Bloodline

by Alan Gold

  So when Ahimaaz walked into the throne room, it was in an uproar. And he watched in breathless awe, silent and brooding, while his brother Azariah was exposed. Despite the protestations the high priest made while he was being rushed out of his palace, Solomon had refused to listen, shouting at him that he had transgressed against Yahweh and that he would be banished from Israel forever.

  And on the following day, the lies and gossip that Naamah had been whispering into Solomon’s ear grew to fruition. Abia, Solomon’s firstborn son, was accused of treason, of plotting with foreign kings to overthrow him. Abia protested his innocence but was banished to the Valley of Hinnom and beyond. Tashere screamed at Solomon that the allegations were lies, but she refused to beg for mercy, instead turning and addressing the court and swearing to bring ruin on the heads of all who had slandered her son.

  Solomon’s fury at Abia’s treason would not be abated, but to command Tashere to follow her son into exile would have meant war with the Egyptian pharaoh. Instead she quietly retreated into the palace, where she wept and rent her garments as though her son had died in battle.

  In the large square of Jerusalem’s upper public marketplace, a crowd gathered. Rumors had been rampant in the city, and the people came to hear the king’s herald announce what was happening. Their shock at the cherished high priest’s betrayal of Yahweh was enough to make everybody weep.

  And when it was announced by the herald that Ahimaaz was to be the new high priest for the forthcoming Temple of Solomon, people turned to one another and said, “Who did he say? Ahimaaz? Who’s Ahimaaz?”

  * * *

  October 18, 2007

  ELIAHU SPITZER WATCHED the live television broadcast from the lounge suite in his office on the third floor of a nondescript building in the middle of Jerusalem. As deputy director of the Arab affairs department, he was entitled by the bureaucrats to an LCD TV, which he’d initially enjoyed, but he found that he lost the privacy of his office when crowds of employees would congregate to watch a sports match beamed live.

  Shin Bet’s headquarters were about as different from those of Britain’s MI5 and America’s CIA and FBI as it was possible to imagine. He knew all three agencies well and visited them regularly to discuss internal security prior to an official visit by somebody important. But while the Brits were always pompous and looked down their noses at him, and the Americans were his bestest lifelong buddies until he asked for something, these other nations’ offices were strictly hierarchical. His organization, Shin Bet, responsible for internal national security, was strangely open and informal. If the janitor wanted to watch the news while Eliahu was sitting at his desk, he’d probably just excuse himself and switch the TV on.

  Even the building itself was unusual by international standards. At ground level were shops and a narrow corridor open to the street but guarded in its recesses by two security experts. The corridor led to an elevator where the floors were marked 1, 5, 6, and 7. To all visitors, there were no levels two, three, or four. Only by optical iris identification and fingerprint recognition would a potential visitor get to these floors unless escorted by one of the security men if the visitor was known. Those who’d never been before would be interrogated initially by the security guards, then sent skyward by elevator to a bombproof office on the tenth floor, and then, if they were given permission to enter, they’d be escorted down by a mid-level security person to levels two, three, or four for their meetings.

  But even so, the government, understanding the danger of placing such an important target in the middle of a commercial area, was in the process of building a large edifice on the outskirts of Jerusalem to house the top secret unit of national security.

  When the broadcast from the Israel Museum was finished, Eliahu switched off his television. He returned to his desk and sat there thinking. The Bilal kid had been shot but was still alive. He was recovering well but his contacts in the hospital had told him that there had been some sort of complication with the operation. His man at the Western Wall hadn’t been able to inject the kid with insulin and put an end to him, so there was a danger that he could have talked about the imam. That in itself wasn’t such a great problem, but it was another complication, and the last thing Eliahu needed was another complication. And now there was an added thorn. This piece of archaeological treasure that had been found by the surgeon, of all people, had made Bilal and his activities into front-page news worldwide. The story could be the beginning of a forest fire.

  And to make matters even more complex, the surgeon was like some poster girl for Israeli womanhood: pretty, elegant, stylish, and no doubt making her Jewish parents proud of her in her work as a doctor. The media would love her and that would keep the Bilal story alive for weeks if not months. He knew the media, and he knew with certainty that the moment some news producer with CBS or CNN or ANBN looked at this doctor, they’d milk the story for all it was worth.

  Eliahu sighed. It was all becoming so messy . . .

  Taking out a Palestinian who was about to desecrate the holiest monument of Judaism, demands for aggressive retribution, the fury of the Jews worldwide, demonstrations and the beginnings of a sharp move to the right, the pacifist voices silenced. Then more and more terrorist assaults against religious targets. The rise of ultra-Orthodox Judaism in the government of Israel to deal with the outrages. Ridding the nation of these peacenik appeasers until a religious government, a theocracy, was established in Jerusalem. All so simple. Now all so complicated.

  He scratched his head under his skullcap, opened his drawer, took out his prayer book, and found the page that gave him a blessing that would bring him some relief from his complications.

