Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  Daud shrugged. “Trade information for information with people who trust me. Maybe Nabil will talk about a lot of things, and I can separate the wheat from the, uh, chaff. Correct?”

  “That’s right,” Hana said. “What about Aaron Levy, the man Sylvia Armstrong mentioned? Will we talk to him?”

  “Yes,” Daud replied. “That is already scheduled.”

  “With me present?” Jakob asked.

  “Of course,” Daud replied as if it were an unnecessary question.

  “What about the computers seized by the police at the Zadan residence?” Jakob asked. “When we killed Osama bin Laden, the CIA got a ton of stuff from the computers captured in Pakistan.”

  “That is on my list,” Daud replied. “I know who has the equipment.”

  “Where are they?” Jakob asked.

  “The location is not important. I am working on getting the information downloaded onto a flash drive so we can review it,” he said.

  Jakob turned to Hana. “Do you think the US Attorney’s Office has it?”

  “No,” Daud answered.

  “Why do you say that?” Hana asked.

  “Because that is what I have been told.”

  “That could be a bargaining chip for us with the US attorney,” Hana said to Jakob. “And enable us to coordinate an exchange of more information.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Jakob said.

  The waiter arrived with their food. Jakob had ordered a roasted lamb dish. It was slightly crispy on the outside and filled with seasoned flavor on the inside. He was about to swallow his first bite when he noticed Daud and Hana with their heads bowed. Jakob stopped chewing. Daud prayed.

  “God, grant us great success and supernatural wisdom in what to do and who to talk to. Keep us safe and bless this food. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “It sounds like you and Hana read the same prayer book,” Jakob said when everyone’s eyes were open.

  “We do,” Hana replied, smiling. “It’s called the Bible. You should check it out for yourself. Jews wrote almost all of it.”

  “There is more about God’s interaction with the Jews in the Bible than any other topic,” Daud added. “Some people argue that the Jews are no longer relevant. God disagrees. I agree with God.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you if the Jews were irrelevant?” Jakob asked.

  “No, because it would make me doubt that God’s promises for the rest of us are true,” Daud said.

  “Do you believe this, too?” Jakob asked Hana.

  “Yes, and a lot more.”

  After the meal, Daud drove them back to their hotel. The three of them stood beside the Land Rover. The nearby courtyard was illuminated by small gas lamps on ornamental posts.

  “I will pick you up at seven thirty in the morning,” Daud said to Hana. “Get a good night’s sleep.”

  Hana yawned. “I will until my body thinks I’ve overslept. Jakob slept almost the entire flight.”

  “And I’ll read for a while before going to bed,” Jakob said. “Text me when you’re on your way back from Ramallah.”

  Jakob turned and climbed the stairs to his room. Hana lingered.

  “What do you think of him?” she asked in Arabic.

  “He is a secular American Jew,” Daud said with a shrug. “Is he a good lawyer?”

  Hana gave a quick summary of what she’d read in the dossier prepared by Mr. Lowenstein.

  “Maybe his name should be David,” Daud replied. “It sounds like he wants to fight Goliath.”

  “Like you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Daud motioned to a wooden bench in the courtyard. “I know you’re tired, but can we sit for a minute?”

  Hana joined him. One of the gas lamps caused the shadows to dance. It was her first time being alone with him since she’d arrived. She told him about her encounter with the Lord earlier in the evening in the courtyard.

  “Nothing like that has ever happened to me,” Daud said when she finished. “I guess I’m too pragmatic and analytical.”

  “Do you think I’m any different? I’m a lawyer. You can’t get more pragmatic and analytical than that.”

  “No, you’re very different from me,” Daud answered. “And I’m very glad about it.”

  Hana smiled. “Thanks. A glory encounter isn’t based on personality or temperament, though, but rather God’s desire and our receptivity. Anyway, I took it as a kiss from the Lord upon my return home. Jakob showed up and broke in at the end, but that was okay because it gave me a chance to encourage him to experience God’s presence while he’s here. We should be praying for him.”

