Saving Sophie: A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “I have heard no talk of plans to return the girl, or as you say, to make a deal. There are some in Hebron who would know. For you and for her father, I will inquire. Come back. Next time, buy something.”

  Upon returning to the King David, Liam found a note waiting for him: We are going to Hebron tomorrow. Be ready at noon. Kayla.

  Liam reached for his cell phone and dialed Catherine.

  “Hi, Cat. It’s me.”

  “Hi, me. How’s it going?”

  “Okay, I guess. I met with a shopkeeper today who has contacts in Hebron, and I’m hoping he’ll flush out a little information for us. We’re going there tomorrow. How was court today?”

  “Surprising. Kelsen showed up. It was just a routine status call, just the attorneys positioning themselves for an upcoming round of depositions. It was not the kind of thing that clients ever attend. But there was Victor Kelsen, brash as ever, barking at the courtroom, trying to get his case accelerated for trial. Judge Sherwin almost threw him in jail.”

  “Where does the lawsuit stand? Is there a trial date?”

  “Preliminarily. January seventeenth. Of course, that’ll be kicked back, it’s far too early in the game. There are several cross-complaints and motions pending. At this stage, there’s no evidence proving who was at fault or how the wire instructions were altered. Key witnesses are dead or missing. And no one knows where the money is. It’s actually quite fascinating.”

  “Isn’t there a presumption that Jenkins and Fairchild was responsible?”

  “A presumption, but rebuttable. J and F never had possession of the money. It was under the control of the title company.”

  “But didn’t J and F direct the title company to send the money to a false account?”

  “The wire instructions bore three signatures: Sommers, Harrington, and Ellis. At this point, we don’t even know if the signatures are valid.”

  “Oh, come on, Cat. Sommers had the motive and the means. He took off right after the money was wired.”

  “So did Harrington. So did Ellis. Eighty million dollars is a lot of motive. Anyway, those are the competing arguments. This case is just beginning.”

  “Cat, I miss you and I love you.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  FORTY-TWO

  “CHILD, YOU’RE WEEPING.” AL-ZAHANI stood next to Sophie’s bed. She lay on her side, facing away from him, holding tightly to her bear. “Tell me what troubles you so.”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “Were the children mean to you? I will send Bashir to punch them all right in the nose.”

  Sophie smiled, shook her head again, and sniffled. “Jamila can’t play with me anymore. She was my only friend.”

  “Why not? I thought you were good friends.”

  “We are, but her father won’t let us play anymore. She told me at school.”

  “Did she say why?”

  Sophie sadly shook her head.

  Al-Zahani ran his hand smoothly over her hair. “I will speak to him. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. It will get straightened out. Don’t be sad.”

  Despite his reassurance, she sobbed. “I miss my mommy and my daddy. I miss my friends. I want to go home. I don’t belong here.”

  “Oh, Sophie, so many times I tell you, there is no one at your American home. It is empty. I proved it to you. You made the telephone calls. This is now your home. You do belong here. Of all people, I know it is sad to lose your home. Do you know when I was just a boy, about the same age as you, I lost my home?”

  Sophie looked up. “You did?”

  “My family’s home in Haifa was taken from us by the Israelis. We were forced to run off to Jordan. But now I have a new home and you have a new home. We are here for you now because your parents have left you. Your Jadda and I will make sure you are well loved always and grow up to be a beautiful, strong woman.”

  Sophie rolled over to face al-Zahani. Her eyes were red. “My mommy didn’t leave me. She went to heaven.”

  “It is hard for me to speak of her with you. It makes me sad, just like you. Maybe someday.”

  “Why did she have to die?”

  Al-Zahani hesitated. “It is because she had turned from her faith.”

  “Was Allah angry with her?”

  “I do not know what is in the mind of Allah. But perhaps.” He reached down and smoothed the covers. “It is time for sleep.”

  “Could you read me a story?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any children’s books and I don’t know many children’s stories. I can tell you stories about the Prophet Mohammed. He too lost his father and his mother.” Al-Zahani pulled back her covers and tucked her in. “What is your favorite book?”

