by Tommy Tenney
Jacob held a chair for his wife, nodded to one on the opposite side of the table for Ari, and sat down in his own. He leaned far forward and extended his palms flat on the table in an unusually casual pose. Hadassah noted with concern how tired Jacob looked, the circles under his eyes.
“So, Mr. Meyer. I understand that your work with Mossad included a good deal of research into ancient documents, and it turns out that this endeavor was of a rather personal nature.” Ari adopted a somber look and blinked several times. “Before I answer that,” he began slowly, “I need to know something. Am I speaking to you as my ultimate boss, the Prime Minister of the Nation of Israel, or as my cousin by marriage?”
Jacob shrugged. “Very good question. And the fact that you asked it leads me to believe that I can probably trust you in either capacity. The truth is, I’m not sure it matters.”
“Well, what I meant was—should I be concerned about protecting myself against disciplinary action, or may I speak freely?”
“It depends. Have you broken any laws?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ve certainly broken faith with the Mossad by operating in part with a private agenda. I’ve never let it compromise any of my work or the extent of my efforts. But I have, when it mattered, shared some of my findings with my father.”
“Look, Jacob,” Hadassah broke in, “I’ve learned so much about my family history in the last few hours. Things that were held from me all these years. I definitely understand that there’s a lack of trust between Ari’s side and the Kesselman side. A justifiable one. It wouldn’t hurt to extend a little latitude here.”
Jacob sighed. “All right. For the sake of this crisis, I, Jacob ben Yuda, Prime Minister of Israel, grant you functional immunity for your actions as a Mossad agent. However, this immunity does not extend to any act which might diminish or harm the security of the state of Israel to the least extent. Do you understand me?” He stared hard at Ari.
“Sure. But would you please put that in writing?”
“No. We’re operating on trust here. The beginning of it, anyway.”
The two men faced each other in a momentary standoff. Then Ari nodded once, extended his hand. The two men shook again.
“All right. So let’s hear this great family saga, and figure out what role it’s played in bringing this whole part of the world to the brink of war.”
Hadassah then leaned forward, once more inserted herself into the conversation, and began relaying the story Anek al-Khalid had told her the night before. When she was through with her uncle’s part of the tale, Ari jumped in—supplying the more recent, operational parts of the story.
When they were through, Jacob sat perfectly still, only his eyes darting rapidly between the two as he tried to process the mountain of pertinent facts.
“So . . .” he began, “you’re part of the official Mossad operation to find, save, and protect the lost Jewish treasures of Iraq. But your true, ultimate objective was to discover documents that would help you find your lost relatives.”
“Well, I would describe both objectives as true. They were parallel. And also to establish the bloodline of the Exilarch in a way that will validate its royal pedigree as well as my father’s relation to the title.”
“All right. And in the Hillah raid with the Italian commandos, you discovered a cache of Jewish documents that nearly accomplished both of those missions.”
“Yes. They apparently were stolen from their hiding place at the Battaween Synagogue in Baghdad. I found a record of Iraq’s hidden Jewish population, and hidden underneath, a letter written by the ancient Queen Esther. The first gives me hints of where my father’s family hid after escaping from prison fifty years ago. And the second one lends great credibility to the ancient rumor that Mordecai produced an heir carrying the royal bloodline of Israel. This would legitimize the ancient bloodline of the Exilarch, and lead its genealogy straight to my father.”
“And my wife.”
A short nod was Ari’s answer. Jacob had understood immediately. “Would you have retrieved and analyzed these documents for your work even if you hadn’t been privately looking for them?” Jacob asked.
“Absolutely. Even without my personal interest I would have treated these findings with great care and extensive study.”
“And do you think your discovery could have triggered this wave of attacks against the hidden Jewish population?”
“It’s impossible to say one way or another with complete certainty. But we do know that the names had been copied before we ever attacked. So some form of preparation to unveil their ancestry was already under way.”
Jacob folded his hands behind his head and leaned back abruptly in his chair. “I’m just trying to establish whether this personal angle is actually to blame for the crisis, or merely a useful coincidence.”
“Maybe a little of both,” Hadassah commented.
“The reference to your father on that poor girl’s broadcast was no one’s fault, definitely not his,” Jacob continued after a nod at Hadassah, almost speaking to himself. “It’s just an effort to stir up anti-Semitism in Iraq. The Arab population has been agitated with tales about swarms of Jews coming in to reclaim all the city’s wealth and real estate. Ultimately, it’s all bait to force me into committing military action in Iraq. Which would, of course, force even less-militant Arabs into the fray and destroy the entire Iraqi Freedom coalition, along with everything the West has done to stabilize Iraq.”
“There are so many angles, it’s hard for me to keep up,” Hadassah said. “For instance, who do you think is trying to kill me?”
“This group of former Hussein loyalists called Death to the Exilarch,” Jacob said.
“Their name makes sense,” said Ari. “They’ve heard the rumors that have swirled around Baghdad for years.”
“Which rumors are you referring to?” asked Jacob, sitting forward once more.
