Part 30 (1/2)
”Who'd you talk to?”
”Tovya Blotnik and Ruth Anne Bloom.”
”Bloom's the bone lady?”
I hid a smile. I'd been given the same tag.
”Yes.”
”They mention that bone box?” Friedman asked.
”The James ossuary?”
Friedman nodded.
”Blotnik mentioned it. Why?”
Friedman ignored my question. ”This Drum suggest you keep a low profile once you got here?”
”Jake advised me not to contact anyone in Israel before meeting with him.”
Friedman drained his beer. When he spoke again his voice sounded flat, as though he was sealing his real thoughts from it.
”Your friend's advice is solid.”
Solid. But, as things turned out, futile.
19.
FIVE-TWENTY A.M. O OUTSIDE MY WINDOW THE TREETOPS WERE black, the mosque's minaret just a hard shadow across the street. I'd been jarred awake by its loudspeaker sounding the call to black, the mosque's minaret just a hard shadow across the street. I'd been jarred awake by its loudspeaker sounding the call to fajr, fajr, morning prayer. morning prayer.
G.o.d is great, the muezzin coaxed in Arabic. Prayer is better than sleep.
I wasn't so sure. I felt sluggish and disconnected, like a patient clawing out of anesthesia.
The mechanical wailing ended. Birdsong filled the void. A barking dog. The thunk of a car door.
I lay in bed, gripped by a shapeless sense that tragedy loomed not far off. What? When?
I watched my room ooze from silver to pink as I listened to traffic sounds merge and strengthen. I prodded my unconscious. Why the uneasiness?
Jet lag? Fear for my safety? Guilt over Morissonneau?
Whoa. There was a burrow I hadn't poked. I'd visited the monastery, four days later Morissonneau was a body on a path. Had my actions triggered the priest's death? Should I have known I was placing him in danger?
Had I placed Morissonneau in danger? I placed Morissonneau in danger?
What the h.e.l.l was was this skeleton? this skeleton?
In part, my anxiety grew from the fact that others seemed to know what I did not.
Blotnik. Friedman. Even Jake appeared to be holding back.
Especially Jake? Did my friend have an agenda he wasn't sharing? I didn't really believe that.
And holding back on what?
The James ossuary for one thing. Everyone was skittering around the subject. I vowed to crack that mystery today.
I felt better. I was taking action. Or at least planning to take action.
At six I rose, showered, and descended to the restaurant, hoping Ryan had also awakened early. I also hoped he'd reconciled to the fact that I was in 304 and he was down the hall in 307.
We'd discussed sleeping arrangements before leaving Montreal. I'd insisted on separate rooms, arguing that we were traveling to Israel on official business. Ryan had objected, saying no one would know. I'd suggested it would be fun to sneak back and forth. Ryan had disagreed. I'd prevailed.
Ryan was seated at a table, scowling at something on his plate.
”Why would anyone serve olives for breakfast?” Ryan's tone suggested he was more jet-lagged than I.
”You don't like olives?”
”After five P.M. P.M.” Ryan sidelined the offending fruit and dug into a mound of eggs the size of Mount Rushmore. ”In gin.”
Deducing that congenial conversation would not be forthcoming, I focused on my hummus and cheese.
”You and Friedman are off to see Kaplan?” I asked when Rushmore had been reduced to a hummock.
Ryan nodded then checked his watch.
”Masada Max is going to Blotnik?” he asked.
”Yes. But I promised Jake I'd meet with him before contacting anyone else. He'll be here any minute, then we'll head over to the IAA.”
Knocking back his coffee, Ryan stood and aimed a finger at me. ”Be careful out there, soldier.”
I snapped two fingers to my forehead. ”Roger that.”
Ryan returned salute and strode from the room.
Jake arrived at seven wearing jeans, a sleeveless camouflage jacket, and a blue Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt open over a white T. Quite a fas.h.i.+on statement on a shave-headed, six-foot-sixer with hedgerow brows.
”You brought boots?” Jake asked, dropping into the chair Ryan had vacated.
”To meet with Blotnik?”
”I want you to see something.”