He was of average height and build, with black hair that was thinning on top. Clean-shaven, a high forehead, a wide space between his long nose and thin-lipped mouth. He wore a dark-blue jacket and black slacks, a flat cap he put on the table next to his plate.
Could he be the man I'd seen last night on Amos Street?
The answer was yes, but so could a big chunk of the male population of Jerusalem. I had to make sure.
I asked for my check, paid it, and left. I ambled south and a block later stopped to admire a suit in a display window. At the edge of my vision I caught sight of the man, bent low over his shoe, retying its laces.
Got you, I thought, but the sense of victory was mingled with fear.
I walked on, my back prickling, knowing I was being watched. I picked up my pace, taking my shadow on a trip south and east, finally coming to Hillel Street, where I entered the open expanse of Mamilla Cemetery.
This was a Muslim cemetery, by and large, where centuries of dead rested, but I'd heard that archaeologists had found graves here dating back to Byzantine times, and that a few Crusaders were interred here as well.
The cemetery was five acres of uneven ground and in a deplorable state. Many of the old tombstones were broken or dirty or sunk into the earth at odd angles. Trees of various types dotted the large area with no order or cultivation. Much of the ground was covered by wild grass, weeds, stubby bushes, and the occasional wildflower. The rest was mud.
I walked along a narrow path that curved southeast. The man shadowing me had a problem now. This was open ground, with few places to hide, and there were no people about. If he followed me into the cemetery, he'd be easy to spot.
On the other hand, the cemetery was large and had numerous exits. If he gave up the tail, he'd have no clue where I went. I hoped he wouldn't let that happen.
I was taking a risk. The isolation afforded by the cemetery could backfire. Not only was this hallowed ground empty of living souls but me, the cemetery was ringed by a stone wall that shielded much of it from view of passersby on surrounding streets. It was the perfect spot for a crime without witnesses. A place fit for murder.
I passed a scattering of graves that might have been from the time of the Mamluk Sultanate, though I couldn't be sure. I couldn't read the faded Arabic inscriptions.
Walking on, now fifty meters into the cemetery, I stopped abruptly to light a cigarette. Behind me, I heard the faint scrape of a shoe as someone came to a sudden halt. The man had followed me in, but he was keeping his distance. Good news on both counts. He was still on my tail, but too far to fire a gun accurately. It made me feel a little safer.
I didn't turn, though my back was no longer prickling but itching like mad. I carried on, pulling on the cigarette as though I hadn't a care in the world. Soon I arrived at a spot I remembered from my previous visit to this cemetery shortly after the War of Independence. It was a Muslim mausoleum, squat and domed, dating from the thirteenth or fourteenth century. The man buried there must have been important to merit such an edifice, and it had withstood the eroding claws of time better than any other graves I'd seen here.
The mausoleum had an entryway topped by an ornamental arch, and inside two shafts of light slashed the dimness from windows on the opposite wall. Instead of entering, I circled the structure to the far side. Here I stopped, taking care not to block either window, dropped my cigarette, and killed it under my shoe. The trail continued on, and for some distance the mausoleum blocked it from view of anyone coming on its other side. Like the man following me.
I could hear him now. Soft-footed but not silent, approaching at an unhurried but steady pace. I got ready, counted back from ten to one, and then completed the encirclement of the mausoleum, the gun pointed forward.
My timing was imperfect; I didn't come up behind him as I'd hoped. But it was good enough. The man was eight feet away. A little far for such a small gun, but close enough so he'd think twice about chancing it. The man froze, his jaw dropping, and I closed the distance, stopping five feet away, the gun aimed at the center of his homely face.
"Who the hell are you?" I said. "And why are you following me?"
"Following you?" the man said, his voice quavering. "I don't know what you mean, mister. I've never seen you before in my life. I was cutting through here to Agron Street. Don't shoot me. I got kids."
"You followed me here from a café on Yekhezkel Street," I said. "And yesterday, you came into a cinema after me. Boring movie, wasn't it?"
The man swallowed hard, making a clicking sound deep in his throat. "You've got me mixed up with someone else. I didn't watch any movie yesterday."
"And last night you were on Amos Street, right across from the building where I slept." I angled the gun downward. "Now, do I have to shoot you in the knee to get you to stop lying? You feel like hobbling on a cane for the rest of your life?"
The man went green, and his hands shook. His eyes darted in all directions.
"There's no one here," I said. "And this is a small gun. The sound won't carry far. I don't have much patience. Are you going to make me count to three?"
He exhaled loudly and shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Lapid."
I smiled. "You know my name, but I don't know yours."
"I'm Yigal Ruslander."
"Are you armed, Yigal?"
"No."
"Let's make sure, shall we? Very slowly, open your coat. Good. Now lift it up so I can see your waistband. Turn around and keep those hands still."
No gun.
I told him to dump the contents of his pockets, then ordered him to go sit on his hands in the entryway to the mausoleum so he'd have nowhere to run. Keeping the gun trained on him, I crouched and opened his wallet. I learned two things: he wasn't a cop, and he had given me his true name.
I closed the wallet without touching his money and left it on the ground.
"What do you do for a living, Yigal?"
"I'm a private detective. Just like you."
"How long have you been following me?"
"I was hired on January 10, but it took me a few days to find you, not until you were back in Tel Aviv. I understand you got hurt pretty badly."
I didn't like him knowing it. "I'm fine now, so don't try anything."
He permitted himself a small smile. Now that we were talking, the acuteness of his fear had waned, but he was still sitting on his hands, his posture distinctly nonthreatening. "Don't worry. I've no desire to get shot."
"Who hired you?"
