The Hunted

  "You not going to kill him?"

  "Noooo, man, I been telling you, we gonna talk to him, get his reactions. What we want you to d o is go back to Tel Aviv and keep an eye on the fatty.

  You think you can get a bus or something?"

  "I have Mr. Rosen's car."

  "No, we're gonna use it, buddy. Case we have to be some place in a hurry. What you do, tell Mr.

  Bandy you gave Mr. Rosen back his car, he wanted it for something. Then you try and stay close to Mr.

  Bandy if you can. See, Mr. Rosen may not be here.

  We don't know for sure. And he may call Mr. Bandy and let him know where he is. You understand?"

  "Yes." Mati nodded.

  "Mr. Rosen wants his money, don't he?"

  Mati nodded again. "And his passport."

  "Say what?" Rashad said.

  "I hear Tali talk to Mr. Bandy about the money and about he lost his passport. When I went bac k last night."

  "You don't mean to tell me," Rashad said. "You keeping that a secret?"

  "I didn't think of it before."

  "Okay. So you stay with Mr. Bandy," Rashad said. "Tell him you'll rent a car for him if he want s to go some place. See, then if we want to get i n touch with you, find out anything, we call the hotel. So you got to stay close, like in the lobby."

  "What if he don't need me? The fat one," Mati said.

  "No, my man, we the ones need you," Rashad said, putting an arm around Mati's thin shoulder s as they walked along David Ha-Melekh Street pas t the hotel. "You on the team now."

  IN THE CAMARO, in the hills west of Jerusalem, Tali said, "Do you miss war? Is that it? You miss th e screechy, the excitement?"

  Davis kept his eyes on the road. "No, I don't miss war."

  "Then what are you doing this for? You don't want to protect him. You want to have war wit h them."

  "I don't think he has a choice," Davis said. "If you look at it."

  "He can wait for them to go. Hide some place they never find him."

  "He's tired of hiding," Davis said. "He's been hiding for three years. He thinks he wants to g o home, but he's afraid to stick his head out. He's tired of looking over his shoulder and now he sees a chance to end it."

  "Why are you helping him?"

  "Because he doesn't know how to do it himself."

  "That's the only reason? Not for yourself?"

  "What do you mean, for money?"

  "No, it's why I ask you," Tali said, "do you miss war? Why else do you want to kill someone?"

  "Why do you fight wars? Your country," Davis said.

  "Because they attack us."

  "It's the same thing."

  "No, it isn't," Tali said.

  Following the switchbacks, in morning shade, he tried to think of things to say and told her about a n Israeli friend of his named Zohar who lived nea r the Marine House and would see them "makin g gymnastics in the morning"--jogging. Zohar ha d lived in Eilat for six years, and when he'd move d north with his family, coming from the Sinai desert , he'd said, "We had starvation in our eyes for th e green." So they'd bought a house in the trees nea r Herzliya Pituah.

  He told her about visiting Jerusalem the first time, with Zohar, and Zohar showing him wher e his tank--and the tank of his good friend who wa s now the Hertz manager in Jerusalem--had bee n surrounded by Jordanians during the Six Days'

  War . . . showing him an archway that was like a stone tunnel in a gate and asking Davis if h e thought a tank would fit through it--with the Jordanians firing rockets at them--because if the tank became stuck in there . . . but they had to try it an d they did get through, barely, scraping the walls. Zohar showed him, in the side of a stucco house, an S-curve of bullet marks he had put there with hi s Uzi, firing out of the turret of his tank. He ha d brought his wife and three children here severa l times on outings. Davis said if he were married an d had a family it would be like taking them to D a Nang and Lon Thien. He couldn't imagine it.

  Tali said, "You're not married?"

  "I almost was a couple of times," Davis said. "I w as sort of engaged. But I'd get sent somewher e and by the time I'd get back I wouldn't be engage d anymore."

  "When I was eighteen I was in love with an American who was going to dentist school," Tal i said. "Do you know Atlanta? That's where he live.

  I visit him there, but"--she shrugged--"we write to each other for a while, but then we don't writ e anymore."

  "I don't think you have to worry," Davis said.

