The Hunted Page 3

  "No, another one. I don't know why he was in the hotel that burned," Tali said. She imagine d the building on fire, people running out through th e smoke. "Did you bring the newspaper with th e picture?"

  Mel pulled his attache case from the floor to his lap, opened it, and handed Tali a file folder. "Ou r hero," Mel said. "See if you recognize him."

  She brought the tear sheets out of the folder, glanced at the front-page story, unfolded the sheets , and stared at the photo page, at the figure s wrapped in blankets and the bearded, shirtless ma n in the light-colored trousers.

  "Yes, he looks like an Israeli there," Tali said, "but I can see it's Mr. Rosen. We don't have thi s picture here."

  "Wire service," Mel Bandy said. "It was in the Times, the Chicago Tribune, the Detroit papers, it could've been in every paper in the country--Rosi e showing off his body--and he doesn't know it."

  "He called you from Netanya?"

  "I think that's what he said. But he was--what should I say--upset, distraught? He was shitscared is what he was. See, I already had my reservation. I told him hang on, call me late Wednesday afternoon at the Pal Hotel, Tel Aviv, we'd work i t out together."

  "Oh, you were coming here to see him?"

  "I told him last month I'd be here sometime in March."

  "I didn't know that," the girl said. She had thought Mr. Bandy, Mr. Rosen's lawyer, was her e because someone had tried to kill Mr. Rosen. Sh e didn't know of another reason for the lawyer to b e here. She didn't want to ask him about it. He looke d tired and hot, even in the air-conditioned car.

  "It wasn't in the newspapers about a man shooting at anyone," Tali said. "I went to Netanya, but I didn't find out what coffeehouse it was that it happened at. Only that he checked out from the hotel."

  Approaching a highway intersection, they followed the curving shortcut lane past a green sign with arrows and the names of towns in Hebre w and English-- Peta Tiqva, Ramla, Tel Aviv--an d past lines of soldiers waiting for rides: girls in min i uniform skirts and young bareheaded men, some o f them armed with submachine guns.

  "How far is it?" Mel said.

  Tali looked at him. "Netanya? I don't think he's there anymore."

  "Tel Aviv."

  "Oh . . . twenty minutes more."

  "How about the money? The guy get it yet?"

  "He receive it yesterday," Tali said. "I call when we get to the hotel."

  "Have him bring it over as soon as he can."

  Tali hesitated, not sure if it was her place to ask questions. "You want to give it to Mr. Rosen yourself?"

  "I'm thinking about it," Mel said. "We'll see how it goes."

  The black guy, standing by the open trunk of the BMW, waved in quick come-on gestures to the tw o Americans walking out of the Ben Gurion termina l building, each carrying a suitcase and a small bag.

  The older of the two men, who had the look of a retired professional football player, a line coach , was Gene Valenzuela. His gaze, squinted in th e sunglare, moved from the white BMW to the right , to the flow of traffic leaving the airport, and bac k again to the BMW. Valenzuela had short hair an d wore his sport shirt open, the collar tips pointin g out to his shoulders, outside his checked sportcoat.

  The younger one, Teddy Cass, had long hair he combed with his fingers. He had good shoulder s and no hips, the cuffs of his green-and-gold prin t shirt turned up once. Teddy Cass was saying, "Shit , we could've brought it with us. Anything we wan t to use."

  The black guy was waving at them. "Come on, throw it in. They already took off."

  Reaching him, Valenzuela said, "You see their car?"

  "Gray Mercedes. Chickie with the nice ass got in with him."

  "So they're going the same way we are," Teddy Cass said.

  "My man," the black guy said, "any place you are, they four ways to go. They could be going t o Jerusalem. They could be going north or south. We got to know it."

  In the BMW, driving away from the terminal, Teddy Cass still couldn't get over breezing throug h Customs without opening a bag.

  Gene Valenzuela had the back seat to himself.

  He had a road map of Israel open on his lap. He would look out the window at the fields and th e sun and then look at the map.

  The black guy asked, "He see you on the plane?"

  Leaving it up to either one.

  "He was in back with the rabbis and the tour groups," Valenzuela said. "I know what he did, th e cheap fuck. The company buys him a first-clas s ticket and he trades it in on a coach. Makes about a grand. I don't know, maybe he saw us. It doesn't matter. He's gonna see us again."

  "We could've brought anything we wanted,"

  Teddy Cass said. "Any thing. Shit, I thought it was gonna be so tight I didn't even bring any e-z wider."

