Bloodline (48 page)

But the centurion wasn't persuaded. As they rode south, he and his men had killed many a Jew fleeing from Jerusalem. So he asked, “Why is a Jew allowed to treat our commander? We have Roman doctors with us.”

“Because, centurion, your Roman doctors, no matter how skilled, do not know the plants that grow in this land, nor the herbs that I brew to relieve General Titus's suffering.”

“And what herbs are these?”

“Herbs that grow on the coastal fringes of our land. We have in our land many things that are unique to this area. Your emperors wear togas fringed with the color purple. This is obtained from the crushed shells of the murex sea snail, found only on our northern shores. And there are herbs that grow nowhere else, which cure aches in the head, inflammations of the guts, and eruptions on the skin,” he said. But he could hear that his voice was becoming more and more infused with the panic that was rising inside him.

The centurion sneered. “Jew,” he said menacingly, “I have your life in my hands. I could have you killed like I'd swat a fly, throw your body into those trees over there, and nobody would miss you. Why should I believe that you're my commander's physician when you'll tell me nothing except that you're a doctor? I've spent the past four months killing any Jew I came across. You claim to be my commander's friend, yet where are your fine clothes and where are your horse and servants? So I'm wondering, Jew, what
kind of a healer are you who touches the sacred body of General Titus Flavius Vespasianus? You could be one of these Zealots or a common thief or murderer. Which is why I command you to tell me what ailments my commander suffers, or I'll skewer your body like I skewer a pig before I roast it. If you value your life, Jew, you'll forget this oath and tell me. And remember that I know my commander and what ails him.”

Abraham knew he couldn't ride away, as he'd be run down by the centurion. Nor could he talk his way out of this hideous situation. He needed to play for time to allow his wife and children to hide in the copse of trees.

“I will tell you this, centurion, to save my worthless life, but understand that in doing so I am betraying a sacred oath, and for this sin I will have to suffer the punishment of fasting for three days. Your general,” Abraham said imperiously, trying to sound as arrogant as possible, praying that his imagination had some basis in reality, “is suffering from marsh effluvia, which he contracted when he was tribune with the army in Germania. The effects are still with him, and at night he suffers pains in the gut, foul wind, and ulcerations on his foot, possibly by inadvertently stepping into some foul miasma in Britannia when he went to reinforce your legions fighting Queen Boudicca of the Iceni.”

Abraham held his breath while still staring in anger at the centurion, high up on his horse. If he'd chosen the wrong diseases, his next breath would be his last. If he'd chosen correctly, the centurion could just as easily force him back to Jerusalem and certain death. He looked steadily into the centurion's eyes but couldn't read the man's mind. All the centurion did was stare down at him as though Abraham were a dog obstructing his path.

From far away, in the copse of trees, Sarah sat on her donkey, watching Abraham speaking to the Roman commander. She couldn't hear what was said but held her breath in terror for her husband's safety. For without him, how would they survive in this village of Peki'in? And for his part, Samuel lay on the
grasses between the trees, peering at the distant scene of Abraham speaking to the Romans. Why had he done it? Why risk his life? Why hadn't he tried to escape with his family? Was it an act of martyrdom?

A
BU
A
HMED BIN
H
AMBAL
bin Abdullah bin Mohammed, the imam of the village of Bayt al Gizah, sat quietly listening to the voice on the other end of the telephone. Had he not secretly met this man more than a dozen times, he would never have recognized the voice as belonging to Eliahu Spitzer, one of the most senior spies for the State of Israel. This voice sounded more like a geriatric Mickey Mouse as it was disguised through a series of filters and was beamed by covert microwave transmission signals to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit twenty-seven thousand miles above the island of Cyprus in the Mediterranean Sea; a satellite that had been decommissioned by the Israeli government a decade earlier and was no longer monitored. The voice was calm and controlled.

“And you want me to do what, precisely?” asked Abu Ahmed.

