The Amateur Spy

by Dan Fesperman

  “The Americans aren’t partisan?”

  “Of course they are. But their interest is once removed. They’re the rich uncle who sends gifts to one nephew and only scorn to the other. Which earns him resentment from both, if for different reasons. But any way you look at it, he’s still just a rich uncle. So what’s your worry about Omar? He hasn’t gone radical on us?”

  “Not in my opinion. I’m not so sure about some of his friends, though.”

  “You could say the same thing about me. It’s one reason to be careful while you’re in Jerusalem, especially if anyone knows you’re seeing me. And believe me, someone will know.”

  “They watch you that closely?”

  “That’s the nature of being an underground peacemaker. I’m a go-between, which makes me useful to both sides. It means almost anyone will talk to me. Which, of course, makes everyone all the more determined to find out who I’ve been meeting. So here’s hoping you haven’t made yourself radioactive before coming here. The last thing I need is to have some of that poison rub off on me.”

  “What about Omar? What kind of a jolt would he put into an Israeli Geiger counter?”

  “Not much, I’d imagine. His friends over here aren’t particularly dangerous. Just nuisances.”

  “How so?”

  “In legal ways. Telling their poor illiterate brethren all about their property rights, and then helping stand up for them.”

  “His friends are lawyers?”

  “Property people, actually. Diggers and designers. Archaeologists and architects. Like Basma Shaheed. Omar is supposedly one of her patrons.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She’d like that. She works quietly. Goes into homes in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City whenever someone is thinking about moving out, or giving up, or just can’t keep their place in repair. She shows them how to shore up the walls or the ceiling and hold their ground, then finds them help, so they can stay. That way, no Jewish settler moves in to paint a blue Star of David on the door.”

  “Sounds benign enough.”

  “Nothing here is benign when it involves land. She has begun to attract the attention of the authorities.”

  “So you think her days are numbered?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting. Apparently she’s about to go public. Open an office, hire a staff. Expand her base of operations beyond the walls of the Old City. The Palestinian Authority is going to come up with some sort of award for her, and she suddenly seems to be spending a lot of money.”

  “I thought she liked secrecy.”

  “You know how it goes. Start getting some heat and maybe you’d be better off out in the open. That way if anyone tries to take you down, the whole world will know it.”

  “And Omar is a patron?”

  “Him and a few others, mostly Jordanians. Some sort of property baron named Sami Fayez, too. There’s also a stockbroker, Rafi Tuqan. People who’ve scored big in the recent boom.”

  “Good Lord, the whole crowd.”

  “You know them?”

  “Met them all. At Omar’s house, in fact.”

  Hans grinned.

  “Well, there you are. Right under your nose, and you didn’t even know it.”

  “Hardly sounds like anything illegal.”

  “Just because it’s legal doesn’t mean it doesn’t make people nervous. Especially if the latest is true. She supposedly has a new base of operations right by an archaeological site, a very sensitive one. Next to the City of David dig, outside the Dung Gate. One of the biblical diggers on the Israeli side is convinced he’s found the wall to King David’s palace. His answer to all those people who’ve been saying for years that the Old Testament is just glorified mythology.”

  “Exactly the sort of claim that drives the Arab archaeologists crazy, I gather.”

  “Of course. Which brings us back to the age-old struggle. If the Israeli right can show that Jerusalem in fourteenth-century B.C. was the glorious metropolis the Bible says it was, then they’re that much closer to claiming the West Bank as part of the Promised Land.”

  “Only in their own minds.”

  “When five percent of the vote can swing an election, their own minds are all that matters. And who knows, put another hard-liner in office and you push the Palestinians that much closer to Hamas. Believe me, people are going to be shocked next time the Palestinians vote.”

  “What’s all that have to do with this dig?”

  “Because if a few Arabs on the edge of the property hold on to their homes, they could stop the dig in its tracks.”

  “Well, if that’s what Omar is up to, backing a few homeowner holdouts, why hide it?”