  Daud eyed Hana for a moment. “Every time we talk I learn something new and wonderful about you. I’ve changed my mind about something important.”

  “What is it?” Hana asked as curiosity rose up within her.

  “Could we make a quick trip to Reineh? I want to meet your family.”

  Hana hadn’t brought a man home since the breakup with Ibrahim. She wanted to say yes but also felt guarded.

  “They’ll investigate you more closely than you do the people in your cases,” she said.

  “I’m ready.”

  “And persistent.”

  “There are things I must say or I’ll explode,” Daud said, speaking more rapidly. “I didn’t want to do it while you were in America, but now that you’re here, I have to. Tell me how you feel about me, and I’ll be quiet.”

  Hana paused for a moment before answering. She wanted to choose her words carefully. Her attempt at caution vanished as she replied, “I’d rather be sitting on this bench with you than anyplace else in the world.”

  Hana closed the door to her hotel room, leaned against it, and kicked off her shoes. She wasn’t totally surprised by Daud’s intensity, but it was still a shock when he switched off whatever normally kept his conversations under tight control. At least he was open and honest, Hana decided as she prepared for bed.

  She woke up in the middle of the night not because of her biological time clock or a call to prayer; rather, she was gripped by fear and gasping for breath. Her heart pounding, she sat upright and quickly scanned the room. A sliver of light shone through a crack in the curtain over the window, and with her eyes used to the dark she could clearly see the whole space. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Slipping out of bed, Hana made sure she’d locked and bolted the door. Going to the sink, she drank a few sips of water and tried to remember what she’d been dreaming. All she could recall was the sensation of drowning without the presence of water, and the ensuing panic caused by the inability to breathe.

  Hana returned to the bed and turned on a light for her night watch. Five minutes later, she felt herself nodding off to sleep. Getting out of bed, she paced back and forth while she prayed. Fatigue soon overwhelmed her, and she lay down and fell asleep.

  Jakob sat at a table in the courtyard eating a breakfast of fruit, yogurt, cheese, and samples of herring and pickled sardines from a large buffet table set up in one corner of the open area. He’d been awake since three and had logged in to his office computer to answer and send emails. The option of fish for breakfast was new, but he liked it. So far, everything about Israel was good.

  He was eating a sardine when Hana came outside. The Israeli lawyer was wearing a long dark skirt whose hem fell to the top of her sandals and a modest dark blue top. He waved, and she came over to him.

  “This breakfast is awesome,” Jakob said.

  “I’m going to start with caffeine,” Hana replied. “I didn’t sleep well.”

  She returned with a large cup of black coffee.

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?” Jakob asked.

  “It was one of those nights when I’m exhausted but sleep doesn’t seem to be the answer. Also, I had a bad dream.”

  Jakob waited. Hana took a sip of coffee and changed the subject. “Have you decided what you’re going to do this morning?” she asked.

  “Go to Hurva Square.”

  �
��That makes sense,” Hana said. “I did that when I was here to interview Daud. I’ve been there many times, but it was different seeing it through the eyes of the Neumann case.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. What are you expecting from the meeting with this Nabil guy?”

  “It’s hard to know, but Daud wouldn’t have set it up if he didn’t believe it would be worth our time.”

  “Will you ask questions, too?”

  Hana shook her head. “Not directly. It wouldn’t fit with my role as an administrative assistant. If I think of something, I’ll ask to take a break as a signal for Daud to meet me in another part of the house or business for a quick conversation.”

  “I believe our investigator is using you as an attractive distraction.”

  “Maybe, but Daud will look out for me.”

  Jakob ate a piece of tangy sharp cheese. “Any other suggestions for me?” he asked.

  “Don’t wander down any dark alleys.”

  A horn honked. They could see Daud’s vehicle through the opening in the courtyard to the hotel entrance.

  “I know we’re here because of a tragedy,” Hana said, “but Jerusalem is also full of good surprises.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Daud opened the passenger door for Hana.