  * * *

  YAEL WALKED into the doctors’ staff room and found all eyes on her. It looked as though everybody in the room was reading the front page of Yedioth Ahronoth, one of Israel’s major newspapers, or had seen her the previous night on television. And the paper’s picture of her, seated at the table with Israel’s most prominent archaeologists, was in the middle of the front page. The story was headlined “Surgeon Uncovers Bible Treasure in Terror Patient’s Hand,” and having read it over breakfast earlier she knew that the reporter had written about a terrorist, a bomb that didn’t explode properly, and an attractive trauma surgeon named Yael. There was hardly any reference to the artifact itself or its place in the ancient history of Israel and the Jewish people’s connection to the same land for over three thousand years. With all the undermining of Israel’s right to exist by Arab nations, especially in the United Nations, surely this was the important story.

  “Welcome O great and famous archaeologist,” called one of her colleagues, a vascular surgeon dressed in his surgical greens, from across the room as she hung up her coat.

  “I’m more used to digging out shrapnel than digging up artifacts.”

  The other doctors smiled and laughed and offered congratulations amid the usual teasing remarks.

  “Is there a case to be made that the stone belongs to the Palestinian kid? After all, it was he who found it. As a surgeon, shouldn’t you have put it into a security bag along with his wedding ring?” The question was only half-facetious and asked by a doctor on the far side of the room with a wry smile.

  “He didn’t even know he had it. And wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did.” Yael’s offhand comment gave her boss, Pinkus, a small opening to raise issues of unspoken politics to the room.

  “The Palestinians could use it as a reason to lob a few rockets our way. Not that they ever really need a reason.”

  Another surgeon put a hand on his arm, said softly, “Pinkus,” and nodded to a man who was sitting in a corner, reading a medical journal. Mahmud was a Palestinian surgeon who had trained at the Bethesda Medical Center in America and was a member of the hospital’s staff.

  Mahmud had seemed as though he weren’t paying attention but no doubt heard the comment. He lifted his gaze from the journal and peered over the tops of his small, round glasses. Th
e doctors rarely discussed Palestinian-Israeli politics when he was present, out of deference to him. He was a good surgeon and was well liked by his colleagues. Yael knew nothing of Mahmud’s personal life, but from the hours he kept, she often wondered if he felt the need to work twice as hard to prove he was as good as his colleagues.

  Mahmud smiled. “I’m thrilled Yael found it . . .” He let the unfinished sentence hang for just a moment before adding, “And when my Arab brothers drive you bastards into the sea, we’ll sell it on eBay and make a fortune.”

  His joke broke the moment of embarrassment; people laughed and went back to their reading. Yael walked across the room to her pigeonhole and withdrew four letters. She glanced at them and saw that two were from the hospital administration, concerning some new rules that had been imposed. She, like her colleagues, made a habit of ignoring such documents. The other letters were interesting; one was a note from the surgical secretary, telling her that NBC and Fox in the States had phoned and would like to set up an interview. The other was a personal letter, handwritten but bearing no postage stamp, so it had been hand delivered to the hospital. Yael Cohen tore it open, and read it.

  Dear Madam Doctor Koen

  I am Fuad. I am father to Bilal. Last night on TV I see you at museum. Now I know name of my son doctor. You operate him. You save him. I write thank you. My wife Maryam she say thank you doctor. Yes my son did a very bad thing. Allah forgive him. But work you do save him and I thank you. Excuse my writing. I am not educate man. Wife Maryam no read write.

  Fuad. Father to Bilal

  Yael smiled awkwardly to herself and returned the letter to her pigeonhole. She went back to her table to read the morning newspaper, but after a minute returned to the letter and put it into the pocket of her gown. She wanted the address.

  * * *

  A MAN DRESSED in the robes of a Muslim cleric entered the hospital. He asked the receptionist to direct him to the floor where Bilal was a patient. The moment she entered the patient’s name into her computer, a red flag caused her to pick up the phone. Within minutes, two senior hospital security officers escorted the imam to a bombproof room in the basement, where they interrogated him for ten minutes, searched his bags for guns, explosives, and hypodermic needles, then his clothes, and ran a metal detector over his entire body. Satisfied that he carried no weapons, they apologized for the necessary precautions and escorted him upstairs to the men’s surgical floor. The imam approached the policeman guarding the room, who further interrogated and asked him his purpose.

  “I am Bilal’s imam, Abu Ahmed bin Hambal bin Abdullah bin Mohammed. I am his spiritual guide through the darkness of this world into the light of the next. I have come to offer him the consolation of Allah before his tribulation begins. I just wish to pray over him and offer him the comfort and solace of Islam,” said the imam in calm tones.

  The policeman said only “I’ll give you half an hour.”

  The imam, followed by the Israeli policeman, entered the room. The cleric smiled at Bilal as he walked to the bedside chair and the policeman lingered near the door, looking and feeling decidedly out of place. Bilal tried to sit up in the presence of his imam, but the handcuffs allowed him only limited movement. “Greetings, Master.”

  “Relax, Bilal. I’m here to pray with you and hope that you find peace and contentment in the hands of Allah when you are on the next phase of your journey.”

