Saving Sophie: A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “The sixties was also a period of military buildup, thanks to the Soviets, who supplied arms to the Arab countries. As a result, Arab aggression against Israel increased, and it all came to a head in 1967. On May fifteenth, Egypt massed its troops and told the UN to remove its peacekeepers from Gaza and the Sinai, declaring, ‘Our basic objective will be the destruction of Israel. The Arab people want to fight.’ Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon lined up beside Egypt.

  “Israel looked to the US, but deeply engaged in Vietnam and in a cold war with the Soviets, Johnson told Israel to stand down. Do not fire the first shot. Israel realized it was going to go it alone, that it was only a matter of days before Nasser and the Arab League would attack. Greatly overmatched in troop size, weapons, tanks, and air power, Israel also feared the use of poison gas, which Nasser had used before. So, on June fifth, 1967, the entire Israeli Air Force took off in a surprise move at the breakfast hour and bombed the Egyptian airfields. Then the IAF flew north and destroyed the Syrian airfields. Jordan, which had been warned not to enter the fray, honored its pact with Egypt and announced, ‘The hour of revenge has come.’ Jordan began shelling Jerusalem.

  “The battle for Jerusalem was fierce. Hamid brought his Hebron battalion north and attacked Jerusalem from the southern flank. But his aggression, like his father’s, was to be his undoing. On June seventh, in a furious battle in the Kidron Valley, just south of the Temple Mount, Hamid was shot and killed. Arif would have been twenty-three years old at the time. Now he had lost his grandfather and his father to Israeli gunfire.

  “Later that same day, the Israeli army gained control of East Jerusalem and the Western Wall. Moshe Dayan declared, ‘We’ve reunited the city, the capital of Israel, never to part it again.’ The 1967 War was over in six days. Israeli ground troops forced the Jordanian Army all the way back across the river into Jordan, capturing all of the West Bank territory Jordan had seized in 1948. Israel remains in control of the area.”

  “So, who does the land belong to? Who has the legitimate claim to the territories?” Liam said.

  Kayla spread her hands. “Britain? It captured it from the Ottomans in 1920. Jordan? It captured it in 1948. Israel? It captured it in 1967. The UN Security Council took up the issue after the war and adopted Resolution 242. But it’s a complicated resolution with unclear meanings and intentionally vague provisions; 242 provided that Israel should withdraw from ‘occupied territories’ to ‘secure and recognized boundaries’ when there was a ‘just and lasting peace.’ But it didn’t specify which occupied territories, what recognized boundaries, or what would constitute a just and lasting peace. Furthermore, 242 didn’t specify who would be entitled to occupy the territories after the withdrawal. The Palestinians are not mentioned at all in Resolution 242.”

  “And Israel has yet to withdraw from any occupied territories?”

  “Not true. Sinai was given back to the Egyptians after Camp David in 1978, and Gaza was given up to the Palestinian Authority in 2005. That amounts to over ninety percent of the land Israel captured in 1967.

  “But what about the rest—the so-called disputed West Bank? Why do you say the resolution was intentionally vague?”

  “Resolution 242 didn’t say that Israel should withdraw from ‘all the occupied territories’ or even ‘the occupied territories.’ At the time it was being drafted, Arab states insisted that the resolution say all the territories, but the Security Council rejected the language. The withdrawal was purposefully left vague for future negotiation. So, to this date, negotiations continue. Even now, almost fifty years later.

  “There are 2.7 million Palestinians living in West Bank cities, under Israeli military authority, but Palestinian civil control. In 1995, at the end of the Oslo Peace Process, the West Bank was divided into three administrative divisions or ‘zones.’ The Palestinian Authority was created to provide a government for certain West Bank towns and Gaza. Palestinian cities with no Israeli settlements were designated Zone A. The Palestinian Authority was given complete civil and police autonomy over Zone A cities. Israeli citizens and military are forbidden from entering without permission, although the IDF does enter when necessary on security or emergency missions. Jericho, Ramallah, and Nablus are examples of such cities.