  “Perfect outfit,” he said in Arabic. “And I brought some jibneh baida and fresh olives to go with your coffee.”

  Resting in the center console of the vehicle was a small bowl filled with pieces of fried white goat cheese surrounded by green olives. Hana took a bite of the cheese. “This is good. Who made it?”

  “You don’t think I did?”

  “Do you have a goat tied up behind your apartment building?”

  “No. I told a neighbor you were coming, and she insisted I bring some with me.”

  “Thank her.”

  “Maybe you can if we go to my apartment later in the week.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They rode in silence as Daud navigated Jerusalem streets crowded with commuters in small cars. In front of the big hotels, lines of buses waited for tourists to emerge for the day.

  “We’ll stop and change license plates as soon as we’re through the checkpoint,” Daud continued. “Is there anything you need on this side of the line?”

  “Should I have a notepad?”

  Daud gestured to the rear seat. “Already done. Nabil may not want you writing while he talks. Your main job is to smile at him.”

  “Jakob brought that up,” Hana replied. “You don’t have to remind me how I’m going to be viewed.”

  “Don’t worry. Nabil will focus on the real reason we’re meeting. I want you to hear and decide what you think.” Daud stopped for a red light. “What are Jakob’s plans for the day?”

  “To go to Hurva Square and maybe the Kotel,” Hana said.

  Daud didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the phone and placed a call. Someone answered, and Daud spoke in rapid-fire Arabic. “Follow Brodsky everywhere he goes when he leaves the hotel and find out if he’s being tailed. I know he’s going to Hurva Square and the Western Wall. Take pictures if he’s under surveillance, but don’t step in unless there is a real danger. If that happens, just ease him into a safe place. Bye.”

  Hana’s eyes widened. “Who was that?”

  “A guy who works for me from time to time. If Jakob is a target of the terrorists, it would be a huge break.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it could lead us to someone here who doesn’t want their connection to the Zadan brothers exposed.”

  Jakob finished a leisurely breakfast. He took a picture of the courtyard and sent it to Emily with a brief description of the hotel. She didn’t respond. Returning to his room, he worked remotely for almost an hour. He knew he could muddle through while away and hadn’t put an out-of-office message on his email account. Logging off, he went downstairs and asked the concierge whether to use a taxi or a private driver service.

  “Three of my cousins drive taxis,” the middle-aged man replied. “They offer the best way to go and can take you to all the sites if you hire them for the day.”

  “All I want to do is go to Hurva Square and then walk to the Western Wall,” Jakob answered.

  “There is so much more to see, and my cousins can get you to places where tourists don’t normally go.” The man reached under the counter. “I have a brochure with options—”

  “Let’s start with Hurva Square.”

  “Okay,” the concierge said and shrugged. “They only drive Mercedes Benz, so you will like the ride.”

  In less than ten minutes an aging white Mercedes pulled up to the hotel and stopped.

  “It’s Wahid,” the concierge said. “He’s the best of the best.”

  Wahid opened one of the rear doors for Jakob while his cousin barked orders that seemed to include a lot more than a request for a trip to Hurva Square.

  “Hurva Square?” Jakob asked as soon as the driver was behind the wheel.

  “Sure,” the man replied in a voice that sounded more New York than Jerusalem. “I can’t drive you directly to the square, but I will take you as close as possible.”

  “Are you American?” Jakob asked.

  “Resident alien with a green card,” the man replied. “I was born in Nablus and have a Jordanian passport but moved to Queens when I was kid. Whether I’m here or there, I drive a cab to put bread on the table.”

  Wahid’s driving reminded Jakob of Emily Johnson. He zipped through the winding streets.

  “What was your cousin telling you?” Jakob asked.

  “About a family dinner at our uncle’s house next weekend. He wants my wife to bring dessert.”

  Jakob relaxed. Wahid pulled to the curb and stopped. He handed Jakob his card and pointed up a small hill.