  “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. That’s my favorite.”

  “I will find it and buy it for you.”

  “It’s very good and funny.”

  “I will send Bashir first thing in the morning. And we will find out what happens when you give a mouse a cookie,” he said, which elicited a few giggles. “Now tonight, you go to sleep.”

  Al-Zahani kissed her on the forehead, turned out the lights, and left the room. In the sitting room, Lubannah was smiling. “Are you building your relationship, Arif?”

  Al-Zahani looked serious. “What is the situation with Jamila? Sophie is upset. This was her only friend. We cannot allow a setback.”

  Lubannah lowered her head. “Hassan will no longer let Jamila associate with Sophie. He says that Sophie talks constantly of her life in America and the things that she does. She tells Jamila how wonderful it is. She praises America. Hassan says he cannot allow such ideas to be put into Jamila’s head. He has ordered Basima to keep their daughter away from Sophie. Basima is sorry but there is nothing she can do.”

  Al-Zahani curled his lip. “Well, there is something I can do. I will talk with Hassan. He does not know Sophie. If he took the time to know her, he would see that she is worthy of his respect. She’s not like other Americans. I will change his mind. You will see Jamila back here very soon; that I promise you. Do not worry.”

  Lubannah wrapped her arms around al-Zahani. “I like it when you’re strong for our Sophie.”

  “She is so much like Alina.” He kissed Lubannah on the forehead. “She has a will, that one. A curiosity. I see much in her future. In a few weeks, though, I may need you to take her to Amman until my business is finished.”

  “Why must we leave?”

  “Because it is my wish. For your safety. And hers.”

  “I thought the years of such business were over.”

  “No more questions, please. I have to leave.”

  “Where are you going tonight, Arif? Again. Every night. Why do you go out so often?”

  “I have many responsibilities. Why do you interrogate me?”

  “When will you be home?”

  “Do not wait up.”

  FORTY-THREE

  ON HER WAY TO Hebron, barely thirty minutes south of the Old City, Kayla took a cutoff through the Rachel’s Crossing Checkpoint and drove the Agency car into the crowded city of Bethlehem, where she made her way to the central area and the Church of the Nativity.

  “The square is now a pedestrian mall, so we’ll have to park a few blocks away.” She maneuvered her way past several parked tour buses.

  “Why are we stopping here?” Liam asked.

  “I need to meet with someone. Just for a minute. And I thought you might like to see Bethlehem. It’s a Palestinian town, although very touristy. It’s friendly. Very different from Hebron. Westerners are commonplace here.”

  Kayla pulled into a parking space, locked the car, and fed the meter. “Called Beit Lechem, ‘house of bread,’ Bethlehem has always been a small, poor town,” she said as they walked. “When Jesus was born, there were maybe four hundred residents. Compared to the larger West Bank cities, Bethlehem is still very small—twenty-two thousand today. The economy is almost entirely tourist driven. It was one of the areas handed ove
r to the PA in 1995 after the Oslo Peace Accords.”

  “Zone A?”

  Kayla nodded. “Correct. Zone A. Self-governed by the PA.”

  They walked to a small diner on a side street. Standing on the sidewalk, Kayla pointed to a white tower. “That’s the Mosque of Omar, which sits at one end of Manger Square. Before modern times, Muslims and Christians would share the responsibility of bringing oil to light the lamps of the square.” She peered in the window of the restaurant. “If you wouldn’t mind, right now there’s someone I need to see. Could you wait just a bit? Better yet, why don’t you go on in and order some falafel. It’s great here.”

  “I’ll just hang out here.”

  Kayla entered the restaurant and a few minutes later emerged with a small man with a neatly trimmed black beard. He nodded to Liam.

  “Liam, this is Kadin, a friend of mine. I need a few minutes with Kadin, if that’s okay.”

  Kayla and Kadin walked to the corner, crossed the street, and disappeared into a small, gray building. Liam leaned on a parking meter and took in the scene. Bethlehem might be small, but the square was crowded. People watching was enjoyable. Many were obviously tourists in Western attire. Others were covered in traditional Arab dress.