“Rumors that someone in the expatriate community would someday seek to revive the office of the Exilarch,” Ari replied, his eyes intense. “And would use it to consolidate and strengthen the reparation claims, not to mention the general influence, of exiled Jews. Are you aware of the accumulated value of the seized assets of the Jews of Baghdad? When they walked off and left their property behind in Operations Ezra and Nehemiah, the Iraqi Jews controlled most of the country’s concentrations of finance, industry, and commerce. Today those holdings would be worth multiplied tens of billions of dollars. If the proper lineage truly did succeed in reviving the office of the Exilarch, that person could provide leadership and credibility to all the claims. And it would put the ownership of a large portion of the nation’s economy back in Jewish hands. Until now, the exiled Jewish community has been too scattered and frightened to demand their return, although they’ve talked about it. For years they’ve clamored and agitated about naming a new Exilarch who would solve all their problems, champion their grievances, legitimize them in the eyes of the world. Just enough to make the Arabs paranoid about an imminent Jewish takeover of their economy—maybe their country.”
“So why has no one ever followed through and named an Exilarch?”
“First of all, the man would have to be descended from the proper lineage—and the precise nature of that lineage has become the subject of huge debate. For one, the person would have to be descended from Mordecai, among many others. However, Mordecai was not of the bloodline of David, and there has been no known record of his having married or produced heirs. Only rumors. That’s for starters.”
“Sounds like a rabbinical, theological debate to me,” Jacob said, shaking his head ruefully.
“You have no idea,” Ari continued. “It gets more Talmudic the further you dig. See, there were two competing lines of authority in the exiled Jewish communities—the rabbinic, or clerical, and the civil leadership. It’s a remnant of some of the oldest schisms in all of Judaism. Partly a feud between the Patriarchy and the Diaspora Jews. Partly between the faith tradition of the Temp
le and that of the synagogue, which developed just after these events. Partly between the rabbinical and the political side. Because no one has ever been able to prove that the Exilarch combined all of these competing factions, especially the royal line of David with the political heritage of Mordecai, Jerusalem has never recognized the Exilarch as a legitimate leader of the Jewish people. Not for two and a half thousand years.”
“Can a person be found who fits this profile?” asked Jacob. “The only Jews left in Iraq are old and frightened. The Exilarchy ended . . . let’s see . . . over four hundred years ago, leaving the bloodline hanging, unresolved. I can’t imagine there being someone who could revive it.”
“There is someone,” Ari said.
Chapter Twenty-six
Not a word was spoken for several minutes.
“And you mean . . . ?” Jacob added quietly.
There was another pause, and then Ari said just as quietly, “Me.”
Hadassah, for her own part, could feel her heart pound in her ears. She could hardly keep from smiling, for Ari’s bombshell seem to stitch together all the far-flung threads of this crisis. The motives had finally come into focus—both friends’ and foes’. Now they possibly could make some progress.
But if Hadassah smiled, her husband was anything but smiling. She looked at his expression and said, “Jacob, it seems to me that our next question is simply—what’s next? You’ve got things to decide as Prime Minister, and it could be that Ari and I have our part to play. . . . ”
Jacob was still staring at the table, lost in contemplation. He spoke without breaking his absent gaze.
“Ari, did that letter you found in Iraq, supposedly written in Esther’s hand, settle the question of the Exilarch bloodline?”
“No, I can’t say it did. It seemed to encourage the belief that Mordecai might have entered into a relationship in his old age. It’s a promising piece, but it didn’t settle the question. In some ways, it may have sharpened the mystery.”
“Are there any other documents that could close the gap?”
“It’s possible. The old Iraqi Jews believe there are hundreds of precious documents still hidden around the country. We just have to find them. Some of them, by the way, were not stolen at all, but were held for safekeeping by secret Jews. With every such family murdered by Islamic insurgents, we not only lose lives, but also another chance at locating those pieces of history and possibly the documentation we need.”
“Could you find them in a hurry?”
“There’s only one person who could help us find the additional Esther documents in Jewish hands. That’s the old Rabbi of Baghdad. Assuming he survives until we find him.”
“Yes, good,” Jacob said, brushing his hands together. “Find him, and those documents. They may hold the only key to saving our people and resolving this crisis without going to war. Your Mossad supervisor is leaving for Baghdad in three hours, hand-carrying a full translation and interpretation of your hidden-Jews list. He’s going to meet with American generals and help coordinate a multi-pronged rescue operation that’ll deploy across Iraq for the next twenty-four hours. I want you to keep your job. You go with him, and I want you to find your rabbi. While there’s still time.”
AL HILLAH, IRAQ—DAWN
The al-Feliz family’s four-year-old daughter was even more beautiful than their eldest, the recently murdered Ariana. Her eyes seemed to radiate across the whole upper third of her face. Combined with a soft button-nose and an expressive mouth, they made her the perfect Jewish version of those wide-eyed pixie urchins painted by street artists the world over.
But right now the fairylike quality was dampened by a flood of tears, two-day-old dirt, and harsh electric glare from a cheap television spotlight. She turned to her mother, sitting beside her, and held on tightly to her arm.