  “Hurva Square is a five-minute walk that way toward the old Jewish Quarter. From there you can follow signs to the Western Wall. Text or call me, and I’ll pick you up if you need a ride later. You can pay me now or we can run a tab at the hotel.”

  Jakob felt comfortable with Wahid. “Run a tab,” he said. “I’m here for a week.”

  “Did Rafi try to sell you a tour package?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ignore him. Call me directly. He’ll still get his cut without the hassle. I tell him he’s too aggressive for most Americans, but he’s old-school.”

  Jakob exited the cab and entered a maze of narrow streets filled with pedestrians, not cars. An occasional small vehicle squeezed by. Blue signs affixed to the walls of buildings identified the streets. He passed an ATM machine set into a wall of Jerusalem stone and entered Hurva Square. The small open plaza was less than a hundred yards across. On the western side was the Hurva Synagogue, which had recently been rebuilt after its destruction by Arab Legion forces in 1948.

  Jakob walked across the stone pavers to the snack and ice cream shop. Normally decorated in black and white, it was odd seeing the small sitting area in vibrant color. Two young families with children were relaxing in the shade of a solitary tree eating ice cream. Three young female IDF soldiers lounged nearby. Glancing around, Jakob saw no threats, only people walking past or stopping to look in shop windows on the opposite side of the square. He located the surveillance camera that most likely had captured the images of the attack on Gloria and Sadie Neumann and moved into position beneath it until he was standing in the spot where Abdul Zadan drew his knife. Though the blood on the stones had long since washed away, the call for justice remained. Jakob realized he was standing awkwardly close to one of the families eating ice cream and stepped away.

  He made his way slowly around the square so that every detail lodged in his mind. If he ever had the opportunity to present the Neumann case to a jury, he wanted to take them to Hurva Square, not only in a grainy black-and-white video, but with descriptive words. A group of young ultra-Orthodox men entered, walking with purpose. Guessing they were on their way to the Western Wall, Jakob followed.

&nbs
p; Daud and Hana were cleared through the security checkpoint between Israel and the West Bank. Two Arab Israelis with Israeli passports and riding in an expensive Land Rover didn’t attract close scrutiny. Daud drove three hundred yards, turned into a narrow street, and stopped. Hana waited while he installed the Palestinian Authority license plate.

  “Now I look like a prosperous businessman from Ramallah,” he said as he backed out of the street and continued on the main road.

  “Have you ever been caught doing that?” Hana asked.

  “If you mean by the boys playing in the street, yes. Otherwise, no.”

  They headed north toward Ramallah, about ten miles from Jerusalem.

  “Where are we meeting Nabil?” Hana asked.

  “Not Deir Dibwan. It’s too small. Nabil owns a tobacco store in Ramallah and wants to talk there.”

  “A hookah shop?” Hana guessed.

  “Yes,” Daud said, nodding. “But we’ll talk in his office. The shop is off-limits to women.”

  “Could we drive through Deir Dibwan?” Hana asked.

  “Maybe on the way back. There’s not much to see, and I don’t want to attract too much attention.” Daud glanced at her. “You’ve seen plenty of villages like it.”

  Hana looked out the window. Some Arab villages in the West Bank struggled economically. Others prospered. Ramallah, the headquarters for the Palestinian Authority, was booming with growth and modern development.

  “There are lots of new buildings since I was here a few years ago,” Hana said as they came into the city.

  “Built with euros and dollars,” Daud replied. “At least some of the aid money doesn’t end up in the Swiss bank accounts of corrupt politicians. Nabil’s shop is near the main square in an older building that used to be part of a monastery.”

  “When my great-grandfather came here in the 1920s, over ninety percent of the population were Christians,” Hana said. “Back then, Ramallah was a Christian town. What is the percentage now? Twenty-five?”

  “Or less. Many have moved to America like you.”

  “I’m not there permanently.” Hana cut her eyes toward Daud.

  They passed the educational complex for a girls’ school founded in the 1860s by the Quakers. Now coeducational, it occupied a large modern campus.