Free The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman

George.
    Ben-Roi had only managed a snatched breakfast and his stomach was rumbling. The sausages would take at least fifteen minutes to prepare, however, and he didn’t have time.
    ‘Coffee’s fine,’ he said. ‘You heard what happened? In the cathedral?’
    ‘Every Armenian in Jerusalem’s heard about it,’ said George, pulling on his cigarette. ‘We heard about it before the police did. We’re a close community.’
    ‘Any thoughts?’ asked Ben-Roi.
    ‘What, like: do I know who did it?’
    ‘That would be helpful.’
    George blew a smoke ring. ‘If I knew anything I’d tell you, Arieh. There’s not an Armenian in Jerusalem who wouldn’t tell you if they knew something. In the whole of Israel. To desecrate our cathedral like that.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘We’re in shock. All of us.’
    There was a clatter on the stairs and a burly man descended, carrying a cardboard box full of what looked like bundles of spinach. George spoke to him in Armenian; the man deposited the box just inside the kitchen swing-doors and left.
    ‘In shock,’ repeated George once he was gone. ‘In ’67, during the fighting, there were people killed when a shell fell on the compound, but this . . . For everyone in our community, the cathedral is sacred. The centre of our world. It’s –’ he laid a hand over his heart – ‘it’s like it happened in our own home. Worse. Terrible.’
    Despite his stern, slightly lugubrious features, George was, in general, a happy-go-lucky sort of guy. Ben-Roi had never seen him like this.
    ‘I’m out of my depth here, George,’ he said. ‘ Haredim , Arabs – these I’ve got experience of. But the Armenian community – I’ve never really had any dealings with them. Apart from that thing a couple of years back.’
    The tavern-owner looked puzzled.
    ‘The seminary students,’ prompted Ben-Roi.
    ‘Ah yes.’ George took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Not the Israel Police’s finest hour.’
    It was the exact same phrase Archbishop Petrossian had employed. It had probably become standard usage, Ben-Roi thought, tagged on every time anyone in the Armenian community discussed that particular case. Not entirely without justification, although to be fair the blame lay more with the politicians than the police. As it always did. Get the politicians out of the way and everything would probably work a lot better.
    What had happened was that a couple of seminary students over from Armenia had got into a fight with a group of Haredi teenagers from the Jewish Quarter. For months Haredi kids had been spitting at Armenian priests and students, and in this instance the students had retaliated. In a sensible world those involved would have got a stern talking to, a kick up the arse and that would have been the end of it. But the Old City wasn’t a sensible world. One of the Haredi kids had got his nose broken. The frummers , as was their wont, had demanded blood, and the Interior Ministry, as was its wont, had caved in. Result: the seminary students had been arrested, held and then deported. A ludicrous over-reaction, and one that had, not surprisingly, generated a lot of bad feeling among the students’ fellow Armenians, not least because the Haredi kids had got off scot-free.
    Baum had been the officer in charge of the whole thing, which had guaranteed a cock-up from the start. Ben-Roi had only played a minor role, conducting a couple of the early interviews, but he still felt tainted by association. Like the Wall, like the settlements, like so many things in this country, agendas set in offices and synagogues – and mosques and churches, for that matter – made the job of being a policeman extremely fucking difficult at times. Most of the time.
    ‘Coffee.’
    In front of him, the old woman had appeared in the serving hatch, a cup and saucer in each hand. George took them, laid them on the table and emptied a sachet of sugar into his. Ben-Roi emptied two.
    ‘Like I say, I’ve