Bloodline

by Alan Gold

  “And you want me to do what, precisely?” asked Abu Ahmed.

  “We’ve tracked the woman’s car to the Galilee, to the village of Peki’in. It shouldn’t be difficult to find, even for you. Your people will be invisible in that part of Israel. Apparently he’s already dead, so killing a dead man shouldn’t be beyond your capabilities.”

  The imam ignored the sarcasm. “And the girl doctor? And her reporter boyfriend?”

  “The reporter came to see me a few days ago. He told me some ridiculous story, pretending to be trying to save his own life. It was so transparent, I felt insulted. Obviously he was trying to flush me out. So he has to go. And the woman, yes: she has to go as well. But tell your operative to leave the man to me. Solving three problems on the same day, and at the same time, will raise too many questions. Anyway, the man isn’t as much of a danger. He’s a coward and will do anything to save his skin. I’ll find him and make his death look like an accident, and such accidents must be made plausible.”

  “And does your friend Rabbi Telushkin know about this? Does he know that you’re killing your own people?” asked the imam.

  “I really don’t think that you have the right to talk to me about internecine murders. How many Sunni have been killed by Shi’ites, and vice versa? Our objective is the same: to destroy this false government in Jerusalem. But the outcome, I promise you, will be very different. In order to bring about the return of the Messiah—our Messiah—we have to rid ourselves of those who stand in our way. It’s for the greater good.”

  The imam knew all about the useful idiots of Neturei Karta, of course: how they wanted the same result as he did—the destruction of the Jewish state. The imam wanted it replaced by an Islamic theocracy and governed by Allah’s law, sharia; the Neturei Karta wanted the state to be destroyed so that it could be born again by the arrival of the Messiah and then Judaism would spread through the world. An absurdly shared goal.

  “When will you do your deed?” he asked the Shin Bet officer.

  “My actions won’t interfere with whatever plans you might have. I have no doubt that you’ll go to the village to ensure that all is done correctly. So, then, go to Peki’in and do what must be done. Tomorrow, if you can arrange your side of the events, I’ll start to organize mine. Do we have a deal?”

  “We have a deal. And once this mess is behind us, what then?”

  “Our plans remain the same. War and God make for strange bedfellows.”

  The imam laughed somewhat caustically. “And what if my god wins over your god?”

  “You may have forgotten,” said Eliahu, “but our gods are the same.”

  The imam laughed. “You Jews are a peculiar people. Anyway, I will succeed in my mission. In a small village like Peki’in, these people will not be hard to find.”

  Eliahu disconnected the phone and listened carefully for almost a minute. If anybody, somehow, was eavesdropping, he’d know it soon enough. A click, a heavy breath, or something. No matter how sophisticated the equipment, experienced men like him could always tell when there was a third party on the line. But when he was satisfied that his was the only ear still listening, he put the cell phone back on his desk and took out his prayer book from his drawer.

  He flipped through the pages, looking for a suitable b’rucha said by an Orthodox Jew. He said a b’rucha for when an Orthodox Jew sees something hideous and evil in the sight of God. That, he thought, should do. Now it was time to tie up all the loose ends. And there was only one man who could ensure Neturei Karta’s separation from the incident so that it didn’t come home to bite, to ensure that the job was done right, and that man was himself.

  * * *

  IN ANOTHER TIME, another place, a different life, Yael might well have fantasized about sharing a bed with Yaniv Grossman. But this was neither the time nor the place and it certainly wasn’t a fantasy. The twisted knots of fear still cramped her belly, especially now as she lay on a creaking bed in an airless room. The window overlooked the backyard but the curtains were drawn tight, closed to the world.

  The whole house was tiny and cramped. Bilal lay next door, alone in a bedroom that must have felt little different than the prison cell from which he’d escaped. The only other bedroom of the house was slightly larger but nonetheless confined. There was no choice but for her and Yaniv to share the rusted metal bed with its wafer-thin mattress.

  He’d stood in the doorway with a strange boyish nervousness she had never seen before. In all her tension, she found it endearing.

  “I can sleep on the—”

  “Floor?” Yael said. “There isn’t any floor.”

  And indeed there wasn’t. The extent of the bed filled the tiny room, leaving only the slimmest space for the door to open.

  Yael rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes. Moments later the bed screeched its disapproval as the weight of Yaniv’s tall, muscular body unfurled beside her.

  She lay there for half an hour, feeling the heat from his body under the sheets, yet no hormones raced, her heart rate stayed the same, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. There was silence and stillness until Yael heard herself speak.

  “You’re using him as bait,” she said softly. She and Yaniv lay facing away from each other, back to back.

  “It’s the only way,” Yaniv replied without moving to face her, his voice low and matching hers.

  “Only way to what?” It was a genuine question.

  “To save us. To save him,” Yaniv replied.

  “Is that what you want? To save us? Or is it just the story you want? The headline?”

  Yaniv shuffled on the bed and Yael knew her barb had stung.

  “Is that all you think of me?” Yaniv asked after a moment’s pause. “After they tried to kill me? After they killed your grandfather? After they tried to kill Bilal? Is that who you think I am?”

