"But I found no mention of it until this entry." Jake frowned. "Keep going. I'll go back through the pages I've done."

The next reference to Cave 2001 was on November 26, 1963, over a month later. Haas had been invited to join the group.

"Haas is reporting on the three skeletons from Locus 8, that's the northern palace area, and Locus 2001, that's the cave bones." Jake's finger moved over the text. "He says there are twenty-four to twenty-six persons and a six-month fetus. Fourteen males, six females, four children, and some unknowns."

"We know the figures don't add up," I said.

"Right." Jake looked up. "But more to the point: Where is any previous discussion of the cave and its contents?"

"Maybe we missed it," I said.

"Maybe."

"Let's reread everything prior to October twentieth," I suggested.

We did.

There wasn't a single mention of the cave's exploration or excavation.

But I did learn something.

The pages were numbered. In Arabic.

I could read Arabic numbers.

I went back through the period in question.

Pages were missing from the early weeks of October.

With a growing sense of dread, we rechecked every notebook in every file.

The pages hadn't been improperly cataloged.

They were gone.

30.

"CAN MATERIALS BE CHECKED OUT?" I ASKED ASKED.

"No. And Porat a.s.sured me we have everything in the collection."

"If the pages were removed, it had to be internal."

We considered in silence.

"Yadin announced the discovery of the palace skeletons at a press conference in November of sixty-three," I said. "Clearly, he was interested in human remains."

"h.e.l.l, yeah. How better to validate the Masada suicides?"

"So Yadin talked about the three people found up top, in the area occupied by the main group. His brave little zealot 'family.'" I hooked quotes around the word. "But he ignored the Locus 2001 remains, the twenty-whatever people found in the cave below the cas.e.m.e.nt wall, at the southern tip of the summit. No press at all for those folks."

"Zip-o."

"What did did Yadin tell the media?" Yadin tell the media?"

Jake's fingertips worked his temples. The veins hummed blue through his whitewashed skin.

"I'm not sure."

"Might he have had doubts about the age of the bones?"

"In his first season report Yadin stated that nothing from the cave pointed to anything later than the period of the first revolt. And he was right. Radiocarbon dates reported in the early nineties on bits of fabric found mixed with the bones fell between forty and 115 C.E. C.E."

Missing pages. Stolen skeletons. A murdered dealer. A dead priest. It was like peering down a hall of tilted mirrors. What was real? What was distortion? What led to what?

I sensed one thing.

Some invisible thread tied everything back to the cave bones.

And to Max.

I noticed Jake steal a glance at his watch.

"You're going to bed," I said, sliding notebooks into files.

"I'm fine." His body language disagreed.

"You're eroding right in front of me."

"I do have a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a headache. Would you mind dropping me off and taking my car?"

I stood.

"No problem."

Jake provided a map, directions, and the keys to the Honda. He was asleep before I left his flat.

I'm pretty good with directions. I'm pretty good with maps. I'm lousy with signs in unfamiliar symbols in foreign languages.

The trip from Beit Hanina to the American Colony should have taken twenty minutes. An hour later I was hopelessly lost. Somehow I'd gotten onto Sderot Yigal Yadin. Then I was on Sha'arei Yerushalaim without making a turn.

Checking the name of a cross street, I pulled over, spread Jake's map on the wheel, and tried to pinpoint my location.

In the rearview, I noticed a car slide to the curb ten yards behind me. My mind did an automatic data log. Sedan. Dark blue. Two occupants.

A sign indicated I was near the exit to the Tel Aviv road. But which Tel Aviv road? My map showed two.

I looked for more landmarks.

Data log. No one emerging from the sedan.

I saw signs for the central bus station and a Holiday Inn. I could get directions at either.

I was smokin'. I had a plan.

I set off, intending to hit whichever inst.i.tution first crossed my path.

Data log. Sedan pulling out behind me.

I felt a p.r.i.c.kle of apprehension. It was Friday and moving toward dusk. The streets were Sabbath empty.

I turned right.

The sedan turned right.

I'd been tailed twice in my life. On neither occasion had the intent been to promote my good health.

I made a right, then a left one block later.

The sedan did the same.

I didn't like this.

Gripping the wheel two-handed, I sped up.

The sedan stayed with me.

I hung a left.

The sedan rounded the corner behind me.

I turned again. I was now lost in a maze of smaller streets. Only one van in sight. The sedan drew closer.

One shotgun thought: Get away!

Accelerating quickly, I swerved around the van, scanning ahead, searching for a haven.

One familiar sign. A red cross. First aid. A clinic? A hospital? No matter, either would do.

My eyes flicked to the rearview.

The sedan was closing in.

I spotted a clinic in the middle of a small strip center. Pulling into the lot, I threw the car into park, and bolted for the door.

The sedan shot past. Through the rolled-up window I got one snapshot image.

Angry mouth. Viper eyes. Untrimmed beard of a muj fundamentalist.

I met Ryan in the hotel lobby at seven. By then I wasn't sure if I'd been tailed or not. My room had been trashed. I'd been threatened by a jackal. Jake and I had been stoned. Max had been nabbed. We'd wrecked the truck. During a long, hot bath I began yielding to the view that my jangled nerves had reconfigured events.

Maybe the sedan was traveling the same route as mine. Maybe the driver was as lost as I was. Maybe the occupants were an Israeli version of our back-home testosterone-bloated, Friday-night-cruising rednecks.

"Don't be naive," I said to myself, taking a deep breath. That car had specific interest in my car.

Neither Ryan nor I was in the mood for a heavy meal. The desk clerk gave directions to an Arabic restaurant not far away.

As the woman spoke her eyes kept flicking to me. When I met them, they danced away. I had the feeling she wanted to tell me something.

I tried to cast friendly, inviting glances, but she didn't volunteer whatever was on her mind.

The restaurant was marked by a sign the size of my face soap. We found it after three stops for directions. An armed doorman checked us through.

Inside, it was dim and packed. Booths lined two walls and tables filled the center. The clientele was mostly male. The few women present wore hijab hijabs . . The owner didn't believe in smoke-free sections. The owner didn't believe in smoke-free sections.

We were shown to a booth so dark it was impossible to make out the printed word. I glanced at the menu then gave Ryan a take-it-away gesture.

The waiter wore a white shirt and black pants. His teeth were yellowed, his face lined from years of cigarettes.

Ryan said something in Arabic. I understood the word "c.o.ke." The waiter asked a question. Ryan gave a thumbs-up. The waiter scribbled on a pad and left.

"What did you order?" I asked.

"Pizza."

"Vocabulary a la Friedman?"

"I can also ask the location of the toilet."

"What kind?"

"American Standard?"

"Of pizza."

"I'm not sure."

I told Ryan about my visit to the Rockefeller.