After her mother, her favorite person in the world had been Ariana. The vibrant teenager’s body had for hours lain crumpled in a crimson-splattered heap against the far corner of the room, just below the black wall hanging with the Arabic lettering stitched across it. The horror had stayed there until early the previous evening, when a surly group of terrorists had burst in, stuffed the body into a large sack, and stormed out of the room.
Little Hana did not look over there. Not then and not now. The very thought of that direction and the blood still staining the floor had been so horrendous that her emotions simply shut down and a terrible numbness had taken over. Her beautiful eyes were glazed with horror.
She stared at the little shiny glass disc in front of the scowling bad man, squinting against the bright light over his shoulders. That’s what her mother was looking at, very hard.
“Please, I only ask for some hope for my remaining child,” her mommy said in a strange voice Hana had only heard once before, right before the bad men had made Ariana scream. “I have one more—my two-year-old daughter.” Her mother checked a sob and hurried on. “You know now how determined these warriors are. Please listen to what they ask. I beg you. Is it so outrageous? Is it impossible to heed? Is . . . is this money worth more than the lives of my little one? Please think about that when you tuck your own children into bed this night.” She glanced down at a paper hidden in a trembling hand and said in a rush, “Please abandon these selfish claims against the people of Iraq and let us live in peace.”
Al-Jazeera TV had never live-cast one of these appeals before. Until the previous day’s broadcast of the teen Jewish girl’s public murder, they had always insisted on the proper observances—the discreetly delivered videotape in the crisp manila envelope just inside the outer entrance to their unofficial Baghdad offices. The protocol fooled no one within a thousand miles, but it provided wonderful cover to the Western world, where liberal journalists defended Al-Jazeera’s journalistic objectivity.
But the ground rules had changed. Call it a kidnapping, an unfriendly invitation, whatever—the trembling, sweat-covered man had appeared in their improvised newsroom and pulled a thick Glock pistol from his belt. He pointed the barrel straight at the temple of the first face he recognized—that of Mohammed Obeejan, the network’s famous Baghdad correspondent.
“Move,” the intruder had growled in Arabic, his voice cracking with his own terror as he waved his gun toward the door.
And that’s how the Al-Jazeera team had found themselves first broadcasting the previous day’s murder and now the hostage mother’s torment through a set of wires to an unobtrusive white dish mounted on the windowsill. It was a cunning disguise, for the apartment building, like so many in the Arabic world, was studded with dozens of identical-looking satellite receivers. Even the poorest Iraqis loved their newfound freedom, with its hundred channels of television.
Only this was an uplink—broadcasting instead of receiving. Yet despite its concealment, the ruse still practically invited detection from the Americans’ formidable signal-intelligence service, the NSA. The nervous man behind the camera wondered how long it would take a Predator drone to center them in its sights. Then he wondered if the recklessness was truly a result of stupidity, or some plan to deliberately incite a bloodbath.
Regardless of the insurgents’ motives, he silently gave himself a nearly fifty-fifty chance of surviving the day. Then he began to pray.
BATTAWEEN QUARTER, BAGHDAD
The end overtook the old synagogue in one great rush—a rhythmic roar, a blur of rotors chopping apart the sun, bystanders running off screaming. Then came ropes, six of them, their uncoiled portions tossed from a great height to strike the plaza’s cobblestones with a startling clatter. Finally came the men themselves from the hovering chaos overhead, zipping down the lengths of cord as swiftly as dropped stones. Their faces and uniforms were so black they seemed to be pools of absent light, fast-moving voids against the glare.
The old man saw all this happen through the last, smeared pane of intact glass on the first floor of the Battaween Synagogue, Baghdad’s oldest and only remaining Jewish house of worship. Not knowing what la
y ahead, he grasped his prayer shawl about his shoulders, straightened his yarmulke and began to pray, chanting and bobbing forward and back.
He knew the soldiers were coming for him.
Lithe bodies vaulted to the rim of the concrete wall erected just ten years before around the actual temple. The first man up produced a hand tool that made quick work of the concertina wire strewn there. The old man clasped trembling hands to his mouth, for those bright metal coils had defined his life for so long he did not know how to look at the wall without them. Less than two minutes later, three of the commandos had jumped gracefully to the inside.
A dark-featured face filled the space of his window.
“Rabbi Mehl, we’re here for you,” he said in perfect Hebrew. “I am here with the United States Army. On behalf of the State of Israel, I am here to escort you out and offer you Return. Will you please open the door?”
He stood without moving, half wishing his stillness would drive the intruders away. In one sense he hated his solitude, despised what it meant about the fate of his people. It had been years since the synagogue’s last regularly scheduled service. The once-thriving religious life of the quarter had now dwindled to one or two conversations per week with elderly, frightened people who sneaked in for a few minutes of conversation, affirmation in their faith, and grim commiseration about the state of things in general—then sneaked out the back through a variety of hidden exits. All public Seder services and high holiday observances had been canceled because of the all-encompassing “security concerns,” and he had long since assured the most faithful that G-d knew of their devotion and did not expect them to brave car bombings to worship Him.
And yet, despite the incredible sadness and nostalgia that permeated his solitude, he had lately come to appreciate the utter privacy of it. He had become one with his prison, at home with its intimate spaces. Perversely, the old man wished the soldiers gone.
