At that moment the phone rang. Asher answered it. “When?” he asked the caller after a moment. “Are you sure?” He listened to the caller’s reply, hung up and grabbed his camera bag while the other three men moved instinctively toward the door. “I hope you guys ate your Wheaties this morning,” Asher said. “This looks like a big one.”
The four men crammed into a small car and sped off. “Where are we going?” asked Decker.
“Petah Tiqwa,” answered Asher. “There’s a major riot in progress. If my source is correct, there may be as many as several thousand Palestinians involved. Israeli security has been using rubber bullets so far, but with that many people throwing rocks and fire bombs, there’s no telling what will happen.”
“What’s going on?” asked Tom. “Why so many?”
“Don’t know,” answered Asher. “So far the riots have been scattered and limited to a few dozen Palestinians at any one time. This is very unusual.”
When they arrived near the site of the riot, the road had been roped off by Israeli security forces. Asher pulled the car to the checkpost and showed the soldier his press credentials. A moment later they parked the car within a hundred yards of the riot and Asher and Dean put large “PRESS” signs in their front, side, and rear windows. “Most of the time they won’t bother press vehicles,” Dean explained as Tom and Decker looked on.
As they approached the rioting, the size of the crowds became clear. Asher’s source had been right about the number. The Israeli security forces had broken the Palestinians into half a dozen smaller groups. From the direction of each of the groups, the sounds of breaking glass and the pop of rubber bullets being fired by Israeli soldiers could be heard above the shouts and chants. Decker and Tom split off from Dean and Asher to cover a larger area. They got as close to one of the crowds as they could and decided to try to circle around behind them. This required the pair to swing wide some five blocks and approach from the side of the conflagration.
Still two blocks from the riot, Decker’s pulse suddenly quickened as the pop of rifles firing rubber bullets was replaced by a far more familiar and deadly sound, which Decker recognized from his time in the army as the crack of live ammunition. At first there were just a few shots, but the number grew. Decker assumed he was hearing echoes reflecting back in the distance. Then he realized he was wrong. From the streets around them, in every direction, hundreds of shots were being fired. His first response was to look for cover, but that same reporter’s curiosity that sometimes caused him to do things he wasn’t proud of now drove him on toward the conflict. Tom readied his camera for the scene that awaited them.
Suddenly the guns went silent and the streets were filled instead with sounds of weeping and cries of pain. On the street before them, more than fifty Palestinians lay wounded or dead. Above the cries, an order went out and was repeated to unload live ammunition and to reload rubber bullets. Israeli soldiers ran from storefront to storefront, routing any Palestinians they found huddled together. Showing some mercy, they ignored those individuals in the street aiding the fallen.
Near where Decker stood, knelt a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, holding a dead man in his arms. As Decker watched, an Israeli soldier came near the boy. He was staggering and bleeding heavily from a rock-inflicted wound above his right eye. In anger and grief the boy abandoned caution and reached for the first thing he could find: a brick, broken in half, with corners rounded from being thrown so many times already.
The soldier seemed dazed and unaware of the boy until he was only a few yards away. Through his tears the boy hurled the brick with very poor aim at the soldier, hitting him in the right shin and sending him into a fit of pain. Grasping his leg and then seeing the boy running away, he raised his rifle. With blood dripping from the wound above his eye, he took aim. As he did, the boy approached the corner of the building where Decker was standing. Decker reached out and grabbed the boy, pulling him from harm’s way just as a bullet whizzed by. The sound of the shot made it clear to both Decker and to the Israeli soldier that he had fired live ammunition. In his dazed state he had failed to respond to the order to reload rubber bullets.
Decker held tightly to the boy, who struggled for a moment to get away, then stopped fighting. The soldier did not pursue the boy. Soon the riot was over. All that was left was to count the casualties, clean up, and start over.