  “Zone B areas have joint Palestinian and Israeli control. There is an IDF presence, generally due to Israeli citizens living in the area. Zone C has full Israeli control, both civil and security, and consists of Israeli settlements in Samaria and Judea. What Oslo did not do was to recognize a Palestinian state or restrict settlement expansion.”

  Liam nodded his understanding. “The two lingering issues. Arif al-Zahani lives in Hebron. What zone is that?”

  Kayla clicked on a slide of Hebron. “It’s a hybrid—part Zone A and part Zone C. Zone A is designated H1, with two hundred thousand Arabs, and this little part here”—she pointed to a shaded corner of the city—“is H2, which is a Zone C settlement with ninety Jewish families. H1 and H2 are separated by conflicting ideologies and a flimsy Cyclone fence. Hebron is one of the most dangerous cities in the world.”

  “And that’s where Sophie is?”

  “We think so.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  LUBANNAH ENTERED SOPHIE’S ROOM and found her as she did most of the time—staring out the window and talking to Sweetness. She gently placed her hands on the child’s shoulders.

  “You did not eat much dinner tonight, Sophie.”

  She shrugged.

  “How come?”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  “It was maqluba, what didn’t you like?”

  “It was yucky.”

  “It’s just a casserole with rice, eggplant, and lamb. Some cauliflower, carrots. It’s very good. What would you like instead?”

  “A cheeseburger. I want to go to McDonald’s.”

  Lubannah laughed. “There are no McDonald’s in Hebron.”

  Sophie turned back to the window. “Jadda, I never see butterflies outside my window. Where are all the butterflies in Hebron?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. I’m sure there must be butterflies in Hebron.”

  “In the summer, in my mother’s garden, there are always lots of butterflies. Blue and brown ones. Purple ones. Little yellow ones. But monarchs are the prettiest of all.” Sophie looked up at her grandmother. “Mommy says you have to plant milkweed in your garden for the butterflies. That’s where they lay their eggs.”

  Lubannah smiled. “Your mother loved to garden. Even when she was a very little girl. We would garden together.” She shrugged. “Since she left, I don’t garden anymore.”

  Sophie nodded and turned back to the window. The outbuilding was going through its shift change.

  “What are those people doing, Jadda?” Sophie pointed at workers carrying satchels and backpacks from the outbuilding and putting them into the trunks of their cars.

  “I’m not sure, dear, I’ve never been in that building. Your Jaddi insists that we stay out. He tells me that they are preparing food and supplies for the poor people of Hebron. Because they are wrapping food and medical supplies, the building must be kept sterile.”

  “Where does the food go?”

  “I am told that it goes to a food bank in the poorer sections of our city. Why do you spend so much time looking out the window?”

  Sophie turned in her chair and reached for Lubannah’s wrists. “I’m looking for my home, Jadda. I want to go home. Can’t you talk to Jaddi and tell him that I don’t want to live here?”

  Tears formed in Lubannah’s eyes. “Why, child? Am I not good to you? I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Jadda, but this is not my home. These are not my clothes. I miss my daddy, I miss my friends.” Sophie’s requests gave way to sobs. “I just want to go home. Please tell Jaddi.”

  Lubannah stood. “I cannot. Even if I wanted to, Jaddi will not change his mind. You must accept that this is now your home.” She turned to leave. “Jamila will be here soon and we will
all bake cookies. Do you want to do that?”

  Sophie nodded and sniffled.

  “Try to be happy. There are lots of people here that love you.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “SO YOU’RE GOING TO Louisville again tomorrow?” Catherine said, bringing dinner to the table.

  Liam nodded and took a sip of wine. “Six o’clock out of O’Hare. I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, great. That means you’ll be getting up at four in the morning and rustling through the closet.”

  “I can sleep at my apartment, or in the guest room.”

  “The hell you will. Pass the pasta, please. I’ll get up, make you coffee, and go back to bed when you leave. How did your session with the demure Miss Cummings go?”

  “Fact intensive, but I have a better appreciation of the Arab/Israeli conflict. Kayla’s very knowledgeable.”

  “Oh, it’s Kayla, is it?”

