by Hesh Kestin
43
In the makeshift television studio the doctor examines Salim once again. The doctor is not Hezbollah but a volunteer. Earlier that day, three Hezbollah entered his office, put a gun to his head, and volunteered his services. He tried to explain that he is a dermatologist. The militiamen had been ordered to bring a doctor. They asked, “Is a dermatologist not a doctor?” Now, with his patient out of his head mouthing a senseless monologue, something about a mare, he does his best. The thing that he most wishes to avoid is to lose this patient. “Keep his head elevated,” he tells the Hezbollah commander. “Otherwise he will choke on his own vomit. And keep him warm.” He is a dermatologist, for God’s sake, who has not looked beyond skin for twenty years. But they, the armed men in the basement, they are the Party of God.
Tawfeek Nur-al-Din places his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “You will stay with us,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. “What is required for both prisoners, write it down, and you will have it. These boys must not die.”
The commander’s use of the term boys seems to indicate a sympathetic streak, one that may be appealed to. “What I need is to be with my wife and family. They do not know where—”
Before the dermatologist can finish the sentence, the man they call Commander Tawfeek hits him in the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose. Blood flows freely.
“You are a physician,” the commander says. “Treat yourself.”
44
On the sixth floor Dahlia can find neither Zeltzer nor Kobi, but farther down the hallway she discovers Zaid Jumblatt in his office. She stands by the door. Next to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite his desk is a sepia-tinted portrait of Theodor Herzl, the founder of political Zionism. “Working late?”
“We Druze are not shirkers.”
“That is your reputation.”
“When you are a minority, you must be twice as good, work twice as hard, three times as long. Come in.”
Dahlia tosses a folded sheet on his desk. “Is this what you wanted?”
Jumblatt examines the paper. “It was. But now it is no longer sufficient.”
“You requested approval for extraordinary measures. You have it.”
“Zeltzer gave orders.”
“Chaim Zeltzer has no authority in this area.”
“On the contrary. Only Dahlia Barr may permit an extraordinary act, but only Zeltzer may order it carried out.”
“We have Al-Masri only a few hours longer.”
“Extended. Kobi went to the Supreme Court. Another forty-eight.”
“Without my knowledge?”
Jumblatt removes the steel-framed spectacles whose tinted lenses protect his eyes from those of others. His eyes are red, tired. “You have been away,” he says softly.
“So?”
He picks up the remote control on his desk. “So it is unlikely you have seen this.”
Dahlia finds herself looking down at the remote, as if the issue is this slim bit of electronics encased in plastic. “I don’t understand.”
“An intercepted transmission. By morning Al-Jazeera will display it to the world. Otherwise we would keep it from you.” He fingers the remote. “Regrettably, it has fallen to me to bring you this news.” On the opposite wall the flat-screen lights up as tinny Arabic martial music booms out.
Dahlia blanches at what she sees.
“They are working on the Bedu because they believe harming your son will anger the Israeli public. They are racist so they believe we are as well. Dahlia, they will keep your son safe.”
“That poor boy,” she says, though it is unclear which of the two she means. Later, when told what she said, she herself will not be sure.
45
Escorted by four Cyprus Police motorcycles, a black Ford SUV flying the United States flag on its right front fender comes to a halt before the American embassy in a residential suburb of Nicosia. Cyprus is literally an island of neutrality in the Middle East—in most of which flying the U.S. flag on a vehicle would not be a good idea. Even so, two Israeli security guards in aviator glasses and ill-fitting blue blazers step out of the vehicle to check the empty street. They give an extra look at the windows of the neighboring Greek Orthodox monastery, which happens to own the land on which the embassy stands. Only then does one of the security guards open the left rear door.
A small older man steps out. He wears fifties-era round sunglasses, a sixties-era blue suit, and a new gray tie. Entering the building—which like some outsize mausoleum is faced with limestone inside and out—he is greeted by the embassy’s chargé d’affaires, a well-dressed bureaucrat whose shoes are polished to mirror brightness, and a thick individual with a goatee and thinning hair who is officially the embassy’s deputy commercial attaché. The Marine guard in the reception booth stands as still as a tree. Whatever it is he sees is not something he will ever consider remembering, unless in a moment of alcohol-fueled effusion he whispers it to his Cypriot girlfriend, who may then whisper it to someone else.