Decker and Tom asked the boy, who spoke some English, where he lived. The boy responded that he was from Jenin, a town several miles from Petah Tiqwa. Apparently the riot had been an organized effort that brought Palestinians in from towns throughout Israel. Decker told the boy they would take him back to his home in Jenin.
Tom continued taking pictures of the destruction while Decker carried the boy piggyback along the route the riot had followed. When they arrived at the car, Dean and Asher were waiting for them.
“What do you have there?” asked Asher.
“A witness,” answered Decker. “He lives in Jenin. He was recruited to come here today for the riot. That’s how they managed to stir up such a large crowd: They recruited extras from outside. If we take the boy home we might be able to get a lead on who the organizers were.” It was a long shot, but Decker didn’t want to have to depend on Asher’s generosity to help get the boy home.
The previously crowded car now felt like the Washington subway at rush hour. The boy did his best to direct the Americans to his home, and after losing about forty minutes to bad directions, they finally stopped in front of his cement slab house. Decker and Tom went to the door with the boy and deposited him with his mother. The boy hugged her around the waist and began speaking to her. Seeing her tears, Decker guessed that the dead man the boy had been holding must have been his older brother. Through her tearful attempts to speak, they ascertained that she spoke almost no English. Nevertheless, it was evident she realized that they had helped the boy.
“If we’re going to get any of this in Monday’s edition we’ve got to get back to the office now,” Bill Dean called to them from the car. “You can follow up on this later.”
Back at the hotel Decker and Hank Asher compared notes while Bill Dean and Tom contacted Israeli officials on the phone for their reaction to the riot and the killing of the Palestinians. When they completed their report, they e-mailed it to the United States.
At six o’clock that evening Decker and Tom took Asher and Dean to Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv for their flight home to the U.S. After several months covering the Middle East, they were looking forward to a few weeks at home. Before they boarded their plane, Decker pulled Dean off to the side. “Bill, let me ask you a sort of strange question,” he began. “You’ve been over here for a while. If you overheard a conversation in which the people talking said ‘Petra must be protected,’ what would you think they were talking about?”
“Hmm …” Dean began thoughtfully, “You hear so many strange things around here. I guess it depends on who said it. Petra is Greek for ‘rock,’ so they might have been talking about a lot of things. They could have meant the Rock of Gibraltar at the entrance of the Mediterranean Sea. There has been a lot of concern about terrorist activity in that area. Or, if the people talking were Muslims, I’d guess they were talking about the Dome of the Rock. But those are both pretty cryptic references. There’s an ancient city called Petra in Jordan, but it’s been abandoned for centuries. It’s just a tourist attraction now. There’s also a reference in the Bible where Jesus refers to the rock on which he would build his church. So, I suppose they could have been Christian zealots referring to protecting the church from some perceived devil or false doctrine or something. That’s really all I can think of right off the bat. I don’t know if that helps you any. What’s this all about, anyway?”
Decker shook his head. “At this point I really don’t know. If I come up with anything, I’ll tell you when you get back from your vacation.”
For the next week things seemed strangely quiet compared to the
ir first day on the job. Israel braced for a Palestinian response to the shootings, but it was slow in coming. There were a few small disturbances, and the strike by Palestinian workers and shopkeepers continued, but there was nothing the Israeli authorities couldn’t handle. On the international scene, a United Nations vote to condemn the Israeli action in Petah Tiqwa passed by a large majority, with the United States abstaining. Decker and Tom found plenty of time to engage in such things as taking out the trash and airing out the rooms.
Tom, who seemed to be more interested in sightseeing than Decker, picked up brochures on all the historical and religious places to visit that they had missed on their whirlwind tour with Joshua Rosen. Decker looked over a few of them, making mental notes of where to take Elizabeth and the girls when they arrived the week before Christmas. Since Decker’s stay in Israel would last into January, Elizabeth had thought this would be an excellent opportunity to take advantage of an otherwise bad situation and spend Christmas with Decker in the Holy Land.