  Liam smiled. “NORAD has detected a blip of hostile jealousy on the horizon.”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “Then I guess you’re not going to be thrilled to hear that she’s going with me when I travel to Israel next week.”

  “Liam!”

  Liam shrugged. “She’s a woman of many talents.”

  “Is that right? Many talents? Well, maybe you should sleep at your apartment.”

  “Cat, I’m only teasing you.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. She’s very pretty and she’s probably got her eyes on you.”

  Liam leaned over and gave Catherine a kiss. “Stop being jealous.”

  “Well, she seems very flirtatious. You told me she had you sit right next to her at her computer. For three hours. I mean, c’mon. Now with the two of you traveling around the world…”

  “Cat, stop. It was a tiny, little office. She’s been nothing but all-business. You’re being unreasonable. I shouldn’t have made the comment about many talents. I was trying to be funny. That was a mistake.”

  “Well, I don’t have to like it.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “I’ve got talents, too, Liam.” Catherine smiled seductively.

  “Aye, that you do.”

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  * * *

  LIAM ARRIVED PRECISELY AT 10:00 A.M. Deborah stood in the doorway for a moment scanning the street.

  “No one followed me, Deborah.”

  She nodded and stepped back. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t mean to rattle you, but it’s better for us not to talk in your home. Let’s just take a walk.”

  “Are you serious?” She looked around her entry hall. “They bugged my house?”

  “I don’t know that, but there are definitely people looking for your brother. On both sides of the law. Why take the chance?”

  She stepped back into the foyer. “Let me get my coat.”

  As they strolled around the corner, Deborah said, “I can’t tell you much about what’s happening lately. He doesn’t want to involve me. But whatever plans he’s made, they’re not working out. They’ve stalled. He’s not sure he can count on the help he was expecting. He says he’d like to talk to you. He wants to know what kind of help you can give him.”

  “Is he planning on paying al-Zahani money for Sophie’s release?”

  “I don’t know anything more than I just told you.”

  “Where is he?”

  Deborah shook her head.

  “How am I supposed to talk to him? Did he give you a phone number?”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you on the phone. He’s worried that the call can be traced and his location’ll be discovered. He said he wants an in-person meeting in a busy restaurant.”

  “Okay. I’ll do that. Where and when?”

  “In Santa Monica. Friday at one o’clock. He said if you double-cross him, you’ll never learn where the money is. I told him that you would not betray him.”

  “Oh, you did?”

  “It’s in your eyes, Mr. Taggart. You have honest eyes. I’m a very good judge of people. I told Jack I trust you—that sooner or later we have to trust someone.”

  “Thank you. You’re right about having to trust someone; he can’t manage this plan by himself. And frankly, you’re right about me. I don’t know about the eyes, but I’m an honest person. Santa Monica’s a big place. Where am I supposed to meet him?”

  “Belmonte’s on Wilshire near Fifth. Friday at one. He said to please come alone. The reservation will be in your name.”

  “Agreed.”

  Deborah reached over and squeezed Liam’s arm. “Please help him.”

  “I’ll try. I promise. How are you communicating with him?”

  “We each have safe, prepaid cell phones, purchased by other people. Untraceable.”

  “Nothing is untraceable. Make your calls quick. No more than thirty seconds.”

  * * *

  THE DEACONS LED WESTERN Alabama by twenty-one points. Thomas was on fire. With eight minutes remaining in the game, he already had a double-double: twenty-six points and twelve rebounds. Marcus whispered to Darius during a time-out, “We got seven points too much. Mr. Kelsen said fourteen, make it less than fourteen.”

  “Can’t help it,” Darius said. “Thomas is a stud in the post. He’s dominating their bigs.”

  “We gotta do something. Let ’em steal a couple passes at midcourt. Two, three fast breaks, they’ll catch up.”

  Darius looked at the packed stands. Madison Square Garden. Second round of the East Regional. TV cameras everywhere. NBA scouts. Notepads. Every errant pass would be slow-mo’d. “I ain’t fuckin’ up my future.”