  "Paper's scarce, but nobody gives a shit. You get all the hash you want," the black guy said. "The y say anything to you at Immigration?"

  "That's what I'm talking about," Teddy Cass said.

  "No, that's Customs. Immigration, the man who looked at your passport." The black guy was holding the BMW at seventy-five, passing cars and tour buses in effortless sweeps. "Man look at mine, h e look at me. He look at the passport again. He say , 'Kamal Rashad.' I say, 'That's right.' He say, wher e was I born? I say, 'It's right there. Dalton, Georgia.'

  He say, where was my mother and daddy born? I s ay, 'Dalton, Georgia.' He say, where do I live? I s ay, 'Detroit, Michigan.' He want to see my ticket , make sure that's where I came from. He say, whe n was the last time I was in an Arab country? I say I n ever been to an Arab country. He say, 'But you a n Arab.' I say, 'My man, I'm a Muslim. You don't have to be an Arab to be a Muslim.' "

  Teddy Cass said, "Kamal Rashad, shit. Clarence Robinson out of Dalton, Detroit, the Wayn e County Jail, and Jackson Prison."

  "A long way around," Rashad said. "And I ain't goin' back."

  "You're not going anywhere, you blow another setup," Valenzuela said.

  "Man saw me," Rashad said, looking at the rearview mirror. "He moved. I had five in this bi g old army piece, that's all. What was I supposed t o do? Once I emptied it--see, there was people--I d idn't have the time to load and go after him."

  "So it doesn't sound like you prepared it,"

  Valenzuela said.

  "I didn't have time. I had to get a car. I had to buy a gun. I had to locate the man and kill him i n like twenty-four hours."

  "No you didn't," Valenzuela said. "You had to locate him. That's what I'm saying--you didn't prepare it. You wanted the quick shot and some points. Now the guy's flushed and we gotta fin d him again. We can assume, I think, he hasn't left th e country. Otherwise Mr. Mel Bandy wouldn't b e here to see him. That's the only thing we got goin g for us. But we lose him, you don't get on that Mercedes' ass pretty soon, we might as well go home and wait for another fire."

  "We already on it," Rashad said. "Three, four cars ahead of us." Nice. He felt his timing comin g back.

  Valenzuela leaned forward to lay his arms on the back of the front seat and study the traffic ahead o f them. After a moment he said, "You're gonna hav e to get another car. Christ, driving around in a whit e car with red paint all over the front end. Also, w e gotta make a contact for guns where we've got a selection, not some rusty shit they picked up in a field."

  "I already done it," Rashad said.

  "We could've brought our own if somebody'd told us," Teddy Cass said. He was looking out th e window as they approached a line of hitchhikin g soldiers. He got excited seeing them. "Hey, shit, w e could take theirs. You see that?" Teddy Cas s twisted in his seat to look back. "What's tha t they're carrying, M-16s?"

  "M-16s and Uzis, the submachine gun," Rashad said. "Fine little weapon. Holds thirty rounds in a banana clip. Fold the stock up on the Uzi, it fit i n your briefcase. But you take one off a soldier--I'm told they roadblock the whole fucking country, ge t your ass in half an hour."

  "I like it," Teddy Cass said. "I like the sound.

  Ouuuzi."

  "
Five bills on the black," Rashad said. "You want to pay that much. Nice Browning automatic , Beretta Parabellum, we can get for two each. Ver y popular."

  "How about explosives?" Valenzuela said.

  "I haven't priced none of that," Rashad said. "I f igure that's Teddy's department." He slowed dow n as he saw the Mercedes, now two cars ahead o f them, make a curving right into an intersectin g highway. Rashad grinned. "Keeping it easy for us.

  They going to Tel Aviv."

  The five-star hotels in Tel Aviv are all on the Mediterranean on a one-mile stretch of beach: th e Dan, the Continental, the Plaza, the Hilton, an d the Pal.

  Mel Bandy could see the Hilton as they came south on Hayarkon and turned into the Pal. Th e Hilton looked newer, more modern. The Pal looke d put together, its newest wing coming out from th e front on pillars, with a parking area and the mai n entrance beneath. Tali said oh yes, the Pal was a n excellent hotel. Mel Bandy wasn't sure.

  He got out of the Mercedes and entered the lobby, pulling at the trousers sticking to his can , and waited while Tali spoke to the desk people i n Hebrew, sounding like she was arguing wit h them--good, not taking any shit--then brough t out the manager, Mr. Shapira, who was delighte d to meet Mr. Bandy from Detroit. Mel was surprise d and felt a little better.