At about four in the afternoon of their eighth day, Tom returned from visiting one of Jerusalem’s many shrines and sat down just as the phone rang. On the other end was a man whose accent gave him away as a Palestinian. “I need to speak to the American, Asher.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not here,” Tom responded. “May I help you?”
“Tell the American, ‘Many dogs shall weep tonight, but their tears will find nowhere to fall.’”
“What?” Tom asked. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?” But the man had hung up.
“What was that?” Decker asked, responding to Tom’s excited but puzzled expression.
“I don’t really know,” Tom answered. “I think it must have been one of Hank Asher’s informants. Either that or a kook.”
Decker waited a second for Tom to continue and when it seemed he might keep the mystery to himself, he finally asked, “Well, what did he say?”
“He said to tell Asher ‘Many dogs shall weep tonight, but their tears will find nowhere to fall.’”
“Any idea what it means?” Decker asked.
Tom picked up the phone and began dialing as he answered. “None, but I know who might.”
Tom was calling Hank Asher in America. It took four calls to locate him and when they reached him he had no more idea what the message meant than did Tom or Decker.
“The only thing that I can think of,” said Asher, “is that sometimes one or more of the Palestinian groups will call after a bombing or a kidnapping to take credit for it. There’s quite a bit of rivalry that goes on among the different factions of Palestinians. Maybe the guy that called is trying to establish responsibility before the fact so his group will get credit for it afterward. If so, you can expect a second call from him after the fact. I suggest you call the Israeli police and tell them about the call. In any case, it doesn’t seem like you’ll have long to wait to find out what he meant. Whatever it is, he said it would happen tonight.”
“Okay,” said Tom. “Listen, give us a call at the hotel if you think of anything else.”
“Sure thing,” said Asher. “Oh, one other thing: When you call the police, don’t tell them the guy asked for me. I’m trying to take a vacation over here.”
Tom called the police, who wasted no time responding to the call. Figuring out what to do about it was another thing. The police inspector, Lt. Freij, said that since the caller was apparently Palestinian, the use of the term dogs must refer to Israelis. “We call them dogs and they call us dogs. ‘Weep’ and ‘tears’ obviously means that something will happen that will cause grief for Israel. ‘Tonight’ must mean just that: Whatever is going to happen will occur tonight. Beyond that it’s guesswork.” Lt. Freij also suggested that it might all be just a hoax and that such things were not uncommon. “Just in case, though,” he said, “I’ll order all the standard precautions and see that all the appropriate authorities are alerted to the possibility of a terrorist attack.”
Tom and Decker discussed the caller’s message for a while longer but came to no conclusions. A little after eleven o’clock Tom decided to go to bed and Decker went up on the roof of the building for some fresh air.
As he sat on a large gray fixture on the roof, he thought back to his discussion with Goodman about the boy, Christopher. In truth, the matter was never very far from his mind. There has to be some way I can write that story without hurting people, he thought. A dozen scenarios ran through his mind, but all had the same conclusion: too great a risk of exposure. Someone was sure to figure it out.
Decker looked out over the beauty of the old city of Jerusalem. For the most part, the city lay silent in the late evening darkness, with only scattered points of light shining in defiance of the moonless night. The gold-covered Dome of the Rock sparkled in the starlight near the Wailing Wall.
Suddenly he understood. “That’s it!”
Decker ran at full speed from the roof to the hotel suite. “Tom!” he shouted as he burst through the door. Tom had not gone to bed, but was watching an old John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart movie. “Quick! Get your shoes!”
Tom grabbed his camera, coat, and shoes while running toward the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“The phone call!” Decker said, abbreviating his speech to save time. “They’re going to blow up the Wailing Wall!”
“Of course!” Tom exclaimed as they ran for the elevator. “‘Weeping’ but ‘no place for their tears to fall!’”