  "About what?"

  "About meeting somebody and getting married."

  "I don't know--I think I like to be an air hostess again and travel places."

  "Maybe, while I'm still here," Davis said, "you could show me Israel. I haven't seen too much."

  "Maybe. I don't know."

  He wondered if she understood what he meant: t raveling with him, staying at hotels with him.

  They were on Yafo, in the middle of the morning traffic, when Tali saw Mati and told Davis to sto p quick. He couldn't, though, for another half block.

  When he was able to pull to the curb, Tali jumped out, ran across the street through the traffic, an d was gone. Davis waited, looking around. About te n minutes passed before he saw her again, recrossin g the street with Mati now, scowling, yelling a t him--that thin, nice-looking little girl--giving hi m hell in Hebrew as they approached the car an d Davis leaned over to open the door.

  "Mati and I have to have a talk," Tali said.

  "Well, get in."

  She pushed Mati into the back seat, got in front, and sat half turned, staring at him. "He says h e drove them to the King David," Tali said, "but Mr.

  Rosen wasn't in his room. He says he was with them yesterday, they took him, when you wer e shooting at them."

  "How many, three? Three men?"

  Mati nodded.

  "Where are they?"

  "He says he doesn't know. They told him to go back to Tel Aviv. They kept Mr. Rosen's car." Sh e began railing at Mati again in Hebrew, Mati sittin g quietly with the holstered automatic and the claymore mines on the seat next to him, not aware of them, staring back at Tali. He ducked aside then a s she tried to hit him with her fist. Davis caught he r arm.

  "Take it easy. Let's find out what happened."

  "He's an idiot!" Tali said. "He thinks they only want to talk to Mr. Rosen." She lashed out at hi m again in Hebrew and this time Mati yelled back a t her.

  "Where did they go when they left him?" Davis said. "Where were they?"

  They spoke again in Hebrew before Tali said, "At the hotel. He went with the black one to a cafe , then the black one left."

  "The other two," Davis said, "they waited at the hotel?"

  "They were in the parking lot by the car," Tali said. She spoke to Mati again in Hebrew. Mati sai d something to her. "He says they wanted to change a tire. He raised the car for them. . . ."

  "Which car?"

  "The one he drove," Tali said. "But he says there was nothing wrong with the tire."

  Davis had the Camaro in gear, cranking the wheel away from the curb.

  "Parked next to Mr. Rosen's new car, the black one," Tali said.

  Davis knew that before she told him.

  "The Laromme's the best hotel in Eilat," Rosen said. "It's big and flashy and you can get lost looking for the discotheque, but it's a lot of fun--if you don't get taken. A lot of good-looking young Israel i guys prey on tourist ladies, you know. It's lik e Rome."

  "It's like anywhere," Edie said. "There was one at the Dan, I told him I was old enough to be hi s mother. Do you know what he said?"

  "Just a second." Rosen stepped over to the desk, handed the clerk his key, and spoke to him for a moment. The clerk laughed. Rosen came back smiling at Edie and put his hand out to let her go first through the revolving door.

  "What'd he say? The Israeli kid."

  "He said . . ."

  By now Rosen was talking to the doorman, handing him a lira, and the doorman was laughing.


  "I'm sorry, go on."

  Walking from the porte cochere down the circular drive to the street, Edie said the young Israeli's reply wasn't that much really. He'd only said h e was in love with her and it didn't matter how ol d she was. Rosen said he didn't care how old she wa s either. What was age? What did it have to do wit h how you felt? Edie said, "Careful. I have your passport, you know. With your date of birth on it."

  Rosen said, "Oh . . . that's right."

  Eight thirty-five. They'd get to the Hilton and have time for a cup of coffee.

  "I have to change," Edie said.

  "Then we'll have it while you change. I'll help you dress," Rosen said. "I'll help you undress first."

  "You know, you're very sexy for a man your age," Edie said.

  "Tourist ladies who stay at the Hilton like that kind of talk," Rosen said. "It excites them and thei r thing gets moist and tingles. You're not really a Hilton lady, though. Did I explain that to you? Th e difference between the Hilton ladies and the Kin g David ladies?"

