Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest (25 page)

Unaware of Bedouin warriors watching him, Tim
had climbed to inspect several promising sites for the yeshiva,
squatting often to observe the direction of the sun and to survey
the topography for natural windbreaks. Nothing on the ground
provided a clue as to what might have happened in the year 26 of
the Common Era. Whatever Legionnaire Digius Silban had failed to
destroy, the harsh desert winds had long since completed.

After careful inspection of five locations,
he selected one for thorough examination, then assembled the
collapsible shovel he had used to defend himself against the
leopard. A formal excavation was out of the question, only a modest
probe several centimeters beneath the topsoil. On his first
attempt, the compacted earth resisted his shovel. But on the
second, where he managed to cut through the crusty surface, green
rock appeared in upturned soil and powdered in Tim's fingers. It
reminded him of copper ash removed from a dig at Jericho, dating
from Joshua's conquest of Canaan. Near this copper-hued pyretic ash
were blackened stones. Tim scratched a sample with his fingernail
to determine whether the color was superficial or embedded.

As tiny black filings clung to his
fingernail, he was inclined to believe that he might have
discovered the results of Digius Silban's handiwork. Would carbon
testing confirm a range of dates around 26 of the Common Era? He
gathered a half-dozen sample stones and inserted them into a Ziploc
bag. A similar ritual was performed with clumps of the green
ash.

At noon, he took refuge from the sun under
his tarpaulin, his mind buoyed by images of the desert yeshiva,
with students, teachers and their families camped nearby. Among
them, he imagined, a young man, some said from the lineage of King
David, modest and soft-spoken, attentive to the instruction. Did
his fellow students sense that their classmate would embody their
simple lessons in a way that would touch the hearts and minds of
succeeding generations?

As he struggled to understand the
implications of his discovery, he was unaware that Bedouin warriors
had tightened their circle around him. They observed him
dispassionately until a hand signal from Telfik banu al-Fahl
brought five Bedouin warriors to their feet. They rose so silently
that Tim was still unaware of their presence.

The desert chieftain captured Tim's attention
by calling first in Arabic then in Hebrew. "Mumud banu-Nazeem is
avenged!
Allahu akbar
!"

The sight of Bedouin where he had not
expected to see anyone called up the memory of bullets whizzing by
him at the mouth of the Qumran cave. He was trying to place the
name of Mumud banu-Nazeem when he witnessed the Bedouin men moving
toward him, closing their circle. Tim turned and squinted into the
sun, revealing a separation between his front teeth. Telfik, who
had become familiar with the subject in Benoit's photograph, took
special note of this dental separation. All doubt about the
American's identity vanished.

"Nazeem," he commanded, then stepping back,
signaled for those behind Tim to move away, clearing the background
for bullets that might stray from their target. "Allahu
al-akbar."

Nazeem banu Aziz stepped forward, directly
facing Tim, and lifted the Uzi into full view.

In the sunlight, Tim saw the gun aimed at
him. It was scuffed, but not dented, identical to the weapon used
by Father Benoit at Qumran. How this Bedouin had come to possess it
was a mystery, but then, knowing that the priest had killed once
before, perhaps it wasn't a mystery at all. Tim cried out "Help me,
God!"

The Uzi cracked with two bursts of fire,
eleven shots in all. Seven hit the rocks around Tim, ricocheting
wildly. One cut through his throat. Another severed his spine
causing instantaneous death. After he was already dead, another
bullet pounded his hip and the last grazed his pinky finger. He was
squatting when the first bullets struck, driving him backward
against an aluminum tent pole and collapsing the tarp above
him.

In matters of death, the Bedouin were
meticulous. Years of tradition dictated their response. Tim's
meager possessions now belonged to Nazeem's family. Nothing of his
campsite was left behind. But according to ancient custom, his body
was left untouched for his kinfolk to redeem. If they failed to
retrieve it, his organs were rightfully bequeathed to jackals first
and vultures later.

Before leaving the wilderness site of Ein
Arugot, Telfik's kinsmen searched for shell casings to link the Uzi
with the American's death. No one was certain exactly how many
bullets had been fired, but after scouring the ground around Nazeem
banu Aziz, the searchers were confident that no bullet casings were
left behind.

