personals his eye caught a brief notice addressed to Walter D. In his armpits the pores opened suddenly.
âWalter D. Did you get my present? Marie.â
He went quickly into the house, into the little study on the ground floor, and locked the door. Taking a French edition of Crime and Punishment from the shelves he sat at the desk and began marking numbers on a sheet of paper.
Walter D. was meaningless. It was just to get his attention. He began with did. D was twenty, page twenty, fourth word, first letter. I was forty-five, ninth word. D again. It was an elementary code. All you needed was the right edition of the right book.
6
Simon Calvi stood near the Damascus Gate wishing he werenât. It wasnât the cold, he had been cold before, many times. It wasnât the night, night didnât bother him either. Perhaps it was age. He had never been old before. He knew he wasnât going to like it.
He looked up at the crenellated wall that topped the gate. The half moon was doing a terrific lighting job on the old stones, cutting centuries off their age. No Hollywood director with all his fancy filters could have done better work for his fading star. In the pale light Calvi could almost see a real fort, with Crusaders lurking behind the wall getting ready to shoot their arrows through the slits. In the daytime it would be a Crusaderâs dream come true from up there: the square packed with peddlers, beggars, tourists, housewives, and donkeys, like the cast and crew of The Ten Commandments on a break. Now Calvi had the place to himself, except for an emaciated old Arab sleeping behind his felafel stand.
Calvi sank deeper into his fleece-lined duffel coat. A muezzin, in a dyspeptic voice that told listeners it was just a job, and not a very good one, began singing the last call to prayer. The scratchy notes heralded the arrival of two soldiers who came through the gate quite suddenly, Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders. Groggily the old Arab got to his feet and stood behind the pile of dirty orange crates that served as his stand, his eyes on nothing. From a distance of thirty or forty feet the soldiers gave Calvi a careful look. Indifferently he turned his back on them and slowly walked over to the felafel stand. He felt the soldiersâ eyes on his back while he asked the old man in Arabic if he had anything left to sell. The old man had white cataract smears on both eyes. He reached into a crate and pulled out a little lump wrapped in shreds of greasy newspaper. Calvi dropped a coin into the manâs hand and forced himself to bite off a piece and chew it. He heard the soldiers start walking away, their heavy boots making hard sounds on the unyielding stone.
When he turned around, they were gone. Around to the Jaffa Gate and back inside the walls, he reckoned. They probably patrolled the Old City quarter by quarter. He tossed the remains of the felafel away and resumed his position near the gate. It was hard to feel inconspicuous when your face was in the morning paper.
Calvi heard the old man mutter something and saw him walk stiffly into the square to retrieve the felafel. He returned to his stand, wrapped it in another tatter of newspaper and tucked it out of sight. Calvi leaned against the wall and thought about the trouble between the Arabs and the Jews.
From the Nablus Road came the rough sound of a car motor that needed tuning. Calvi looked north and saw the approaching headlights. Slowly a dusty, dark-colored Volkswagen entered the square and swept around the perimeter until its beams fastened on Calvi by the wall. Then the lights were shut off and the motor cut. It was very quiet. The old man slept on the stones.
Calvi waited for a minute before he walked across the square to the car. He opened the passenger door and sat inside. Immediately the car began a startling high-pitched buzzing. The driver turned to Calvi and said, âSeat belt.â He said it in English but
âWalter D. Did you get my present? Marie.â
He went quickly into the house, into the little study on the ground floor, and locked the door. Taking a French edition of Crime and Punishment from the shelves he sat at the desk and began marking numbers on a sheet of paper.
Walter D. was meaningless. It was just to get his attention. He began with did. D was twenty, page twenty, fourth word, first letter. I was forty-five, ninth word. D again. It was an elementary code. All you needed was the right edition of the right book.
6
Simon Calvi stood near the Damascus Gate wishing he werenât. It wasnât the cold, he had been cold before, many times. It wasnât the night, night didnât bother him either. Perhaps it was age. He had never been old before. He knew he wasnât going to like it.
He looked up at the crenellated wall that topped the gate. The half moon was doing a terrific lighting job on the old stones, cutting centuries off their age. No Hollywood director with all his fancy filters could have done better work for his fading star. In the pale light Calvi could almost see a real fort, with Crusaders lurking behind the wall getting ready to shoot their arrows through the slits. In the daytime it would be a Crusaderâs dream come true from up there: the square packed with peddlers, beggars, tourists, housewives, and donkeys, like the cast and crew of The Ten Commandments on a break. Now Calvi had the place to himself, except for an emaciated old Arab sleeping behind his felafel stand.
Calvi sank deeper into his fleece-lined duffel coat. A muezzin, in a dyspeptic voice that told listeners it was just a job, and not a very good one, began singing the last call to prayer. The scratchy notes heralded the arrival of two soldiers who came through the gate quite suddenly, Uzi submachine guns slung over their shoulders. Groggily the old Arab got to his feet and stood behind the pile of dirty orange crates that served as his stand, his eyes on nothing. From a distance of thirty or forty feet the soldiers gave Calvi a careful look. Indifferently he turned his back on them and slowly walked over to the felafel stand. He felt the soldiersâ eyes on his back while he asked the old man in Arabic if he had anything left to sell. The old man had white cataract smears on both eyes. He reached into a crate and pulled out a little lump wrapped in shreds of greasy newspaper. Calvi dropped a coin into the manâs hand and forced himself to bite off a piece and chew it. He heard the soldiers start walking away, their heavy boots making hard sounds on the unyielding stone.
When he turned around, they were gone. Around to the Jaffa Gate and back inside the walls, he reckoned. They probably patrolled the Old City quarter by quarter. He tossed the remains of the felafel away and resumed his position near the gate. It was hard to feel inconspicuous when your face was in the morning paper.
Calvi heard the old man mutter something and saw him walk stiffly into the square to retrieve the felafel. He returned to his stand, wrapped it in another tatter of newspaper and tucked it out of sight. Calvi leaned against the wall and thought about the trouble between the Arabs and the Jews.
From the Nablus Road came the rough sound of a car motor that needed tuning. Calvi looked north and saw the approaching headlights. Slowly a dusty, dark-colored Volkswagen entered the square and swept around the perimeter until its beams fastened on Calvi by the wall. Then the lights were shut off and the motor cut. It was very quiet. The old man slept on the stones.
Calvi waited for a minute before he walked across the square to the car. He opened the passenger door and sat inside. Immediately the car began a startling high-pitched buzzing. The driver turned to Calvi and said, âSeat belt.â He said it in English but
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