Following diplomatic protocol, the chargé speaks first. “Welcome to Cyprus, Mr. Arad. It’s always good to see you.”
“Likewise, sir,” Zalman Arad says in the clipped accent he acquired in his youth when the British ruled Palestine and Cyprus and much of the Middle East. He follows a protocol of his own. “And this must be Mr. Smith.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir,” Smith says. He has been to Tel Aviv twelve times to sit down with Arad and share intelligence of a distinctly non-commercial nature, but protocol is protocol. “Our guest has already arrived.”
“Oh, very good,” Arad says.
Smith leads him through the magnetometer, which issues not so much as a peep, and up the limestone stairs to a reception room richly paneled in walnut.“Mr. Awad,” Smith says. “I believe you know Mr. Arad.” He smiles. “It occurs to me—your names differ by only one letter. Funny, I never noticed.”
“That is because we are cousins, Mr. Smith,” Zalman Arad says. “I do thank you for making available this very pleasant venue.”
The hint is not lost on Mr. Smith.
Now that they are alone the cousins do not shake hands. They are of course not alone at all: cameras and microphones record their every gesture, every syllable.
Arad takes a seat on a white linen couch opposite Fawaz Awad, himself seated on an identical white linen couch. Between them a plush white rug is emblazoned with the great seal of the United States of America, an eagle in a circle inscribed with the words E Pluribus Unum.
With one-armed grace, Fawaz Awad lights the Gauloise in his gold cigarette holder. “Always a pleasure to see you, Zalman,” he says in English.
The older man responds in Arabic. “How I wish I could say the same.” He pauses. “Of course you are aware the Americans forbid smoking in their buildings.”
“Very health-conscious, the Americans,” Awad returns in Arabic. Why not? The Jew’s Arabic is perfect. “Admirable. If they are so interested in saving lives, they should not send their sons to die in Muslim lands.”
“Not to worry. They will continue to do so.” Arad watches as the other man smokes, very much aware of the first rule of negotiation among Arabs: Never speak first. But Zalman Arad has been doing this for a long time. He is unafraid of breaking the rules of negotiating with Arabs. He made most of them. “Fawaz, now that you have sent a message to our hosts, can we speak candidly?”
“As candidly as possible in a bugged room. How are you, Zalman?”
“Exhausted. Almost sixty years I have been at this. It is time to pass the baton. And you?”
“Nothing personal, but I will not retire from service until the last Jew is drowned in the sea.” He smiles. “Patience is an Arab virtue.”
“How pleasant that you have at least one. You requested this meeting. Here I am.”
“Always direct, Zalman. So very Jewish.”
“My plane leaves in an hour.”
“Then hear me well. In the past, we have bar
gained over prisoners. You have jailed thousands of our brave fighters, our heroes.”
“Suicide bombers, terrorists, murderers of children.” Arad offers a wry smile. “Nothing personal. Please do continue.”
“Sometimes you have agreed to trade hundreds of our people for one of your own.”
“Not I. My government. I would not have traded, not once.”
“Now we wish to offer a trade of a different proportion. One of ours for two of yours. Give us Mohammed Al-Masri and take back the two soldiers.” He drops cigarette ash on the rug, looks at the Jew, and shrugs. “No smoking, therefore no ashtray. Your American friends, so naive.” A pause. “That is the deal.”
“Interesting,” Arad says. “Who is Mohammed Al-Masri?”
“Please, Zalman. Your plane.”
“So you wish only this simple trade?”
“On the Lebanon-Israel border. In daylight. On our side the press will be invited. On yours you may do as you please.”
“Why?”
“Because you control your side of the border. If only for a time. The Christian Crusaders did the same. Also temporarily.”
Arad is patient. “Why this trade?”
“I’m sure you can draw your own conclusions, Zalman. But if I must I will spell it out. In the past the world came to believe that one Jew is worth a thousand Muslims. Today we wish to correct this misconception.”
“One Muslim is worth two Jews.”
“Exactly.”
“And if my government does not agree?”
“Then, my friend, the two young Jews will suffer.”
“I am not your friend.”
“Nevertheless, they will suffer.”
“And if it happens that your Muslim—his name again?”
“Al-Masri. Quite a famous Muslim. I am surprised that you are not aware of his presence in your dungeons.”