CHAPTER NINE

Zvi Zabronski called Itamar's office to
report that Tim's body had been found by an army team investigating
an abandoned Volkswagen in a region west of Ein Gedi. The major was
prepared to tell Gabby himself, but Itamar volunteered to be the
bearer of the unhappy news.

He found Gabby at home, dressed in khaki
slacks and a navy-blue University of Michigan T-shirt with yellow
lettering. His instinct was to give her a hug before mentioning
Tim, but he maintained a professional distance. Together, they
moved into the kitchen where he refused the coffee she offered. A
rare interval of silence followed in which her eyes questioned why
he had come without first phoning.

He waited until she had settled back against
the kitchen counter, then, avoiding introductory platitudes about
the mystery of life and death, announced that he had come as the
messenger of unhappy tidings. Her dimples disappeared entirely from
her cheeks and her complexion paled. He could see in the emptiness
of her eyes that she had already accepted the inevitability of
Tim's death. Shortly after delivering this notice, he wrapped his
arms around her, letting her fold into herself to absorb the loss.
Her body nestling against him was so pleasant, he forced himself to
disengage.

It wasn't as if Itamar and Zvi Zabronski
hadn't repeatedly warned her. She chided herself for not having
approached Tim in the Mea She'arim bakery, even if it meant his
capture. To let him leave had been a split-second decision in which
she had little chance to consider the long-term consequences. Her
all-or-nothing choice was wrong, and in a morbid moment of black
humor, she repeated to herself, "dead wrong."

"Where did they find him?" she asked Itamar
in a muted voice.

"This isn't pleasant," he answered.

"These days, I don't expect to hear pleasant
things."

"In the Negev, west of Ein Gedi. A military
helicopter spotted an abandoned Volkswagen glittering in the sun
and landed to investigate. From the vehicle, there were tracks. The
crew flew northwest until it saw vultures circling. They found the
remains of Tim's body and brought them to Jerusalem for an
autopsy."

"What Volkswagen? You know Tim's Hyundai was
picked up at the border."

"The police are tracing the registration
now."

"Did he die of exposure?" she asked.

"That wouldn't have been as cruel. From what
Zabronski told me, he was shot."

"Oh no! Mafia?"

"Zabronski doesn't think so. He said he's
been expecting blood to be shed somewhere in the desert."

"Oh, no," she repeated, pressing her knuckles
against her cheeks.

"Tim was killed with 9 mm bullets from an
Uzi, the same type of weapon Zabronski claimed had killed the
Bedouin teenager Mumud banu-Nazeem. Blood vengeance runs deep in
Bedouin culture."

Gabby thought about this for a long while
before saying, "Somebody else could have murdered Tim and made it
look like a vengeance killing."

"Homicides are usually more complicated than
they appear. Murderers disguise their crimes."

"So why is Major Zabronski convinced that
Tim's death is a crime of vengeance?"

"Because ballistic tests show that Mumud
banu-Nazeem and Tim were shot by the same gun. The odd thing about
Bedouin justice is that once a victim's death is avenged, the tribe
harbors no further grievance. Against Tim or his family or anybody
else. In a convoluted manner of speaking, it's a very simplistic,
but pragmatic approach to human justice."

Gabby vented her frustration by elevating her
voice. "But Tim never shot that Bedouin boy."

"Apparently the clan thinks he did."

"So will the police arrest tribal
members?"

"If there's evidence, which at this moment
doesn't exist."

"Can't they search the Bedouin camp for the
Uzi?"

"Sure they can, but they won't find a smoking
gun. Do killers bring home their murder weapons? There's a good
chance the Bedouin wrapped it in mutton grease and buried it
somewhere in the desert. A dozen years from now, when this killing
is long forgotten, they'll dig the weapon up. Bedouin have elephant
memories."

"Sounds like the police aren't trying."