“We've tracked the woman's car to the Galilee, to the village of Peki'in. It shouldn't be difficult to find, even for you. Your people will be invisible in that part of Israel. Apparently he's already dead, so killing a dead man shouldn't be beyond your capabilities.”

The imam ignored the sarcasm. “And the girl doctor? And her reporter boyfriend?”

“The reporter came to see me a few days ago. He told me some ridiculous story, pretending to be trying to save his own life. It was so transparent, I felt insulted. Obviously he was trying to flush me out. So he has to go. And the woman, yes: she has to go
as well. But tell your operative to leave the man to me. Solving three problems on the same day, and at the same time, will raise too many questions. Anyway, the man isn't as much of a danger. He's a coward and will do anything to save his skin. I'll find him and make his death look like an accident, and such accidents must be made plausible.”

“And does your friend Rabbi Telushkin know about this? Does he know that you're killing your own people?” asked the imam.

“I really don't think that you have the right to talk to me about internecine murders. How many Sunni have been killed by Shi'ites, and vice versa? Our objective is the same: to destroy this false government in Jerusalem. But the outcome, I promise you, will be very different. In order to bring about the return of the Messiah—our Messiah—we have to rid ourselves of those who stand in our way. It's for the greater good.”

The imam knew all about the useful idiots of Neturei Karta, of course: how they wanted the same result as he did—the destruction of the Jewish state. The imam wanted it replaced by an Islamic theocracy and governed by Allah's law, sharia; the Neturei Karta wanted the state to be destroyed so that it could be born again by the arrival of the Messiah and then Judaism would spread through the world. An absurdly shared goal.

“When will you do your deed?” he asked the Shin Bet officer.

“My actions won't interfere with whatever plans you might have. I have no doubt that you'll go to the village to ensure that all is done correctly. So, then, go to Peki'in and do what must be done. Tomorrow, if you can arrange your side of the events, I'll start to organize mine. Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal. And once this mess is behind us, what then?”

“Our plans remain the same. War and God make for strange bedfellows.”

The imam laughed somewhat caustically. “And what if my god wins over your god?”

“You may have forgotten,” said Eliahu, “but our gods are the same.”

The imam laughed. “You Jews are a peculiar people. Anyway, I will succeed in my mission. In a small village like Peki'in, these people will not be hard to find.”

Eliahu disconnected the phone and listened carefully for almost a minute. If anybody, somehow, was eavesdropping, he'd know it soon enough. A click, a heavy breath, or something. No matter how sophisticated the equipment, experienced men like him could always tell when there was a third party on the line. But when he was satisfied that his was the only ear still listening, he put the cell phone back on his desk and took out his prayer book from his drawer.

He flipped through the pages, looking for a suitable
b'rucha
said by an Orthodox Jew. He said a
b'rucha
for when an Orthodox Jew sees something hideous and evil in the sight of God. That, he thought, should do. Now it was time to tie up all the loose ends. And there was only one man who could ensure Neturei Karta's separation from the incident so that it didn't come home to bite, to ensure that the job was done right, and that man was himself.

I
N ANOTHER TIME,
another place, a different life, Yael might well have fantasized about sharing a bed with Yaniv Grossman. But this was neither the time nor the place and it certainly wasn't a fantasy. The twisted knots of fear still cramped her belly, especially now as she lay on a creaking bed in an airless room. The window overlooked the backyard but the curtains were drawn tight, closed to the world.

The whole house was tiny and cramped. Bilal lay next door, alone in a bedroom that must have felt little different than the prison cell from which he'd escaped. The only other bedroom of
the house was slightly larger but nonetheless confined. There was no choice but for her and Yaniv to share the rusted metal bed with its wafer-thin mattress.

He'd stood in the doorway with a strange boyish nervousness she had never seen before. In all her tension, she found it endearing.

“I can sleep on the—”

“Floor?” Yael said. “There isn't any floor.”