  “Who says he’s hiding it? Unless he’s helping on a scale that no one can even imagine.”

  I thought of the envelope Norbert Krieger gave Omar in Athens, and the archaeological connections of Yiorgos Soukas.

  “Maybe he is helping on that kind of scale.”

  Hans eyed me carefully.

  “In that case, he’s being more than just a philanthropist. Underwrite an entire movement and you’ve become an agitator, a political force.”

  “An enemy?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  So, just when I was beginning to put my mind at ease on Omar’s motivations, now I was worried again. Could this be what the Americans really wanted to know—the depth of Omar’s involvement in a scheme to help Arab homeowners? And if he was using the hospital charity as cover, then wasn’t he duping me in the bargain?

  “Tell me, has the name Norbert Krieger ever come up in any of this?”

  Hans laughed.

  “Never.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Norbert Krieger of Munich? He must be in his sixties by now.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He was once a patron of mine. A real peacenik. Ten, eleven years ago. A little too pro-Arab for my tastes.”

  “You’ve hung out with worse.”

  “Not when they’re German. With any German that pro-Arab you’ve always got to assume he’s more of an anti-Jew.”

  “Spoken like a truly guilty German. Still worried if you’re betroffen enough?”

  “That’s part of it. But I haven’t heard from him in years. I think he knew I didn’t trust him. Why? Is he another friend of Omar’s?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, he’s no bomb thrower. That much I know. Unless he has gone off the deep end. But I wouldn’t be tossing his name around if I were you, even now. Remember, Freeman, people here take everything seriously, no matter how small or insignificant. Be careful who you talk to, and what you ask. Not everyone keeps a secret as well as me.”

  I didn’t feel like telling him that my next appointment was with a former general of the Israeli Army. Maybe because I was already second-guessing my decision to meet with David Ben-Zohar.

  Later that day I checked into the American Colony Hotel. Ben-Zohar then telephoned. My first instinct was to cancel, but he was not to be put off so easily.

  “Oh, no, Freeman. We must meet. I insist. And if you can’t do it tomorrow, I will gladly reschedule.”

  What must he have heard about me since the lukewarm response in his first e-mail? I chalked it up as yet another lesson learned as an amateur, and I wondered how many more mistakes I’d be allowed before I started paying the penalties of a professional.

  29

  Career military men never stop looking like soldiers, even when they’ve been mustered out of the army. So when David Ben-Zohar, private citizen, stood to offer his hand at a sunny outdoor table at a café on Yoel Salomon Street, everything from his posture to the set of his jaw said he might just as easily be leading a patrol as ordering lunch. His eyes particularly demanded attention, cool wells of reserve flanked not by laugh lines but creases of careworn deliberation. It was a face that had turned a thousand corners without knowing who or what awaited, and I suspected he still had a high threshold
for shock and awe.

  The site he chose for our rendezvous told me a thing or two. Yoel Salomon Street was among the trendiest of pedestrian thoroughfares in the center of modern Jerusalem. That, plus its attractive storefronts of chiseled Jerusalem stone, with arched doorways and seawater-blue trim, made it a magnet for midday crowds of shoppers and diners. To take up such a prominent position in this busy area was to announce boldly that you didn’t care who saw you, or whom you were seen with. From a more suspicious point of view you might even say he was inviting surveillance.

  This part of town was very much home ground for any Israeli, a safe distance from the shrinking Arab neighborhoods of the east side and the Old City’s Muslim Quarter.

  Knowing his reputation for punctuality, I hailed a taxi at the American Colony with plenty of time to spare. When it dropped me off at Jaffa and Ben Yehuda streets in the heart of downtown I still had time to kill, so I wandered up the block. A poster on a jeweler’s doorway caught my eye, less for the big art exhibit it was promoting than for the name of the exhibit’s philanthropic sponsor: the DeKuyper Foundation. So, not only did DeKuyper own a Greek island villa and a big yacht—now he was underwriting an art exhibit in Israel. It made me curious about how else he might be spending his money in this part of the world. Up to now I had assumed that Black, White, and Gray had simply paid off the caretaker, figuring that was why the fellow was so zealous in shooing Mila and me away. Now I wondered.