"They are, but this kind of killing is more
complex than you imagine. I must warn you, Gabrielle, about
something that may be difficult to appreciate. The government
doesn't deal with Bedouin the way it deals with other Israeli
citizens, whether they be Jews or Arabs. Desert nomads govern
themselves according to an age-old tribal law. Every time we
attempt to intercede, it leads to undesired consequences. So these
days, the government is more practical. And that translates into
noninterference in tribal affairs."

"In cases of murder?" she said, her voice
sounding incredulous.

"We're talking about tribal justice. Remember
that at this moment, we don't know who's responsible for the death
of Mumud banu-Nazeem. The tribe has just sent us a message saying,
'We gave you guys time to find who killed one of our sons. You
haven't succeeded, so we took matters into our own hands.' They're
a proud people who don't enjoy being governed by Jews."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing," Gabby
said, studying Itamar's face to see how much of what he was saying
he actually believed.

"What has the government got to gain by
pursuing this? Answer that question and you'll understand what it
will actually do."

Gabby dug her toe into linoleum tiles on the
kitchen floor. She turned away and clasped her hands against her
skull as if trying to contain a migraine inside. When she finally
lowered her hands, she said, "Yeah. I get the picture. An eminent
scholar is murdered and the authorities react with political
expediency."

Their eyes avoided each other until she said
in a tone of unhappy resignation, "I must take Tim's remains home
to Massachusetts."

"Yes, of course, you must. But before you do,
he has many friends and professional colleagues here. When they
recover from their shock, many will want to say goodbye. Can we
arrange some form of memorial service?"

When she fell into a long, meditative
silence, he disciplined himself not to wrap his arms around her. A
full minute later, she said, "A good idea."
"Is there an
appropriate venue?"
"Tim attended the Bethany Presbyterian Church
on Salah-Al-Din Street. He lost his faith in the church, but never
his love for its liturgy. He was the only clergyman I know,
including many of my rabbinical colleagues, who actually enjoyed
attending services conducted by clergy other than himself. I'll ask
the minister at the Bethany Church to help."

"You don't want to do this yourself, Rabbi?"
asked Itamar. "I would have thought you would."

"No. Definitely not me. Tim was fond of Jews,
but lived and died a Christian. I only know Jewish psalms. His soul
must be ushered into heaven on the wings of Christian prayer. Let
God send Christ's angels to accompany him. I was Tim's friend and
his lover. Never his rabbi."

''And a very strong one," Itamar said.

"Wrong again. I'm only pretending so you
won't think I'm an emotional basket case. I'm responsible for this.
I could have prevented it. When you leave and the full impact hits
me, I'll cry like a baby."

"I cried like that, too, when Becky and Gila
died," Itamar said. "It lasts for a long time, and sometimes I
still weep. Everybody said that the pain would dissipate. It does,
but very slowly. Can I stick around and keep you company?"

"Thanks, but no. I appreciate your empathy,
but I've got to come to terms with this myself. Some people need to
share their grief with others. By now, you've probably noticed I'm
a loner."

***

The unimposing Bethany Church, with its
hand-chipped stone facade in the Arab sector of east Jerusalem, had
been established by American Presbyterians in the 1920s, primarily
as a station for Protestant pilgrims touring the holy sites of
Christendom. Tim worshiped there each Sunday morning, except when
he made brunch for friends—an act that he liked to joke was closer
to God than praying. The resident minister, American-trained
Canadian Reverend Christopher Ganz, often invited him to discuss
with his parishioners the historical roots of Christianity.

Gabby suspected that because the Israeli
government wished to keep the discovery of Cave XII under wraps,
Tim's memorial service was viewed with suspicion. Because the less
said about what he was doing at Qumran the better, the government
refused to disclose the exact site of Tim’s death, referring to the
location only as “the eastern Negev.” But realists, like Itamar,
also knew secrecy was impossible. Rumors were bound to circulate.
And when it comes to matters of archeology, gossip goes with the
territory. Notice of Tim's death and the upcoming memorial service
appeared in several newspapers, in Hebrew, English, French, and
Arabic. Radio and television stations carried stories about Tim's
scholarly achievements, questioning the mysterious circumstances of
his death.