  Moving to the elevator, he said, "We got a suite?"

  Tali looked at the two keys she was holding. "I d on't know. I think it's adjoining rooms."

  "I told them I wanted a suite."

  "Let me ask Mr. Shapira."

  "Never mind," Mel said. "Get the bags upstairs and call the guy at the embassy. I'll look at th e rooms. I don't like them, we'll have them changed."

  Tali said yes, of course. She didn't know if she liked this Mr. Bandy. He wasn't at all like Mr.

  Rosen.

  The white BMW, motor idling, waited on Hayarkon in front of the Pal.

  "Where's the Hilton from here?" Valenzuela was leaning forward again, looking through th e windshield.

  Rashad pointed. "The one right there. Independence Park in between. You can run it in two minutes."

  "Looks better'n this place," Teddy Cass said.

  But it was Valenzuela who'd decide. He said, "I d on't like to run. I want to be close by, in the sam e place."

  "How do I know where the man's going to stay?" Rashad said. "See, he didn't call me and le t me know."

  Valenzuela didn't bother to give him a look. He said to Teddy Cass, "Go in, tell them we got a reservation. Two rooms. Wait a minute, tell them you're a friend of Mr. Bandy's. And find out what roo m he's in."

  Teddy Cass got out of the car and walked into the shade of the parking area beneath the ne w wing.

  Valenzuela sat back in the seat, thoughtful.

  "Where's the gun contact? How far?"

  "Cross town, over in the Hatikva Quarter."

  "You and Teddy'll go there this afternoon. But you got to watch him. Teddy'll buy the fuckin g store."

  "I'm supposed to meet the man tonight. Ain't somebody you call up and say make it three fortyfive instead."

  "All right, this evening. How'd you find him?"

  "You recall I came here with a name. Friend of a friend."

  "Five for an Uzi, huh?"

  "Going price yesterday. Subject to change."

  "We're not going to worry about that. We're not gonna go crazy, but we're not gonna skimp either.

  How about shotguns?"

  "I 'magine. Probably buy shotguns on a street corner. This man leans toward the more exoti c weapons."

  "Teddy wants dynamite or some plastic, C4. He was thinking they got everything here, with all th e fucking wars."

  "If he's got it in stock," Rashad said. "See, the man's been dealing over the border, in Lebanon , selling everything he can get his hands on."

  "We'll make him a better offer," Valenzuela said.

  When Teddy Cass came back they saw him nodding before he reached the car.

  "Okay, Clarence-Rashad," Valenzuela said.

  "Check out and come back here. We'll show you how it's done."

  THE MARINE BEHIND the high counter that was like a judge's bench inside the front entrance of th e United States Embassy, Tel Aviv, was Gunner y Sergeant David E. Davis: Regulation haircut, white cover with the spitshine peak straight over his eyes, blue dress trousers, and short-sleeved tan shirt, the colla r open, "Charlie" uniform of the day. He wore fou r rows of ribbons: all the Vietnam colors, Comba t Action Ribbon, Expeditionary Forces Medal, thre e Unit Citations, two Hearts and a Silver Star. Belo w the ribbons were an Expert Rifleman badge and th e smaller crossed-rifles-on-a-wreath version that indicated "expert with a pistol."

  Davis appeared squared away, but with a tarnished look about him: a scrub farmer in his good Sunday shirt and tie. Davis was thirty-four. He ha d been in the Marines sixteen years. He was gettin g out of the Corps in exactly twenty-seven days an d he couldn't sleep thinking about it. It scared him.

  He picked up the phone on the first ring and said, "Sergeant Davis, Post One . . . Oh, how ar e you? . . . Yeah, I can bring it when I get off duty."

  There was a hint of a wearing-off southern accent in his voice. "I got to change first and do a fe w things, so it'll be about an hour and a half. Tha t okay?" He listened to the girl's voice, staring at th e round convex mirror above the front entrance. Th e mirror showed the area behind him all the way t o the fenced-off stairway at the end of the lobby.

  When someone came down the stairs or wanted to go up, the watch-stander on Post One pressed a button and buzzed open the gate in the low meta l fence.

