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Defense Security Service—better known as DSS—agreement with the Israeli government. Attaching her ID to a lanyard, she slipped it over her head and reached back to gather her hair into a ponytail. Then, taking a deep, calming breath, she headed toward the barricades.
    “Special Agent Jordan,” she announced in Hebrew to one of the guards stationed at the edge of the square. She held up her badge. “Who’s in charge here?”
    A tall, thin man kneeling beside Cline’s body signaled to the guard to let her through. He stood as she approached and extended a hand.
    “Detective Noah Weizman, homicide division,” he said, his English perfect. “Daugherty informed me that you were coming and would be following the investigation. It makes sense seeing as one of the victims is yours.” He pointed to the body. “It was my understanding Cline was headed back to the United States soon.”
    “That’s correct.” She didn’t add that Cline should have already been stateside. His transfer request had cited family reasons—that his mother was ill and he was needed at home. But a cursory check Jordan conducted less than a half-hour ago turned up that his mother was on an extended Italian vacation with his sister.
    “What about the other man?” she asked. “The one who slit Cline’s throat. Who is he?”
    “No ID yet. We think he’s Palestinian. We’re running facial recognition. So far, no hit.”
    “What about the shooter? Did you catch him?”
    Weizman shook his head. A dark curl settled on his forehead, accentuating his tan and the strong line of his nose. He pointedto the hotel. “Whoever she was, she set up on the fourth floor and managed to elude the soldiers.”
    She? Female terrorists weren’t unheard of, but normally they carried out missions via suicide bombings or poisonings, not through sniper rounds. “How do you know it was a woman?”
    “A young soldier stationed in the kitchen saw her. He claims she identified herself as working for the Israeli Police Counter-Terror Unit.”
    “Did he get a description?”
    “He claims she had a nice set of tits. Oh, and black hair.” Weizman shrugged as if to say, it happens , and then gestured toward the Palestinian’s body. “The sniper’s first shot brought him down.”
    “Only two victims?”
    “Correct.” Weizman scraped his fingers across the stubble that darkened his chin. “Any ideas on what your man was doing to get himself killed?”
    Jordan shook her head. It seemed Cline had gone off the grid. During her fact-finding mission, she uncovered that he had notified the State Department in D.C. that he would be delayed in Israel by a week and had rescheduled his flight from Ben Gurion International Airport to Dulles. She had no idea why he had not informed their RSO.
    Squatting beside the bodies, she studied the wounds and the blood spatter patterns. The wound at Cline’s throat seemed the clear cause of death. An entrance wound in the Palestinian’s forehead indicated he had died from a single-round shot from a high-powered rifle. No doubt there was a gaping hole in the back of his head.
    Jordan stood. “Any witnesses?”
    “Fifty or so. Those two were the closest.” Weizman pointed toward a man and a young girl seated on the wall across from thefountain. “The man was almost killed by another shot. It’s possible he was a target.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “He told us. The last shot fired drilled the fountain right above his head. Maybe you’d like to speak to him. He’s one of yours.”
    “One of ours?”
    “An American.” Weizman led the way across the square. When they reached the man and child, he introduced Jordan to the police officer standing guard. “This is my partner, Detective Gidon Lotner. Gidon, this is Special Agent Jordan.”
    She extended her hand to Lotner.
    The short, stout man ignored the gesture and nodded curtly. “This is Judge Ben Taylor and his daughter, Lucy.”
    The judge seemed to be taking stock of