the Christian quarter. There's nothing wrong, is there?'
'No,' said Anderson, 'nothing at all.'
The bus journey back to the Old City took longer than the outward run, but Anderson wasn't complaining. He felt good. The mountain air of Jerusalem was like freedom after being trapped in the constant energy-sapping humidity of Tel Aviv. He got off the bus and asked for orange juice in a street cafe within sight of the walls. As he sipped his drink in the shade of an umbrella his attention was taken by a small convoy of military vehicles that seemed to materialize from nowhere and stop at a point some distance away. Soldiers jumped from the back of trucks and began cordoning off a fifty-metre stretch of road while some others unloaded what looked to Anderson like some kind of metal trolley.
As the trolley whined into life and began to obey the commands of its remote controller, it became obvious that this was the bomb-disposal squad. The trolley stuttered to a halt in the shade of the high walls and extended its spastic metal arms to embrace a package that was lying there. The moment of tension passed with a series of shouts that brought an instant relaxation in the atmosphere - nothing sinister, just a cardboard box, another routine job. The military packed up their gear with practised ease and disappeared as if they'd never been there. Anderson finished his orange and walked into the Old City.
Entering by the Damascus Gate he found his way to the Christian quarter and the Via Dolorosa. He followed the Stations of the Cross amidst tourists and pilgrims as he looked for a guide who might, by virtue of age and sex, be an undergraduate at Tel Aviv. The largest crowd was outside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where Anderson found several guided tours converging. A group of African nuns in light blue habits were being led by a young girl who looked as if she could be Shula Ron. Anderson waited until she had shepherded them safely into line to await admission before approaching.
'Miss Ron?'
'No.'
'I'm sorry. I'm looking for
Shula Ron.'
'
Shula is doing the wall promenade.'
'Yes. Where does it start from?'
The girl gave him directions and then checked her watch. She said, 'You will have to hurry; the next wall tour leaves in five minutes.'
Anderson thanked her and went off in the direction indicated by the girl. He got lost. He wasn't sure how, but he did and as one wrong turning led to another, and the alleys became quieter and quieter, his frustration pushed up the afternoon temperature still higher. Anderson was forced to rest in the shade of a stone arch until he felt better, but resting wasn't going slake the thirst that now burned in his parched throat. If only he could find some vantage point to get his bearings, but he seemed confined to an endless series of fla
t, blind alleys and hemmed in by walls.
At last! Steps! Anderson found himself at the foot of a flight of steps leading up what he took to be the inner face of the city wall. The steps were very old, judging by the dips in their centres and the fact that there was no guard rail, so Anderson had to climb cautiously, avoiding looking down and testing each crumbling stair before transferring his weight. He reached the top and looked around him. The great Dome of the Rock was now a very deep golden colour as the sun began to sink in the sky. He tried to work out which face he was looking at and reached a
conclusion. He checked it by looking along the wall in both directions to ensure that, as he had predicted, he could not see the citadel. He could not. What he did see, however, was a group of people high up on the ramparts like himself, only a hundred metres or so further along and heading away from him. The coloured shirts and intensive camera activity told Anderson that he had found the wall tour. He looked at his watch and decided that it had to be the one after the tour he had set out to join and that they were on their way back. Probably the last tour of the day.
Anderson saw that he could not catch up with the tour along the top of the wall for he was standing on a very old part of the ramparts and the stone had crumbled away about thirty feet from where he stood, causing an interruption for at least thirty metres. He would have to descend and catch up with them on the ground.
Determined not to get lost again, Anderson kept as close to the inner face of the great wall as was possible, only straying through alleys where there was no alternative. He found himself at the start and finish point for the tours as the last tour was descending from the ramparts. A young girl stood at the top, shepherding her people to the stairs and smiling at them as they said goodbye. Anderson felt a sense of relief; he had found Shula Ron.
The tourists seemed to take an age to descend from the ramparts, mainly because the stairs were narrow and the group had to move at the speed of the slowest member. There were several elderly people in their number and Anderson waited patiently as one particular lady tested each and every step before putting her weight on it. He walked across to the foot of the stairs to coincide with the last tourist leaving but stopped as he saw the last one in the group apparently change his mind and turn to climb back up again. The man sprinted up with an agility that said he was not one of the elderly Americans who had appeared to be in the majority. Anderson saw him ask
Shula Ron something and saw her turn and point out over the city. The man took a photograph then asked something else. Anderson saw Shula smile and smooth her hair and dress before taking up a pose against the ramparts. The man raised his camera but seemed dissatisfied with what he saw in the viewfinder. He said something else to Shula who raised herself up on to the top of the wall and sat there with her hands folded on her knee. The man checked the viewfinder again then moved in to adjust the tilt of Shula's head with his fingertips. Anderson grew impatient. 'Get on with it,' he muttered as he waited in the shadow that had now overtaken the foot of the stairs.
The man raised the camera to his face again but Anderson could now see what
Shula could not, since the man had profiled her head. He was not looking through the viewfinder. His head was turned slightly so that he could see down into the courtyard. What the hell is he playing at? thought Anderson, looking around him. What's he looking at? What is he waiting for? As the last tourist disappeared, the truth screamed through Anderson's head. He was waiting for the courtyard to empty! He did not want anyone to see what he was about to do!
Anderson ran out from the shadows and opened his mouth to shout a warning but he was too late. He saw the man move towards
Shula, as if to alter her pose slightly, then he pushed her hard in the face with the flat of his hand. A single scream rent the air as Shula Ron tumbled backwards from the wall and fell to certain death. The cry that had started out on Anderson's lips as a warning changed to despair as he realized that he had just seen a girl murdered. There was a momentary silence when the man on the ramparts looked down at Anderson and their eyes met.
Anderson took in the Mediterranean features and read fear and surprise in his nut-brown face. He obviously had not realized that anyone had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Anderson recovered first. 'You bastard!' he hissed and started to climb up. The man began to move off along the ramparts and, through his anger, Anderson could see that he was making for the next place he could descend, a crumbling stone stairway that had been fenced off from the unwary tourist with iron railings.
Anderson had got to within twenty feet of the killer when it became his turn to get over the railings. His hitherto sole purpose of getting to grips with the murderer was now tainted with acute feelings of vulnerability. He had never been fond of heights and now he had to get over a series of twisted iron spikes with a twelve-metre drop below him should he fail to reach the stone steps. The sight of his quarry accelerating down the steps gave him courage; he hoisted himself up on to the railings and prepared to jump. Anderson thought about it too long. He froze on the railings, unable to persuade his rigid muscles to relent and let him make the leap. The man had now reached the ground. He turned to see why Anderson had given up the chase and saw him silhouetted against the sky. It was too good a chance to miss. He picked up a series of rocks from the foot of the crumbling steps and threw them in quick succession at Anderson.