  Ben-Zohar rose from the table as I approached. He looked me in the eye and extended his hand in greeting. As I’ve said, he still seemed very much the soldier, even in his business grays. Like Omar, he had gained a few pounds but wore them comfortably.

  As in many non-kosher restaurants in this part of town, the menu bent over backward to offer forbidden combinations of dairy and meat, so I ordered the first cheeseburger I’d had in ages plus a pint of Maccabee to wash it down. We exchanged small talk for a while. Ben-Zohar described his security consulting business in the vaguest of terms, and I told him about my brilliant career in the aid industry. My worry over whether he would be reluctant to discuss Omar proved groundless. I didn’t even have to bring up the subject.

  “So how’s my old sparring partner, Mr. al-Baroody?” he said.

  “Very much like you, from the look of things. Prosperous.”

  “I always thought he would amount to something. As long as no one shot him first.”

  “Once he survived your men there wasn’t much chance of that. He lives in a big place in Abdoun with a Mercedes in the garage.”

  Ben-Zohar seemed to enjoy the news immensely.

  “So we all ended up with the same thing, I guess. Assuming that you’re now feeding at his trough.”

  “I’m not sure I’d refer to his charity as a trough. It’s certainly no horn of plenty.”

  “Oh, of course not. I was just assuming Omar wouldn’t exactly underpay his top staff. Or not an old comrade like you. Do you two still share the same worldview?”

  “As much as we ever did. Meaning, less than you probably think.”

  Ben-Zohar smiled.

  “This is beginning to sound like one of our old conversations. Next you’ll pull a radio out of your pocket and call for reinforcements.”

  “Omar might have a little trouble crossing the river.”

  I hadn’t meant the remark to put a damper on the good cheer, but Ben-Zohar seemed to take it that way, because his face turned somber.

  “Yes, unfortunately you are right. Those times back in ’90 were so innocent, to look at them now.”

  “Maybe from your perspective.”

  His smile returned.

  “Very good, Freeman. Still sticking up for the shebab. You know, in my work today I see some of the old names popping up from time to time. The same boys I used to haul in for questioning, only they’re all grown up now. I’m sorry to say that about half of them I never should have let go.”

  “Or maybe by hauling them in you only hardened them for the next level.”

  “You may be right,” he said, sipping his Maccabee with a solemn nod. “But it is easy to second-guess. Do you think their side does much of that?”

  “I suppose every side does. In any conflict.”

  “Perhaps. I guess I’ve never known them to admit mistakes. But among themselves, well, who can say? How much do you know about what Omar is doing over here in Jerusalem?”

  It was exactly the question I was about to ask.

  “You mean with his patronage of people like Basma Shadeed?”

  “So he talks about it openly, then?”

  “Not really. Or not with me. But word gets around. I was hoping maybe you had some insight.”

  “Then it looks as if we’ve both brought empty pails to the same well, and will come away dry. I take it that this dalliance of his worries you.”

  “Not if it’s a dalliance. Does it worry you?”

  “Oh, nothing worries me anymore, as long as my wife and children stay off the exploding buses and out of the exploding cafés. I’m no longer employed by the arbiters of public worry.” He paused, sipping his beer again. “But some of my clients wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more about what Omar is up to.”

  “What sort of clients?”

  “We don’t publish a list, and I wouldn’t be doing them much of a service if I told you their names.”

  “What about the name DeKuyper?”

  “What about it?” There had been no discernible reaction on his part.

  “Is he a client?”

  “I should be so lucky. He would pay a nice shekel or two. And by the way, I won’t answer in either the affirmative or the negative to any such inquiries, so you can stop fishing. But now I’m curious. What made you ask about DeKuyper?”