  A boy in shorts and woven sandals tugged at Liam’s sleeve and offered to sell him a plastic manger scene. “Baby Jesus. Only twenty dollars,” the boy said with a wide smile.

  “Twenty dollars?”

  “Okay. Five dollars.”

  Liam dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten.

  “I take that too,” the boy said, and Liam made the purchase.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kayla returned alone. “Sorry for the delay.” She pointed at the souvenir. “I see you’ve already improved Bethlehem’s balance sheet.”

  “Cute kid. I couldn’t resist.”

  The restaurant was small—fifteen tables tightly organized. Liam and Kayla sat at a table for two beside a brick wall. A busy waiter in a white apron put down paper place mats with graphics of the square, a basket of hot pitas, and a bowl of hummus. He set out cardboard menus and olive oil. Although Liam could not understand any of the multiple conversations, the milieu was a tasty slice of West Bank.

  “Am I supposed to know why you met with Kadin?”

  Kayla shook her head. “Just a friend I needed to talk to.”

  Liam looked around the restaurant and smiled.

  “What do you find humorous?”

  “A thought occurred to me,” Liam said. “That this is Portillo’s of the West Bank, minus the Italian beef.”

  “I’d hoped you would make that observation. Look around. What do you see?”

  He shrugged. “Just ordinary folks having lunch at a local diner. What am I supposed to see?”

  “Just what you said—ordinary folks. People who have jobs and businesses and go home to their kids at night. These people aren’t terrorists, they’re not dangerous. They just want to live their lives in peace. The man I met with, Kadin, is a sweet man with a beautiful family. He’s a man that works for peace and longs for peace in this troubled land. People like Kadin deserve peace just the same as the ordinary folks on the other side of the separation wall. He deserves self-determination. Autonomy. Peaceful relations. He deserves a Palestinian state. But al-Zahani, the Sons of Canaan, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, and all the other extremists will do anything they can to prevent that from occurring.”

  “Why do you say that? Don’t they also espouse the Palestinian cause?”

  “No. Peaceful solution leading to two states is the Palestinian cause. Israel is already a state; Palestine wants to be one. And it won’t get there if terrorists run their government. Guaranteed, secured borders, negotiated between responsible parties, is the only way the conflict can be resolved. It will never be resolved by terror.”

  “And you think the Sons of Canaan are planning an attack to thwart peace talks?”

  “I’m not sure the present talks are significant to them, but it’s clear the Islamist extremists don’t want any talks to result in a two-state solution if one of the states is Israel. They are anti-solution. They foster hate. And to that end, they’ve been enormously successful. They’ve stoked the fires of racism on both sides of the fence. From an early age, the young Palestinians are carefully taught to believe Israeli Jews are their natural enemies.

  “On the Israeli side, bombs, rockets, tunnels, kidnapping, and fiery rhetoric have demonized the Palestinians. Israelis are against a two-state solution because they fear extremists will infiltrate and control a Palestinian state. During the fifty-day war with Gaza, forty-five hundred rockets were launched and aimed at Israeli cities. Air raid sirens sounded many times each day. People lived in shelters. Children were traumatized. Israelis who were formerly liberal and sympathetic to the Palestinians became hardened right-wingers.

  “Ben Gurion International Airport is less than ten miles from the West Bank. In the last skirmish, the FAA and the EU halted air traffic when a Hamas rocket landed in a field two miles away. What if Hamas, Hezbollah, or some other Islamist extremist group took over a fragile West Bank government? They’ve already threatened Ben Gurion many times over. What do you think the FAA would do if there were a hostile Palestinian state within easy striking distance of the airport?

  “The sad fact is this—both sides are victims to the terrorists. As President Peres said, ‘The Arabs are not Israel’s enemy. The terrorists are the enemies of both of us.’ And the consequence is further polarization of the two peoples, which, of course, serves the terrorists’s goals.”

  “I understand,” Liam said, constructing a large falafel sandwich on fresh-baked pita, with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and tahini.