And indeed there wasn't. The extent of the bed filled the tiny room, leaving only the slimmest space for the door to open.

Yael rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. Moments later the bed screeched its disapproval as the weight of Yaniv's tall, muscular body unfurled beside her.

She lay there for half an hour, feeling the heat from his body under the sheets, yet no hormones raced, her heart rate stayed the same, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. There was silence and stillness until Yael heard herself speak.

“You're using him as bait,” she said softly. She and Yaniv lay facing away from each other, back to back.

“It's the only way,” Yaniv replied without moving to face her, his voice low and matching hers.

“Only way to what?” It was a genuine question.

“To save us. To save him,” Yaniv replied.

“Is that what you want? To save us? Or is it just the story you want? The headline?”

Yaniv shuffled on the bed and Yael knew her barb had stung.

“Is that all you think of me?” Yaniv asked after a moment's pause. “After they tried to kill me? After they killed your grandfather? After they tried to kill Bilal? Is that who you think I am?”

“I don't know who you are,” Yael said, pulling any air of accusation from her voice. “You're not Israeli. You're not from here. I see you watching this country like a tourist and I wonder what you care about. Do you really care about me, or Bilal?”

Yaniv answered her question without answering her question. “I became an Israeli citizen because I love this country. I care
about the story because the story matters. And Bilal's story is the only reason we're still alive. We tripped over an ant's nest, Yael, and there's no going back. We'll never be safe until Spitzer is gone, this imam is gone . . . We either expose them or we kill them . . . and neither of us is a killer.”

“And if they come armed? If they're wielding guns? We're not police. Shouldn't we call somebody?”

“It will be okay” was all Yaniv said, but he knew that Yael didn't believe him.

“And what about Bilal?” asked Yael softly.

Yaniv didn't answer. She knew he wouldn't. The reality was that both of them were tyros, two people totally out of their depth. She was a doctor, he was a reporter, and they were playing at being secret agents, in competition with one of the deadliest men in Israel. She had no idea what was going to happen if or when the imam or the Shin Bet guy came to Peki'in. They'd set a trap, but what was the bait? Was it her, or Bilal, or Yaniv? And if they were tethered goats waiting for these predators to come and get them, who was going to stop the hunters?

Yael realized with a shock that she was nervous. She was rarely nervous, hadn't been really nervous since she was a child, and that was when her busy parents had left her and her brother alone in the house or when she was somewhere strange and she was alone.

But she was in bed with Yaniv and wanted to reach out so that he could hold her, reassure her.

She moved toward the center of the bed, closer to him, wanting to hold him, touch him, gain strength from the strength of his body. She was enveloped by his warmth. It was so different from all the other times she'd been physically close to him. She never wanted to be another Yaniv conquest, so she'd kept him at bay. Now she desired him; now she wanted him to hug her, hold her tightly, enfold her. She reached out and touched his shoulder, stroked his arm, and pulled him closer to her.

Yaniv turned and suddenly they were facing each other, their faces visible in the moonlight that had insinuated itself into the bedroom through the thin drapes. Yael pulled him closer to her and kissed him tenderly on the lips. He barely responded, as though it were an inappropriate move on her part. She knew that she was an Israeli beauty and had never had trouble attracting men before. Yet, she felt as though he was deliberately distancing himself from her.

“What's wrong?” she asked softly.

“Not here. Not now,” he answered, his voice quiet and sleepy.

“I thought you liked me . . .”

“I do. I adore you. I can't stop thinking about you. But if we're going to make love, I want the first time to be tender and special—not somewhere like this where we're both frightened and anxious. I don't want this to be our first memory.”

She kissed him again, realizing that he was right. Wrong time, wrong place, but at least now she was certain he was the right man. What an irony! For the first time in her life, she'd found the right man, and tomorrow they could both be murdered. Well, she thought, that's Israel.

She smiled. They drifted into sleep holding each other.