  “Nothing earth-shattering. I just saw his name on a poster up the street for an art exhibit. Said his foundation was sponsoring it, so I figured he might be backing other local projects. You know, the usual big-time Jewish philanthropist from Europe, kicking in another two bits for the cause.”

  Ben-Zohar smiled as if he didn’t buy that explanation at all, but he said nothing, so I prodded further.

  “Would DeKuyper have any reason to be concerned about what Omar is up to?”

  “That would depend on his investment portfolio.”

  “In real estate, you mean?” Was that what Ben-Zohar’s clients were fretting about with regard to Omar?

  He grimaced.

  “I’ve probably said enough already. I guess I was assuming that if anyone as filthy rich as DeKuyper was worried, it would be because of some financial implication.”

  It sounded like misdirection, so I decided I must have struck a little too close to the truth. I tried approaching the subject from a different angle.

  “Tell me what you know about this archaeological site everyone is in a tizzy about. This new dig at the City of David.”

  “Are you saying Omar is interested in that, too?”

  His apparent ignorance of the matter seemed genuine. Now I was the one who had said too much. Maybe Ben-Zohar’s clients were worried only about property inside the Old City. That would be especially true if they were buying up Arab homes, whether their motivations were territorial or financial.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “But maybe I should go have a look at the dig, just to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “You should stick your head inside Hezekiah’s Tunnel while you’re there. Especially if you’ve never been before.”

  “Why the tunnel?”

  “It’s convenient, for one thing. The entrance is on the back side of the dig. It’s also quite an experience. King Hezekiah built it twenty-seven hundred years ago to supply the city with water from beyond its walls in case of a siege. Half a mile long, straight through the bedrock, and definitely not for the faint of heart.”

  He said it like a challenge, a double dare.

  “So you think I’m not man enough?”

  He laughed.


  “Anyone who’d try to break up a fight between boys and tanks definitely won’t be scared by a tunnel, even if it is kind of spooky. I think it would appeal to you, in fact. Let’s just say that it offers an acute taste of this land’s deepest fears and desperations.” I raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m serious. It’s nothing I can adequately explain up here in the light of day while we’re drinking a cold beer and watching pretty women walk by. You have to experience it for yourself. An old hand like you will definitely know what I’m talking about once you’re down there.”

  “Interesting. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

  Not long afterward, he paid the bill, over my protests, and then announced he was overdue for another appointment. Our destinations were in opposite directions, so we shook hands and said good-bye. As I turned to leave, he called out a final time.

  “Oh, and Freeman—”

  “Yes?”

  “DeKuyper’s not Jewish.”

  “No?”

  “So if he’s part of this game you’re interested in, it’s for reasons other than heart and homeland.”

  “What kind of reasons?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. Like I said, he’s not a client.”

  Then he offered his inscrutable soldier’s smile and marched off into the midday glare.

  I decided to take the leisurely route to the dig at the City of David by crossing through the Old City. By entering at the New Gate I would be traversing the serpentine warrens of three faiths—crossing the paths of Jesus on his way to the cross, of Muhammad on his way to the Seventh Heaven, and of King David on his way to the throne. A pretty tidy accomplishment for a jaded old infidel like me.

  The old routes down the alleys of polished stone were still familiar. The only disturbing change was the prevalence of spray-painted Stars of David, graffitied crudely upon Arab doorways and storefronts here and there, a stamp of political branding that staked a claim wherever it appeared.

  Emerging through the Dung Gate, I tried to ford an incoming group of schoolchildren who barely reached my waist, only to stop in my tracks when none of them made the slightest move to let me pass. For a few annoying moments I stood like a piece of driftwood snagged in a raging current. Then I remembered that it had always been like this with Jerusalem’s children, Arab and Jew alike. Growing up on such bitterly contested ground they learned early to give no quarter, especially to strangers.