  "No, but I can imagine what you're going to say."

  She waited again as he stopped to talk to the parking lot attendant and press something into hi s hand. When he joined her again, taking her ar m and squeezing it, she said, "I'll bet you over-tip."

  "Of course," Rosen said.

  They could hear boys playing basketball in the yard of the YMCA--voices in Hebrew, the sound of th e ball hitting the backboard--beyond a wall o f bushes and a high chain-link fence. The gray Mercedes was parked next to the fence, on Lincoln Street.

  They'd hear it all right, Teddy Cass said. Shit, it would break windows in the Y.

  But they wouldn't hear it if it didn't go off, Valenzuela said.

  They had picked up Rashad on Agron Street and crept through the area in the Mercedes, studyin g side streets and through routes that Valenzuela ha d marked on his map. They had been here now a little more than forty minutes . . . almost forty-five minutes when they saw Rashad coming towar d them from the front of the YMCA.

  "Just leaving the hotel," Rashad said. "Going to the parking lot."

  "Alone?" Valenzuela said.

  "Has a woman with him."

  "Well, there's nothing I can do about that,"

  Valenzuela said.

  The King David parking lot attendant was always glad to see Mr. Rosen. Especially with a woman.

  When Mr. Rosen was alone, he gave him five lira.

  But when he was with a woman, he gave him ten lira. It couldn't be to impress the woman; sh e couldn't see the notes. So it must be because Mr.

  Rosen felt good and was happy. Why shouldn't he be happy? With money and two cars. One o f the cars was gone now, taken by the Americans; bu t the new black one should be enough for him. He watched Mr. Rosen open the door for the woma n and come around to his side to get in.

  The sound the parking lot attendant heard at that moment was like a racing car streaking dow n David Ha-Melekh past the hotel, a roar of power, a screeching sound that made him grit his teeth waiting for the crash. But the sound that came was the engine roar again, higher, much louder, here, a green car power-sliding through the gate into th e yard, raising a wave of dust and throwing gravel a t him as the car swerved and came to a stop broadside. A man wearing a cap was out of the car almost as it stopped sliding.

  "Rosen!"

  Rosen took his hand from the ignition, looking out the side window at the Marine coming towar d him and now Tali, behind him, getting out of th e Camaro, and someone else. He didn't recogniz e Mati right away.

  "That's the guy I was telling you about," Rosen said.

  "My God," Edie said, "he makes an entrance."

  Rosen grinned at the Marine. "What're you, out hot-rodding?"

  Davis said, "Don't touch the ignition. You better get out of the car. Both of you."

  "Jesus Christ," Rosen said. Rosen knew. He didn't have to ask questions. "Edie, come on."

  "What is it?"

  "We have to get out of here."

  "Take the parking guy with you," Davis said. He waved to Tali and Mati to move back.

  "You know what to do?" Rosen asked him. He was out of the car now.

  "If I recognize it," Davis said. "Go all the way out to the street."

  He didn't wait for them to leave. Getting down on his back, inching under the car, he heard th e lady with Rosen asking him what was going on.

  The lady would have found out if Rosen had turned the key and the car had exploded beneat h them. There were two fist-sized packs of C4 plasti c wedged between the undercarriage and one of th e frame cross members--one pack would have don e the job--like hunks of white modeling clay, wit h wires and blasting caps attached. Davis pulled th e caps out of the plastic material and put them in hi s pocket before he cut the wires with his clasp knif e and pulled the hunks of plastic free.

  They were outside the gate on the side street, watching him as he came out from under the car.

  He tossed the hunks of plastic in the back seat of the Camaro, got behind the wheel, and drove toward them, seeing them walking into the lot again, stepping out of the way. Rosen hurried toward him.

  "Get in," Davis said. "We've got to move."

  "Wait a minute--what was it?" Rosen was frowning. It was happening too fast for him. He wasn't used to reacting, not asking questions.

  "We don't have time to talk. Get in," Davis said.

  "I don't have anything with me. . . ."

  The good-looking lady with Rosen was saying, "Will somebody tell me what's going on? What wa s under the car?"