  The two looked at each other. Then the imam began to pray, whispering the prayers into Bilal’s ear. Quietly the policeman left the room. Realizing that they were suddenly alone, the imam whispered urgently, “Bilal, my brother, listen closely, for what I am about to say is very important.” The imam drew a deep breath. “You are to be taken from here to prison. You understand this?”

  Bilal nodded.

  “There will be a trial. It will be short. You will deny nothing. Truth of killing the enemy will be your only defense. They will ask you who sent you. You know that you must say nothing of me and your brothers. This is clear! Yes?”

  Bilal nodded again. This time more slowly.

  “In prison you will be with many of your brothers and they will teach you many things, for your journey is not over.”

  Bilal seemed about to ask a question but the imam answered it before the young man could frame it.

  “They will teach you how to fight. How to survive. How to be strong. And when you are strong, you’ll be ready to take Palestine from the Jew.”

  Bilal shook his head. “But how? How am I to fight from a prison cell? I don’t understand.”

  The imam sat up with the faintest hint of a smile on his face. But he lowered his voice to a near whisper and Bilal had to strain to hear. “We will pray for the kidnap of an Israeli soldier and that he is hidden by our brethren. Remember what happened with the Jew soldier Gilad Shalit when Hamas kidnapped him last year from the border and held him in Gaza? The Jews cannot find him. And”—the most minimal of smiles came again—“whoever kidnapped him will make a trade. A thousand of our brothers for just one of theirs. They show their weakness with Shalit; they will show their weakness when we capture the next of their boys. The Jews will have fathers crying like women for the return of just this one, in exchange for our many.” The imam leaned close to Bilal and put a hand on his handcuffed arm. “And you will be one of the many.”

  Bilal’s eyes widened. “I will be freed?”

  “This I swear to you, in the name of Allah, provided you don’t cooperate with them, provided you remain silent concerning the involvement of me and your brethren.”

  All the muscles in Bilal’s face let go of their long-held grip and he seemed to sink into the bed. But he quickly caught himself and turned suddenly to face his imam. “I wasn’t afraid! I knew Allah would look after me. If I couldn’t go to paradise, then I knew I would be saved. I wasn’t afraid, I swear . . .”

  The imam smiled gently. “I know, my son. I trust you are strong, now and always. But first I must know something. And much rests on your answer.”

  The tension returned to Bilal’s face.

  “Who have you spoken to since coming to this hospital?”

  Bilal’s eyes narrowed, as if not understanding the question. “No one.”

  “No one?” asked the imam. “Surely you were not silent. The police have come, no? Shin Bet has been here to question you. Yes?”

  “I told them nothing,” Bilal stated as flatly and firmly as he could.

  “You told them your name.”

  “Well . . . yes. I told them my name. I was not afraid.” To prove his silence, he continued, “I even said nothing to the man who you know, the man from the government.”

  “Man? What man?”

  “The man . . . I . . . when we . . .” Bilal stuttered a response, strangely wishing he hadn’t said anything. His head hurt and with his free hand he rubbed his face as if to wake up.

  The imam remained silent, looking at Bilal, his eyes utterly impassive. Softly, gently, he said, “What man, Bilal?”

  “The man you know . . . I drove you . . . But I stayed in the car. I just . . . When he came I didn’t . . .”

  The imam’s response came sharp and flat on Bilal’s stammering. “I know of no such man.”

  The silence that fell between the two of them was cold; Bilal, sensing that he should say no more, nodded and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the imam.

  “When you drove me? Where did you drive me?”

  Bilal remained silent for a long moment. Then he said, almost inaudibly, “I don’t remember . . .”

  “And have you spoken to any others?”

  “No!”

  “Not even a doctor? A nurse?”

  “The doctor! Perhaps? Maybe I spoke to her . . . but she was only a doctor. And I spoke of nothing.”

  The imam cut him off. “She? A woman? You have allowed a woman doctor to touch you?”

  “Yes. I was asleep. But she was kind. The Jews came and wanted to take me away to the prison.
The soldiers. The police. But she said no. She said they had to wait. She stopped them, told the police that I was not well enough.”

  The imam breathed quietly. “And why did she stop them from taking you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The imam said softly, “My son, you must continue to say nothing. There are things happening that are greater than you. You will be a part of them, provided you remember to remain silent. Say nothing to the Jews, for this is how they work. They question and promise and lie. They will smile and they steal your land and stick a knife into your back. Mohammed, peace and blessings be upon him, said in Surat Al Ma’idah”—the imam closed his eyes—“ ‘Shall I inform you of what is worse than that as penalty from Allah? It is that of those whom Allah has cursed and with whom He became angry and made of them apes and pigs and slaves.’ ” The imam opened his eyes again and looked at the boy coldly. “Bilal, remember those words: apes and pigs and slaves. Mohammed, peace and blessings be upon him, was talking of the Jews.”

  Bilal nodded to show the lesson was understood.

  The imam stood to leave, saying a blessing over Bilal, and then walked out of the room. The guard nodded at him, but before he left he asked the guard, “I wish to speak to this young man’s doctor. A woman. What’s her name?”

  The guard said, “Dr. Cohen. Dr. Yael Cohen.”