Tom called Lt. Freij from his cell phone while Decker drove the short distance from the hotel to the Joffa Gate and turned down David Street into the old city. They were only about a mile from the Wailing Wall, but at their present speed Tom felt that the car would shake apart on the ancient roads before they reached it. Because it was late, the one way street was fairly clear and Decker had no trouble as he made the sharp right onto Armenian Patriarch Street, past the Zion Gate and then onto Bateimahasse Street. They were almost there.
Decker pulled the car into the parking lot at the Wailing Wall and slammed the door as he and Tom ran toward the Wall. All was quiet and deserted in the cold, late night. Even the tourists had gone to bed. Decker and Tom stopped and looked around for signs of activity but found none. The only sound was the wind and the barely audible late-night sounds of the new city outside the walls. They looked at one another.
Decker was the first one to speak. “You know,” he said, “any minute now Lt. Freij is going to be driving up here with his sirens blaring and his lights flashing and we’re going to be standing here looking like total idiots.”
They sighed together. “I don’t suppose we could call him back and tell him to forget it,” Tom said in strained jest.
“No use,” responded Decker. “He’ll be here any minute.”
That’s when it hit them. They stopped talking and looked around them.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Decker quipped as he scanned the scene more closely.
“No police,” Tom answered dryly. The ever-present Israeli security were nowhere to be found.
The next instant they were startled as a young boy emerged from the entrance to the tunnel Joshua Rosen had shown them. Seconds later he was followed by about eight men for whom he apparently had been standing watch. As he ran, the boy passed close enough for Decker and Tom to get a look at him. It was the Palestinian boy from Jenin.
Decker and Tom ran to the tunnel entrance and found the bodies of four Israeli security personnel lying in pools of blood, their throats cut. Decker stooped down over them, vainly looking for any sign of life. Tom turned his head away from the bloody sight. As he did he caught the distinctive smell of a burning fuse.
“Decker! Run!” he shouted as he grabbed Decker’s arm.
The two men bolted from the tunnel and ran as fast as they could. Sixty yards away they slowed to a stop, thinking they were probably far enough to be safe. In the distance they heard the sounds of Lt. Freij’s sirens. As Decker looked toward the approaching
police cars, the ground shook and the blast of a massive explosion thundered through his head. Instantly, he dropped to the ground as dirt and rock flew all around him. Almost at once, a second and third detonation followed, filling the air with a heavy, opaque cloud of dirt and smoke and rock dust, which obscured the lights of the city. For a brief instant there was silence and then the ground shook again and again as hundreds of immense stones tumbled from the Wall with heavy thuds, demolishing the plaza floor and breaking stones that had fallen before them to various states of rubble.
Decker lay on the ground choking for air, his shirt pulled over his mouth and nose to filter out the dust. He could not see what had happened to Tom and for that moment he didn’t really care. All he knew was he needed to breathe. His death seemed to him almost certain—only his continued gasping and the pain in his lungs made him sure he was still alive. He could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears.
Then through the dark there appeared flashing lights. Several minutes passed before, nearly unconscious, he felt hands grab him and drag him away. Soon the cloud began to settle and he could see the face of Lt. Freij looking down at him.
“Are you all right?” Freij asked.
Decker tried to answer but immediately began coughing and spitting up dust-filled mucus. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tom lying on the ground nearby. Still coughing, Decker made his way to his friend’s side and managed to call his name.
Tom, like Decker, was covered from head to toe with thick gray dust. His breathing was short and labored. Hearing Decker’s call, he opened his eyes and began to smile.
“What?” Decker asked, trying to understand Tom’s unexpected cheerfulness.
“I got the picture,” Tom managed, holding his camera like a trophy before breaking into a fit of coughing.
As Decker scanned the area where the Western Wall had stood, he thought only briefly about how glad he was to be alive. And though he was sickened by the destruction of this awesome historical site, he could not help but envision Tom’s picture on the cover of next Monday’s NewsWorld along with his article as the lead story.
In His Image Page 9