  "Wait a minute," Rosen said, his hands hitting the pockets of the light jacket he was wearing. "I don't have any money with me . . . my sunglasses . . ."

  With his beard and hair and blue choker beads, his indecision seemed out of character, weakness showing through.

  Tali knew what was going on, her eyes on Davis, staring at him. Mati was a little behind her, alert o r asleep, it was hard to tell.

  "--Or my clothes. I've got to pack something."

  "Mr. Rosen," Davis said, "forget about your clothes. Just get in the car."

  Tali said, "What way are you going?"

  "South. Stay here till we call you."

  "To Beersheba?"

  "At least. If we ever get out of here."

  Rosen was in the car now, slamming the door.

  The lady, through the window, looked bewildered.

  Tali was calm.

  "Or Eilat," Davis said. "Maybe you can drive down tomorrow, bring him some clothes."

  "Where?"

  "I don't know. The Laromme, I guess. We gotta go."

  Rosen was leaning close to Davis to look out his side window. "Edie--talk to the girl, Tali. Listen , I'm gonna meet you, so be there. Okay?" And hi s parting words: "Edie--don't forget my passport!"

  Tali watched the Camaro turn out of the lot, the lime-green screamer revving with a howl, and tur n again, with a sound of squealing rubber, south ont o David Ha-Melekh. She could still hear the car going through its gears, winding up, when it was out of sight . . . and then the gray Mercedes shot pas t the lot, streaking in the same direction.

  THREE HOURS SOUTH OF JERUSALEM, somewhere in the Negev, they were keeping the green Camaro i n sight: four hundred yards, whatever it was, ahea d of them, a speck, a dot on the road. Sooner or late r the Camaro would falter or run out of gas or try t o hide and they would have them. Rosen and the Marine. It had to be the Marine driving.

  Valenzuela would stare at the road--past Rashad and Teddy Cass in the front seat--at th e two-lane highway that could have been drawn wit h a ruler and seemed to extend into infinity, throug h flat desert landscape, colorless or dry brown an d tinted in washed-out, dusty green. Dead land, wit h the Dead Sea somewhere to the east, left behind.

  Valenzuela would look from the road to the map that lay open on his legs.

  They'd have them pretty soon.

  There were only two roads south. One that followed the Jordanian border, and this one
that linked the cities of the Negev. Eighty-five kilometers lined with young eucalyptus trees to Beersheba , where they had twice almost overtaken the Camar o scrambling through traffic, running red lights o n the boulevard and out past the Arab market. Another twenty-seven miles to Dimona, the gray Mercedes continuing east past the mills and potassium works to follow the highway; then not seeing th e Camaro and turning abruptly, realizing the Camaro had taken a secondary road due south out of Dimona, and finally seeing its dust hanging in th e air on the way to Mizpeh Ramon.

  They were now two hundred thirty-seven kilometers south of Jerusalem, about one hundred fortyfive miles. According to Valenzuela's map, there were no through roads, nothing, no destinatio n south of Mizpeh Ramon except Eilat, the Israeli por t on the Gulf of Aqaba. Valenzuela liked the way i t was working out, but he was getting anxious.

  He said, "This would be a good place, along here."

  Rashad raised his face to the side. "On the pavement this thing don't have it. Now it's hard to steer around the holes."

  "Needs a tune," Valenzuela said. "The cheap fuck, all the money he's got."

  "No, the way it was with medals," Davis said, "it was something you thought about after. You didn't go out to earn one, get decorated, unless you wer e pretty gungy, or crazy. In Vietnam, for instance , some guys were grabbing all the medals they coul d get. But, see, there was an inflation of medals there.

  NCOs and field-grade officers were writing them up for each other and you couldn't really tell th e value, you know, unless a guy dove on a grenade , something like that. You see a lance corporal with a Silver Star, a major might've done the same thin g and gotten the Congressional Medal of Honor. It's the way it was."

  Rosen was half turned, looking back over the seat rest to the rear window. He was nervous an d excited and had been talkative.

  "I think they're gaining a little."

  "I see them," Davis said. "We're all right." He was staying approximately five hundred meter s ahead of the Mercedes, bringing them along, making sure they didn't get lost.