The Hadassah Covenant

by Tommy Tenney

  “I agree. I’ll be totally discreet.”

  There was a knock on the door. A steward entered, carrying two steaming lunches, set them down before each, then backed out, closing the door behind him.

  Both of them looked wearily at the plates, then broke into laughter. The food had arrived just as they were through. And then a sudden pain in the still-healing muscle wall of her abdomen cut short her laugh. With a grimace, she reached for her belly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you hurt yourself.”

  She shook her head forgivingly. “The doctor said it’s healing fine. I’m lucky to have only had such a small wound.”

  “But in such a critical area,” he said, his voice gentle. Then he leaned across the table and looked deeply into her face. “You have such extraordinary eyes, Hadassah. I’ve always . . .”

  But he didn’t know how to finish, and an awkward silence descended on them.

  “I just had an idea,” Jacob suddenly said with a forced energy. “It’s not much, but . . . just this morning, I was given a strange briefing from the head of Mossad, about a matter that might possibly involve you. One of our top undercover men has just been rushed back from Iraq with some documents that, if they’re authentic, could set off bombshells across the Middle East. In an odd twist, it looks like the only way to authenticate them will be to compare them with your family’s Hadassah documents. I was going to grant him access as your husband, but maybe . . .”

  “Maybe I could help him myself?”

  “Exactly. Might help you open some of your own back channels with intelligence. Make some connections that have nothing to do with me.”

  “That’s exactly what I need. And I could take it from there.”

  “Just remember, my dear, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing, letting you do this. I’m certainly not setting you loose because I think you won’t come up with anything. Quite the opposite. And also, quite frankly, I’m afraid that if you truly get somewhere, I’m not sure I’ll be able to protect you. Every Israeli can use a little help from the Mossad at some point or other.”

  “I understand. And thank you. Now where could I meet this man?”

  “I’ll arrange it. He wanted to see the Hadassah scroll, so—back to where it all started. The Shrine.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ISRAEL MUSEUM, SHRINE OF THE BOOK—LATE THAT NIGHT

  She had stepped onto the floor beneath the Shrine of the Book’s curved dome many times in her life—especially since learning right before her wedding day that the famous museum housed her own family’s oldest and most cherished documents.

  Yet she had never seen it at this hour—eleven o’clock at night—and never in these conditions. All lighting was turned off, and the only illumination in its curved roof line glowed from a pool of moonlight pouring in through the hole overhead. Banks of deep shadow only seemed to lengthen the stone floors and heighten its sensuous overhead lines. Its only sounds were the faint echo of her delegation’s footsteps upon marble and her own breathing.

  She paused for a second to take in the strange sight, causing her Shin Beth bodyguard—at least the only one she could see—to almost collide with her back. He stepped back with a cowed grunt of apology. Surely only a handful of people have ever seen the room in this eerie atmosphere, she noted silently. She fought back a shiver of privilege mixed with unease, feeling a bit like one of those reckless teenagers in the horror movies who inexplicably walk into a cemetery at midnight on a full moon.

  Looking around, she remembered another reason she was liking the Shrine’s unusual appearance—she appreciated the contrast with the bright, vivid tourist attraction she had visited with Poppa on that day barely five years before. The wonderful morning when he had brought her here and first informed her of her family’s unique heritage.

  Her museum escort, the same matronly woman who had introduced her to the Hadassah journals on that fateful visit, walked her across. A man waited, so upright and motionless that Hadassah did not even notice his presence until she was less than twenty feet away.

  Fighting the weariness of a first, long day out, she peered closer for a better look. She had been wondering who this mystery man was ever since learning of this meeting. The first thing she noticed was the dim outline of a medium-built man wearing dark, nondescript street clothing. Close-cropped dark hair, a lean jawline concealed by a full beard. Wasn’t exactly young. Could be anybody, she remarked to herself, and then realized that this was precisely the man’s intention.

  “Mrs. Prime Minister, Ari Meyer of the . . . Investigative Archaeology Committee,” stammered the museum guide, likely set off kilter by the unusual time and august company.

  He lowered his head in greeting and held out his hand, the dim light glinting off his aviator glasses.

  “Ari Meyer.” Then, as the matron stepped back, he whispered with a sly smile, “Mossad. I am very grateful for this meeting and for your being willing to grant me access.” He had a low, confident voice with just a trace of a British accent.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Hadassah said as they shook hands. His was cool and dry, and he held her hand loosely, almost indifferently.

  Now came an awkward pause. Trying not to stare at her mysterious greeter, Hadassah felt for a moment as though she had been transported into some obscure spy thriller. Finally Meyer raised a small handpiece to his mouth and muttered something to an unseen colleague. He lowered it and tilted his head.

  “Shall we go in?”

  The escort nodded, and Meyer turned to her bodyguard. “Would you care to remain here and secure the entrance? It’s the only way down.”