  “I don’t know who you are,” Yael said, pulling any air of accusation from her voice. “You’re not Israeli. You’re not from here. I see you watching this country like a tourist and I wonder what you care about. Do you really care about me, or Bilal?”

  Yaniv answered her question without answering her question. “I became an Israeli citizen because I love this country. I care about the story because the story matters. And Bilal’s story is the only reason we’re still alive. We tripped over an ant’s nest, Yael, and there’s no going back. We’ll never be safe until Spitzer is gone, this imam is gone . . . We either expose them or we kill them . . . and neither of us is a killer.”

  “And if they come armed? If they’re wielding guns? We’re not police. Shouldn’t we call somebody?”

  “It will be okay” was all Yaniv said, but he knew that Yael didn’t believe him.

  “And what about Bilal?” asked Yael softly.

  Yaniv didn’t answer. She knew he wouldn’t. The reality was that both of them were tyros, two people totally out of their depth. She was a doctor, he was a reporter, and they were playing at being secret agents, in competition with one of the deadliest men in Israel. She had no idea what was going to happen if or when the imam or the Shin Bet guy came to Peki’in. They’d set a trap, but what was the bait? Was it her, or Bilal, or Yaniv? And if they were tethered goats waiting for these predators to come and get them, who was going to stop the hunters?

  Yael realized with a shock that she was nervous. She was rarely nervous, hadn’t been really nervous since she was a child, and that was when her busy parents had left her and her brother alone in the house or when she was somewhere strange and she was alone.

  But she was in bed with Yaniv and wanted to reach out so that he could hold her, reassure her.

  She moved toward the center of the bed, closer to him, wanting to hold him, touch him, gain strength from the strength of his body. She was enveloped by his warmth. It was so different from all the other times she’d been physically close to him. She never wanted to be another Yaniv conquest, so she’d kept him at bay. Now she desired him; now she wanted
him to hug her, hold her tightly, enfold her. She reached out and touched his shoulder, stroked his arm, and pulled him closer to her.

  Yaniv turned and suddenly they were facing each other, their faces visible in the moonlight that had insinuated itself into the bedroom through the thin drapes. Yael pulled him closer to her and kissed him tenderly on the lips. He barely responded, as though it were an inappropriate move on her part. She knew that she was an Israeli beauty and had never had trouble attracting men before. Yet, she felt as though he was deliberately distancing himself from her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

  “Not here. Not now,” he answered, his voice quiet and sleepy.

  “I thought you liked me . . .”

  “I do. I adore you. I can’t stop thinking about you. But if we’re going to make love, I want the first time to be tender and special—not somewhere like this where we’re both frightened and anxious. I don’t want this to be our first memory.”

  She kissed him again, realizing that he was right. Wrong time, wrong place, but at least now she was certain he was the right man. What an irony! For the first time in her life, she’d found the right man, and tomorrow they could both be murdered. Well, she thought, that’s Israel.

  She smiled. They drifted into sleep holding each other.

  * * *

  72 CE

  AS HE ENTERED THE HOUSE, bending to avoid the low lintel, he smiled. It would soon be the Sabbath, and even though the sun was still hot and he was sweating from walking up the hill, the aromas of Sarah’s cooking thrilled his senses. All day he’d been overseeing the work of his servants in the oil presses that he’d built in the olive groves near the village of Peki’in. Since arriving nearly two years earlier, he’d first become a buyer and seller of the olive oils that some of the village farmers produced, then he’d arranged to press them under large round stones in a small workshop he’d created, and now he was selling his oils to villages and towns as far as seven days’ traveling distance from where he lived. The money he’d so far earned from the ripe crops had enabled him to pay for the construction of a house at the top of the hill where the breeze cooled the summer, close to the widow Sarah and her children.

  Though Peki’in wasn’t Jerusalem, a blackened ruin of a city where the streets were still stained red by the blood of the martyred Jews, he had established a comfortable life in the village, and each day, after his work was done, he’d visit the widow Sarah and her children, to whom he’d become attached.

  By Jewish levirate law, according to the book of Deuteronomy, Sarah should have married one of Abraham’s brothers; but all of them had been murdered, victims of the Roman massacre of Jerusalem, and the law of levirate couldn’t apply. So while not a blood relative of Abraham’s, Samuel had stepped up to the mark as the closest man to her and was providing her with food and shelter, aid and assistance. There was even talk in the village that one day they would marry. She was still young enough to bear his children, something that he craved so that sons other than Raphael would carry on his family name, but she was still grieving for her beloved Abraham.

  There were those in the village who said that she’d mourned enough. King Solomon the Wise had once said that mourners should not be encompassed by grief and should enjoy the fruits of life. In Jewish law, the prescribed time for grieving for a husband was just the length of time for the moon to wax and wane until the next time it waxed. Yet, she had been grieving for Abraham for two years, wearing the clothes of a widow, torn at the breast, as Jacob had rent his clothes for Joseph, and King David had torn his when Saul died. It was Sarah’s outward expression that showed the villagers that she was incomplete without her Abraham. It was also a warning to the younger men of the village—or the widowers from other villages looking for the comfort of a wife and housekeeper—that she was not to be theirs.