  The whistle blew and Marcus brought the ball up for the Deacons. He stood between the circles, passed up a clean look at Thomas and telegraphed a pass to the corner. Western’s point guard snatched it midair and took it down for an easy layup. On the next play, Darius got a ball screen from Marcus and drained a jumper, but Marcus was whistled for an illegal screen and the basket was waved off. That was his fourth foul and he was called to the bench. As he walked by Darius, he said, “Spread’s at nineteen. It’s up to you now.”

  Western made both free throws and trailed by seventeen. Darius took the inbounds pass and fed Oliver, who missed a three. Western quickly responded on transition and scored on a three-point play. The spread sat at fourteen, but on the next play Darius saw an opening, spun to his left, and scored on a reverse layup. Highlight stuff.

  “What the fuck?” mouthed Marcus as Darius ran by the bench.

  Time out was called with two minutes left and the score at 81–65. “Sixteen, man. We still need to drop two more,” Marcus whispered in Darius’s ear.

  The horn blew and Marcus reentered the game. At half-court, he lost his dribble. Western’s guard scooped it up and scored on the breakaway. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. Fourteen points. A minute forty-five to go. Just have to keep it there.

  The spread remained at fourteen as each side missed a shot, but with twelve seconds left, Thomas grabbed a rebound and flipped the outlet pass to Darius, who took it coast-to-coast, finishing with a windmill that brought the Garden to its feet. Final score: 83–67.

  In the locker room, Marcus pulled Darius aside. “What’re you gonna tell Mr. Kelsen now, Darius? What’re we gonna do? He told us fourteen. He told us not to give the ball to Thomas.”

  “Ain’t my fault. Thomas had thirty-one.”

  “And the move at the end? With only twelve seconds? Was that Thomas, or was that you hotdoggin’ it for the highlight reels? You shoulda just held the ball. Twelve fuckin’ seconds. Even Coach was pissed at you for piling on. Mr. Kelsen paid us and you fucked us.”

  Darius shoved Marcus back into the lockers. “Look, asshole, did you see all those NBA scouts? The whole country’s watching the tourney. Tonight they seen Darius. They seen the best. I ain’t gonna dribble it off my knee like you did. I’m goin’ in the first round, maybe lottery. You think I’m
gonna tank my career for some rich fuck in a Bentley? I be havin’ ten Bentleys.”

  “He ain’t gonna like it. He paid us.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  LIAM WALKED INTO BELMONTE’S promptly at 1:00 P.M. and approached the hostess stand. The restaurant, a seafood concept with white tablecloths and upbeat music, was busy, serving its lunch crowd. The waitstaff, men and women alike, were young and wore white shirts with large, Pacific-blue neckties, patterned with splashes of colorful sea creatures.

  “Do you have a reservation for Taggart?”

  The young lady smiled. “Yes, we do, and your party’s already here. Let me show you to your table.” She led him toward a crescent booth where a pretty, young woman in a coral sundress was seated with a glass of wine, examining the menu.

  Liam stopped. “I don’t think this is the right table.”

  The woman looked up. “Please sit down, Mr. Taggart.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Marcy.”

  “Okay.” Liam nodded and turned to the hostess. “I’ll have a Macallan 18 on a single piece of ice.” He settled into the booth. “Where’s Jack?”

  “Safe and sound.”

  “I need to speak directly to him, not through a go-between.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with the go-between.”

  “I’ve come a long way. On a short turnaround. And I’m not in the mood for a game.”

  “No games, Mr. Taggart. I’m here as a proxy, of sorts. I know his situation and I have my instructions.”

  Liam sighed and took a sip of his Scotch. “It’s Liam. Where does Sommers’s deal stand with al-Zahani?”

  “He doesn’t know. He’s beginning to doubt there’s a deal in place.”

  “Why?”

  Marcy tilted her head in a shrug. “He has a private e-mail account that was set up for communication with the people who were in charge of handling the transaction. He’s not getting any meaningful responses, just an occasional ‘Be patient.’ He’s come to believe they’ve abandoned him.”

  “Where’s the money?”