  He said, "Pal Hotel. What room? . . . Okay, I'll call you from the desk. Listen, I told you I was going on leave? . . . It's like a vacation. I got twenty days coming and I'm taking some before I g o home. . . . No, what I'm trying to tell you, I'm going on leave soon as I get off duty. But I'll drop the package off first. . . . Okay, I'll see you in a while."

  His gaze lowered from the mirror to the front entrance and the Israeli security guard at his desk next to the glass doors that sealed out the street noise s and the sun and the construction dust. The facad e of the embassy reminded Davis of a five-story pos t office, with official U. S. seal, placed by mistake o n the street of a Mediterranean city. Inside, the embassy reminded him of a bank--the lobby with th e high ceiling, clean, air-conditioned. He was th e bank guard. When someone wanted to see th e manager he buzzed the gate open.

  When someone had an appointment upstairs Davis would call up first before buzzing the perso n through the gate. Or he'd direct people to the reading lounge or to the visa office. Or explain to someone, very politely, no, you can't stop in and say hi to the ambassador unless you have an appointment. Some of the tourists came in and were surprised that the ambassador wasn't there to greet them.

  Embassy security guard duty was considered good duty.

  Eight-hour watches, here and at the ambassador's residence, divided among a complement of seven Marines under Master Sergeant T. C. Cox o f Amarillo, Texas, twenty-two years in the Corps.

  Military training two days a week. A hundred hours of language school, Hebrew. (Davis kne w about five words.) Deliver some papers to the consulate in Jerusalem. Pick somebody up at Ben Gurion. Recommended calisthenics and a three-mile run every morning out at the Marine House in Herzliya Pituah. (Sgt. Willard Mims of Indianapolis, Indiana, a former 1st Force Recon Marine, ran te n miles every morning, down to Afeka and back , wearing a flak jacket and combat boots. Davi s would say, "As long as we got Willard, nobody's gonna fuck with us.") Good quarters. Each ma n with his own room in a pair of townhouse condominiums a block from the sea. Each room comfortable and personal. (Sgt. Grady Mason from Fort Smith, Arkansas, had Arab rugs, a brass waterpip e he didn't use, and a Day-Glo painting on black velvet of the Mosque of Omar. Stores included refrigerators full of Maccabee beer and several cases of vodka. Fried eggs, potatoes, bacon, and pancake s for breakfast. You didn't wear a uniform more tha n a couple of days a week. Three days off out
of ever y eleven. Good duty.

  All the Marines at the Marine House said it was.

  Davis had asked each of them once, at different times, if they'd ever had bad duty. Each one ha d thought about it and said no, he'd never had ba d duty. Davis had said, What about BLT duty-Battalion Landing Team? No, it was all right; yo u got to see foreign capitals and get laid. He'd said , What about in Nam? They had all been there an d each one of them had thought about it some mor e and said no, Nam was bad, but it wasn't bad duty , it was part of it. Part of what? Part of being in th e Marines.

  MSgt. T. C. Cox would look at Davis funny.

  How could Davis be in the Marines sixteen years and ask questions like that? Davis didn't know. Fo r sixteen years he had been looking for good duty.

  (He had been to Parris Island, Lejeune, the supply center in Philly, on Med Cruise BLT duty, Gitmo , Barstow, California--Christ--MCB McTureous o n Okinawa, and with the 3rd Marines in Vietnam.) Now he was at the end of his fourth tour and still hadn't found any.

  Sgt. Mims, roving security guard today, stopped at the Post One desk.

  "Top wants to see you before you shove off."

  Davis nodded. "Where is he?"

  "Down the cafeteria."

  He'd see "Top"--MSgt. T. C. Cox--have a cup of coffee with him, and tell him again, "Yeah, I'v e thought about shipping over, but . . ." Then say , "You want to know the truth? I don't want to sta y in, but I don't want to get out either. Do you understand where I'm at? If you do, then explain it to me."

  And before he left for good, he'd see about getting somebody to take his place--somebody willing to receive by APO mail every six months a package that contained one hundred thousand dollars in U. S. currency. You could look at it, make sure it was money and not dope or dirty books--t here was nothing illegal about receiving money i n the mail. Just so you didn't ask too many questions , like, what was the money for? The girl wouldn't tell you anyway. Good-looking girl, too, with a nice little can. He should've gotten to know he r better.

  A girl in a white bridal gown was having her picture taken in Independence Park, posed in an arbor of shelf rock and shrubbery.

  "There's another one," Mel Bandy said. He stood at the bank of windows in the eighth-floo r hotel room, looking down at the park. "What i s this with the brides?"