  The Shin Beth operative glanced at Hadassah thoughtfully and nodded. Meyer tossed the man another handpiece from his pocket, murmured, “We’re on channel four,” and they left him behind.

  Walking to the recessed staircase and descending again into the hidden passageway, she felt herself swept back once more, reluctantly, to that landmark day with her father. She could not help smiling faintly as she recalled how coy he had been with her on the way to the Shrine, wearing the mischievous smile she had only seen in his later years.

  At first her father’s refusal to explain their museum visit had irritated her. Her wedding was only a few days away and time far too short for idle distractions. Then he had inexplicably diverted them right past the museum’s ticket counter and first-floor exhibits, even more thoroughly confusing her. But when he had unerringly steered them to the out-of-the-way stairs and nearly bounded down the steps as if he owned the place, she had found herself completely bewildered. And there at the end of an isolated corridor had stood an even greater oddity: her aunt Rose from America and nearly every living older woman in her family.

  It was the repetition of a hidden ritual her family had observed for centuries. And now she was the only one left who even remembered it.

  Hadassah narrowed her eyes for an instant and pictured the proud glow that had swept over her father’s features. And then the way his facial muscles had constricted as a wave of emotion had overtaken him. It had been one of the most moving episodes in his life, he had told her later.

  But the matrons’ appearance had been far from the final mystery, Hadassah reminded herself as she followed the museum guide and the Mossad agent to a now-familiar reinforced-metal door. Where before her father had ploddingly extricated the paper with the entry codes from his pocket and deliberately poked in every digit, now the hostess keyed in the codes swiftly from memory. The thick barrier swung open with a whoosh!—such a specific and singular sound, it made Hadassah feel that no time had passed since she had last heard it.

  Stepping into the sprawling, dimly lit room and glimpsing the rows of faintly glowing display tables, awash in the special lighting that allowed study but did not deteriorate the document, she now felt thoroughly immersed in two time periods at once. She turned, half expecting her father’s warm, gruff presence to await behind her, only to find Meyer standi
ng there.

  But she kept turning toward him, for something about his body language caught her attention.

  As still as he had stood before, now he seemed veritably carved of stone. The man, transfixed, stared at the documents lying before him. Even though she could not see his eyes, only the rows of ancient parchment eerily suspended in his lenses, intensity seemed to radiate from him in waves. After several seconds completely without motion, he bent down, removed the glasses, and whisked a viewing lens over one eye. He surely acted as though he was more in awe of parchment pages than a prime minister’s wife!

  She now had seen his eyes for the first time. She peered at him further. She could be wrong—the dim light could be fooling her—but his deep-set, expressive brown eyes seemed to be shining with tears. This man was somehow emotionally overwhelmed. This simply could not be a routine document check. She shook her head slightly and stepped back. Who is this man?

  Finally his eyes veered over to her face, and Meyer seemed to remember himself. A professional veneer claimed his features, and he instantly was the taciturn operative of before.

  “Well, let’s see if we have a match,” he said, glancing down to a leather satchel at his side. He unlatched the flap and carefully pulled out several inches of ancient-looking documents.

  Yes, to the business at hand, she told herself, trying to shake off the strange impression. She turned and looked down at the spot where she had signed her own name to the end of the document. The signature linked her life to the long chain of women who had signed the ancient story of Queen Esther and this secret epistle to an unknown Jewish concubine named Leah—a young girl in a Persian court lost to history, who had nevertheless been her distant ancestor.

  Just as on that first day, Hadassah felt a vast presence suck the present moment away with an almost palpable sensation. The enormity of time surrounded her, dwarfed her, caused her troubles to seem trivial, even insectlike. Emotion like a surge of violins in some aching minor key swept through her. And despite being bittersweet, the storm of feelings felt bracingly fresh to her now, a welcome renewal from the stupor of the last few weeks.

  She stepped toward Meyer and glanced down at his samples.

  “So I hear you may have a companion text,” she offered.

  He turned toward her as though surprised she knew that much. She sensed a complex personality—but a good one. A man of integrity.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I believe what I found was written in Esther’s hand, but I had no other way to confirm it. Again, the Institute thanks you and your family for your . . . forbearance.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  “And also,” he said, as though once provoked he could not stop himself from talking, “you have my deepest sympathies in the loss of your father. He was a good man.”

  She shook her head, perplexed at the tone of his reference. “You . . . you knew of my father?”

  He glanced away, and she had a distinct impression that she had caught him in some imprudent disclosure.

  “Just from the media accounts. I was captivated by the story of how he and his family members survived the Shoah.”

  She nodded at that last word, the Jewish term for the Holocaust. Reminded of her Poppa’s familiar tale of escaping the Holocaust by hiking through Eastern Europe, she felt a reassuring warmth spread over her and gave Meyer another appraising look. Weird . . . Even while he stared at one of the ancient documents through a thick magnifying loop, his expression appeared strangely wistful. And despite his obvious competence, he also seemed unable to hide his reaction—a fact that intrigued her as much as any other.