  Samuel the merchant and his son, Raphael, were the only ones who seemed to be close to her, and though her neighbors had been watching closely, he arrived at her house as the sun was low on the horizon, and without fail he left her house when the moon was high in the sky. He’d never been known to stay for the length of the night, so Sarah’s purity had never been questioned.

  Not that she was the subject of gossip. She was a good woman, loving to her children and helpful to the elderly and the lame, always carrying their bags and foodstuffs to their doors as they wended their way home. But there was something morose about Sarah. She laughed with the women as they gathered in the center of the village where the water bubbled out of the ground in order to do their washing. But while others’ laughter was full-bodied, hers was restrained, almost apologetic.

  Samuel loved her for her modesty, her delicacy, and her insights. And he loved her children for their liveliness and good humor. The children had adapted to their new surroundings with ease. Though they said they missed the size and busyness and excitement of Jerusalem, they had acclimatized to life in the little village quite well and were often heard in the upper parts of the village shouting and yelling at each other, or playing in the caves near a young and healthy carob tree that was often bursting with fruit.

  Samuel entered the home of Sarah and her children, and she turned as he crossed the threshold and smiled at him. She was at the fire, stirring the evening meal. The smell of freshly cooked barley bread and the aromas of mutton, grapes, garlic, and pomegranate in the stew smelled delicious.

  “Welcome, Samuel. May the good grace of our Adonai Elohim be with you and make your night safe.”

  “And may you remain as lovely and comforting and safe as always, dear Sarah.”

  “How is Raphael today?” she asked.

  Samuel smiled. “He’s well. He’s keeping the company of a young girl, Zipporah, who lives in the lower part of the village. Her mother works for me, and I know her. She’s a lovely girl; her hips will bear him many children and already her breasts are large and they will fill with milk.”

  Sarah smiled, but deep down she’d hoped that Raphael, who’d grown into a delightful young lad of fourteen, would be interested in her daughter, Leah, even though she was only eleven. Apparently it wasn’t to be.

  As he sat at the table, she brought over a bowl of fresh water from the nearby well, a cup to enable him to pour the water over his hands so that he could say the proper blessing, and a clean towel. As he was saying his b’rucha she poured a cup of wine and gave it to him with a platter of olives, figs, and pistachio nuts.

  But instead of returning to the fire to continue stirring the evening’s stew, she sat and looked at him, picking up a fig and eating it. It was unusual, because she generally allowed him to sit alone while she continued with the cooking and the housework. Samuel looked at her questioningly.

  “My friend,” she said, “you are aware, as am I and my children, that when Abraham of blessed memory was taken by the Romans two years ago as we were riding to this village, his body was never recovered. We have assumed his death, but he has no grave.”

  “Of course,” said Samuel.

  She swallowed nervously, as though she were unburdening herself. “Well, since we’ve arrived here in Peki’in, you have begun to rebuild your life as a merchant, and from what you’ve told me, you are doing well. Not as well as your life in Jerusalem, but the Roman invaders have taken all of that away from us.”

  He nodded, wondering what was to come next. He began to wonder whether she would suggest that they marry. It was unheard-of for a woman to ask a man, but who knew what would happen in these terrible times for the Israelite people? Samuel realized that he wasn’t breathing, rapt in the moment.

  “And so I was wondering, dear friend, whether you would join with me in building a memorial to my dead husband.”

  He had been so wrong in his assumptions, and felt shame at thinking in that way. “But without his body . . .”

  She shook her head. “No, not a grave. A memorial. Not one like the Romans with their arches or columns, but a building. A synagogue. The synagogue we
have here in Peki’in is so small and unfriendly. But a town like this needs a beautiful synagogue, a bet ha-knesset, a meetinghouse, now that the temple in Jerusalem has been torn down. For without a beautiful synagogue, where is our Lord Adonai Elohim to reside? And the synagogue could be built on the site of the current small building, but be a beautiful building, full of light and color and drawings, with niches for our sacred vessels and our menorah to celebrate the victory of the Maccabees. And on the wall we will hang the two plaques that we’ve carried from the temple in Jerusalem, as a permanent memorial to what the Jewish people once were.

  “What do you say, Samuel? I don’t know what the cost would be, but would you do it for my Abraham? If so, if you did this wondrous thing for him, and for me and my children, then I could put him to rest and move ahead with my life.”

  He sipped the wine, and looked at her deep-brown eyes. Her face was lovely, framed in a red scarf with wisps of her black hair caressing her cheeks. He had admired her when they first came to Peki’in; then he had revered her for her goodness and patience; and now he realized that he loved her, loved her with all his heart—that he wanted nothing more than to marry her and for them to have their own children, as companions for him in his old age, and for her children and his son, Raphael, when he and Sarah joined Abraham in the heavens.

  Since the Zealots had murdered his wife and children before the destruction of Jerusalem, he had often thought of asking Sarah to marry him, but two things prevented it. The first was his betrayal of his dead wife and the second was because he didn’t think that Sarah had accepted Abraham’s death.