don' t know--" He turned to go into the room and cam e around again and stood there.
Davis watched the black guy, Rashad, comin g away from the BMW, past empty parking spaces , then go behind some other cars, walking towar d the Camaro.
"Which one's your car?" Davis said.
"The black one, right near the walk." It was a Mercedes four-door sedan.
"They know it's yours?"
"I don't see how they could."
It was next to the Camaro. They could run, ge t to the cars--then what?
All the BMW had to do was back up and i t would block the drive. There were shrubs alon g the street; you couldn't run over the lawn to ge t out. Well, maybe, but you could get hung up on a bush.
If they sat here long enough the guys in the BMW w ould come up looking, assuming they wanted t o kill Rosen and they knew he was upstairs.
Davis realized he was getting excited. It was a good feeling. Not being aware of it as a feeling, bu t thinking, figuring out a way to gain control and either neutralize the situation or kick ass.
One option--call the police.
There's a suspicious-looking white car down i n the parking lot. Then what? An Israeli cop comes i n his white car. But if they were serious and it wa s their business--the guys in the BMW--they wer e liable to shoot the cop. Davis tried to imagine calling the police and explaining it in English over the phone, telling a long story.
Or call the embassy. Get somebody there, afte r he explained it, to call the cops and explain it again , second-hand, in Hebrew. How long would it take?
The black guy was opening the door of the Camar o now, getting his bag out, looking up at the building.
They'd be armed. They could be impatient--
"What'd he shoot at you with?" Davis said.
"The colored guy."
"I don't know. Some kind of a pistol."
Davis went into the room and picked up th e Beretta. "This fully loaded?"
"I checked it," Rosen said.
"You got more cartridges?"
"In the briefcase. With an extra clip."
The Beretta had a three-and-five-eighths-inc h barrel that barely extended past Davis' knuckl e when his finger was wrapped around the trigge r guard. "Are you any good with it?"
"I've had it since I came here," Rosen said.
"Can you put the rounds where you want i s what I'm asking," Davis said.
"I've fired it a few times, in the desert."
He probably couldn't hit the wall but woul d never admit it. "Makes a noise for a little thing , doesn't it? Well," Davis said, "I think, instead of u s standing around scratching our asses, we might a s well be doing something."
"Like what?" Rosen said.
He was nervous but controlling it. That wa s good. "You want to get out of here," Davis said.
"How about if we get the police?"
"The pol ice? What do I say, these guys are annoying me? We're standing there looking at each other? Listen, these people, you put them in a position, they'd shoot the cops cold, no fucking around. I don't think you understand who thes e people are."
"I said get the cops. I didn't say call them and ge t into something we can't explain," Davis said. "No , we give your friends a little time to get out. Work i t so you don't get mixed up in it and have to answe r questions."
"How?"
"Take your money, whatever you're gonna take , go downstairs by the door, and wait. You see thei r car leave, watch which way it turns going out. Yo u take off and head the other way."
"Where will you be?"
"Don't worry about it. Then, once you're clear , where do you think you'll go?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm standing here--I don't se e how I'm going anywhere, for Christ's sake, three , four of them waiting down there--"
"Mr. Rosen, come on. You got it pretty much together," Davis said. "You don't want to lose it now.
Tell me where you're likely to go."
"I guess Jerusalem"--calm again--"the Kin g David."
"Okay, later on I'll give you a call, see how yo u made it."
Rosen was frowning at him again, trying to figure something out. "Whatever you're doing, this is still part of the grand Mel gave you?"
"You
Davis watched the black guy, Rashad, comin g away from the BMW, past empty parking spaces , then go behind some other cars, walking towar d the Camaro.
"Which one's your car?" Davis said.
"The black one, right near the walk." It was a Mercedes four-door sedan.
"They know it's yours?"
"I don't see how they could."
It was next to the Camaro. They could run, ge t to the cars--then what?
All the BMW had to do was back up and i t would block the drive. There were shrubs alon g the street; you couldn't run over the lawn to ge t out. Well, maybe, but you could get hung up on a bush.
If they sat here long enough the guys in the BMW w ould come up looking, assuming they wanted t o kill Rosen and they knew he was upstairs.
Davis realized he was getting excited. It was a good feeling. Not being aware of it as a feeling, bu t thinking, figuring out a way to gain control and either neutralize the situation or kick ass.
One option--call the police.
There's a suspicious-looking white car down i n the parking lot. Then what? An Israeli cop comes i n his white car. But if they were serious and it wa s their business--the guys in the BMW--they wer e liable to shoot the cop. Davis tried to imagine calling the police and explaining it in English over the phone, telling a long story.
Or call the embassy. Get somebody there, afte r he explained it, to call the cops and explain it again , second-hand, in Hebrew. How long would it take?
The black guy was opening the door of the Camar o now, getting his bag out, looking up at the building.
They'd be armed. They could be impatient--
"What'd he shoot at you with?" Davis said.
"The colored guy."
"I don't know. Some kind of a pistol."
Davis went into the room and picked up th e Beretta. "This fully loaded?"
"I checked it," Rosen said.
"You got more cartridges?"
"In the briefcase. With an extra clip."
The Beretta had a three-and-five-eighths-inc h barrel that barely extended past Davis' knuckl e when his finger was wrapped around the trigge r guard. "Are you any good with it?"
"I've had it since I came here," Rosen said.
"Can you put the rounds where you want i s what I'm asking," Davis said.
"I've fired it a few times, in the desert."
He probably couldn't hit the wall but woul d never admit it. "Makes a noise for a little thing , doesn't it? Well," Davis said, "I think, instead of u s standing around scratching our asses, we might a s well be doing something."
"Like what?" Rosen said.
He was nervous but controlling it. That wa s good. "You want to get out of here," Davis said.
"How about if we get the police?"
"The pol ice? What do I say, these guys are annoying me? We're standing there looking at each other? Listen, these people, you put them in a position, they'd shoot the cops cold, no fucking around. I don't think you understand who thes e people are."
"I said get the cops. I didn't say call them and ge t into something we can't explain," Davis said. "No , we give your friends a little time to get out. Work i t so you don't get mixed up in it and have to answe r questions."
"How?"
"Take your money, whatever you're gonna take , go downstairs by the door, and wait. You see thei r car leave, watch which way it turns going out. Yo u take off and head the other way."
"Where will you be?"
"Don't worry about it. Then, once you're clear , where do you think you'll go?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm standing here--I don't se e how I'm going anywhere, for Christ's sake, three , four of them waiting down there--"
"Mr. Rosen, come on. You got it pretty much together," Davis said. "You don't want to lose it now.
Tell me where you're likely to go."
"I guess Jerusalem"--calm again--"the Kin g David."
"Okay, later on I'll give you a call, see how yo u made it."
Rosen was frowning at him again, trying to figure something out. "Whatever you're doing, this is still part of the grand Mel gave you?"
"You
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