  At the very least, an unusual Mossad agent—although she had to remind herself that she had no other frame of reference.

  He bent closer and once again, stillness overtook him. Finally, he straightened and faced her and the museum hostess.

  “Clearly this is what scholars would call a cursory examination. Yet from what I can tell, it’s reasonably certain the two documents are a match. My parchments were most likely written by Queen Esther herself.”

  “Can you tell me to whom she wrote it?”

  He shook his head. “We are most grateful, but I couldn’t tell you more without severe consequences. Maybe someday, when the urgency has passed and the proper releases have been authorized . . .”

  “I understand.” She heard her voice and felt embarrassed at the tone of girlish disappointment it conveyed. “And yet, from what you say, it sounds like this comparison has some . . . national security repercussions to it. My husband said you were assigned to Iraq?”

  He leaned in closer to her.

  “We are grateful. Extremely grateful. Please convey the Institute’s thanks to your family members.”

  “I’m the only one left,” she heard herself say.

  She sighed and remembered the vague promises her husband had made to her—that helping the Mossad agent might result in some helpful contacts toward her own covert quest.

  Now was the time to act.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hadassah put a hand to his shoulder, leaning in to whisper so as to avoid any prying attentions. He stiffened at her touch and warily glanced around for the hostess.

  “Agent Meyer, might I have a . . . private word with you,” she said softly. “You see,” she continued, lowering her voice even further, “I’m engaged in a little fact-finding of my own. It concerns my father. Obviously, your confidentiality is assured. And of course my husband is aware of my curiosity.”

  She said this with a gleam that conveyed a sense of expectation—Now you know something you didn’t before, so it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know. . . . By helping her, he could acquire some political favor, was the implication.

  She suddenly felt his eyes bore into hers with an intensity that shocked her.

  “I ask”—she paused a moment to regroup—“I ask partly because you spoke of my father and his background. You see, without disclosing any privileged information on my part,” she let another moment pass, realizing that her informational trump card was about to be played, “I can tell you that the attack which killed him has not yet been attributed to anyone. As unlikely as this may sound, it seems to have had nothing to do with my husband.”

  Meyer grew perfectly still for a second. Then she saw his head lower. He was moving to meet her exact eye level; she had definitely seized his attention.

  “Is there any way,” she asked more confidently, “through your associations, your briefing—that you could imagine my father being a valid target for assassination?”

  His pupils darted around quickly. He could not resist the challenge; he was thinking hard. Finally, his eyes returned to her.

  “Have you considered,” he said, matching her hushed tones, “that the actual target might have been you?”

  Like a sheet of ice water poured from a bucket, a cold bath of shock rushed over her head and through her being. The room’s corners reeled slightly, tilting her vertigo.

  Truly she had never considered the possibility—at least not consciously. As she quickly thought back over the last few weeks, she realized that the notion had floated somewhere around the periphery of her mind, always just out of sight, never close enough for her to deal with head-on.

  Perhaps she had not faced the idea because she could not bear the thought of her father dying as a result of something directed at her. The obvious theory of a politically motivated attack on her husband was at least predictable. Yet how could she not have faced this other possibility? She felt stupid and naïve, like a schoolgirl trying to insinuate herself into the world of grown-ups.

  Then, without warning, the faint hallway lights blinked out. One overhead light and the dim glow from the glass cabinets was the only illumination.

  Meyer glanced up at the ceiling in a sudden movement that whisked her back to the present. “Now that I’ve mentioned that possibility,” he muttered as he grabbed his handheld. “Perimeter one, status?” he whispe
red into the device.

  He released the button and waited. Nothing came.

  “Perimeter one? Perimeter two?”

  She could sense his every muscle tighten in the ensuing pause. His scholarly demeanor had vanished—in its place came a coiled poise and an endless vigilance. The silent throb of alarm seemed to hover between them, awaiting his signal. The wait must have lasted only ten seconds, but it was still time enough for her mind to run through a thousand dire scenarios.

  He gritted his teeth and muttered something under his breath. He swerved around to find their hostess.

  “How secure is this room?”

  “If I close this door, it’s everything-proof,” she answered quickly but sounding surprisingly calm. “We can wait inside indefinitely, but of course we can’t get out, either. There’s no other exit. And if power goes out, we may start running out of oxygen.”

  He shook his head. “We have to have an exit route,” he said. “Are there any video monitors, hidden security?”

  “In a room down the hall. Not here.”

  “How much radio interference and signal obstruction does this building put out?”

  “Ultra-thick walls and insulated wiring, but we’ve always been able to radio out. . . . ”

  Meyer raised the handpiece and adjusted its settings.

  “Dark Wing, Dark Wing, Lebev 12 here. I have a shattered eyeglass at the Shrine of the Book. Possible broken bones. And Ladybug is with me. Repeat Ladybug is in the mix. Please respond at once.”