  “Golda Meir once said, ‘I fear the war with the Arabs will go on for years because of the indifference with which their leaders send their people off to die.’ She also said, ‘Peace will come when the Arabs love their children more than they hate us.’” Kayla gestured at the people eating their lunch. “These everyday folks, they don’t want to die, they want quality of life. We have to counter the teaching of intolerance. It’ll mean peace for both sides.”

  “Kayla, this falafel is calling my name. What do you say we stop talking and eat for a while?”

  “Can I tell you something funny?”

  “Now that would be a welcome change.”

  “Golda also said, ‘Let me tell you the one thing I have against Moses. He took us forty years into the desert in order to bring us to the one place in the Middle East that has no oil!’”

  Liam, with his mouth full of food, suppressed a chuckle, took his napkin, and wiped his face. “By the way, I think this is the best falafel I ever had.”

  “There’s a restaurant in Jerusalem that serves falafel just as fresh and just as tasty. The falafel tastes the same on both sides of the wall. There’s really no difference.”

  “Lord Almighty, Kayla, I get it. You’re beating on a dead horse.”

  She smiled proudly.

  * * *

  RESUMING THEIR DRIVE TO Hebron, just south of Bethlehem, Liam pointed to a hillside town. “What’s up there?”

  “That depends who you ask. Palestinians would say it’s an illegal settlement. It’s a town west of the Green line where Israeli citizens live. That one is Neve Daniel, formerly a farm belonging to the Cohen family going back almost a hundred years. There are one hundred and twenty or so Israeli towns that are located in the West Bank, with almost half a million Israeli citizens. Many live in large cities that have grown up over the past forty-five years, with schools, parks, hospitals, factories, and thriving businesses, many of which employ thousands of Palestinian workers.”

  “How did these people end up there? Why were Israeli cities built in the West Bank?”

  “Towns expanded naturally. Families grow. Businesses form. Housing in Israel is expensive, especially in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, so families move to areas where they can afford to buy—into new construction, subdivisions built on p
reviously unoccupied and unused land. So now, in the disputed territories, there are five hundred thousand or more Israelis. The PA calls them ‘settlers’ or ‘occupiers.’ They want them all to leave. What would you do with those towns and cities?”

  “Why would you have to do anything? Why can’t they remain in a newly created State of Palestine? Arabs live in Israel, don’t they?”

  “They do, but numerous polls have shown that Israelis, even Arab Israelis, don’t want to live in the proposed State of Palestine. And the Palestinian leadership doesn’t want them there. Mahmoud Abbas said, ‘In a final resolution, we would not see the presence of a single Israeli civilian or soldier on our land.’ Palestinians don’t want to live in Israel and vice versa.

  “This afternoon we’ll arrive in Kiryat Arba. Dead center of the West Bank. A town of seventy-five hundred Israelis. Beautiful homes, shops, businesses. Intelligent use of the land. Almost fifty years of natural growth. Jews have been in Kiryat Arba for over thirty-seven hundred years. It’s a settlement as old as the Bible. Are you going to tell those people to pack up and leave—they don’t have a right to live there anymore?”

  “So, what’s the Kayla solution?”

  “You’re giving me too much credit. I’m not a Nobel Prize–winning statesman, and that’s what it will take. But as long as radical terrorists and jihadists are able to influence the Palestinian populace, a peaceful, shared border is out of the question. We need for the Palestinians to renounce violence as a political tool. Men like Kadin are working for that, at great risk to himself and his family. I don’t doubt for a minute that the world would get behind Palestine if it denounced extremism.”

  “Devon Avenue, that’s what you need,” Liam said matter-of-factly.

  “Devon Avenue?”

  “Starting at McCormick Boulevard, driving east on Devon, you’ll pass an Orthodox Jewish community, then an Arab community, then a Croatian cultural center. Further east it’s Pakistani. Further east it’s Indian. Then Korean. All within three miles. A mélange of food stores, restaurants, clothing shops, bakeries. Just about the most interesting street in Chicago. And all the folks live right in the neighborhood and most attend neighborhood public schools. That’s what you need out here. Devon Avenue.”