“And if it happens as a consequence that this quite famous Muslim suffers as well?”
“My dear fellow, we do not, as the Americans say, give a shit.” He removes the lit butt from his cigarette holder, drops it on the great seal, grinds it in with his shoe. “You may boil him in oil for all I care. His value is symbolic.” Another pause. “May I offer a piece of advice? If you do not make this trade, in my estimation it will further split your nation. There will be demonstrations in the streets. Perhaps a more reasonable government will be elected. A more pliant one. The electorate will demand you act humanely, that you return these poor young Jews—”
“One is an Arab, in fact.”
“Bedouin trash. He wears your uniform, ipso facto he is a Jew.” With the same smooth one-handed grace Awad stuffs another Gauloise into the gold cigarette holder and lights up with a motion so fluid it appears simply to occur as a consequence. “The Jews of Israel will demand the return of these two poor soldiers to their parents.”
“Which will only tempt your people to kidnap others.”
“Exactly.” The Arab takes a long drag on his Gauloise. “Did you know, Zalman, that chess is an Islamic invention?”
Zalman seems to be studying the butt as it burns a black hole in the white carpet. He looks up. “Not quite. Invented in India, perfected in Persia, both well before the birth of Mohammed.”
“Another Jewish lie.”
“Believe what you will, Fawaz Awad. Self-deception is an Arab affliction.”
“Nevertheless, we do hold the two soldiers. In this game of chess, you should consider that check.”
Arad carefully removes his round-framed sunglasses and proceeds to clean them with his handkerchief. “Nevertheless, Fawaz Awad, you should consider Falkbeer, Loewenthal, Steinitz, Tarrasch, Zukertort, Tartakower, and Lasker.”
“Who are these?”
“Also Rubenstein, Nimzowitsch, Breyer, Spielmann, Reti, Botvinnik, Reshevsky, Fine, Horowitz, Boleslavsky, Bronstein.”
“What are these names to me?”
“Jewish chess champions. Grand masters. Did I mention Averbach, Najdorf, Smyslov, Polugaevsky, Tal, Geller, Fisher, Timanov, Korchnoi, Stein?”
“Your point?”
“And of course Kasparov, Polgar, Svidler, Radjabov, Gelfand. My memory is not what it was. I may have missed one or two. All Jews. Tell me, Fawaz, how many Arab chess masters can you name?” Abruptly, he stands. “The next move, sir, is ours.” He smiles, the ends of his lips curling up but his eyes remaining as they were. “And do take care with your cigarettes,” he says in English. “You could start a fire.”
46
Outside the Knesset building mounted police restrain two separate crowds.
On one side of the plaza about two dozen demonstrators hold placards that read BOMB HEZBOLLAH! and NEVER AGAIN! On the other side Erika and Zeinab—with placards that say JEWISH & ARAB CITIZENS FOR PEACE and NO POLICE STATE!—lead about fifty people chanting the same. These are the famous Citizens in Black, for decades a radical thorn in the side of every Israeli government, whether right, centrist, or insufficiently left. The press is out in force, most—revealing a certain political tendency on the part of the international media—behind the barrier restraining the Citizens in Black.
To the rear of that group Floyd Hooper stands with a stylishly dressed blond woman wearing on her shoulders the red-and-white kaffiyeh identified with the Palestinian cause. On Genevieve Al-Masri the kaffiyeh is as much a fashionable accessory as a statement of political identification. She holds her crying toddler, whom she attempts to comfort. With his back to the demonstrators, who face not the hand-hammered wrought-iron Knesset gates but the opposition, Hooper stands before the Steadicam held by his cameraman and speaks directly into the microphone in his left hand, and thus indirectly to the CNN newsroom in Atlanta. Any other kind of microphone would pick up too much of the tumult around him and drown him out.
“Wolf, I’m here with Genevieve Al-Masri, wife of missing Palestinian spokesman and frequent CNN contributor Edward Al-Masri, who was last seen detained at Israel Customs when he flew into Jerusalem on Sunday from his home in Canada. According to CNN sources with ties to the Palestinian leadership, Al-Masri, a professor at McGill University in Montreal who holds dual Canadian-Israeli nationality, is being held by Israeli security forces. Israel government officials have declined to comment. Mrs. Al-Masri and the couple’s young son have flown here from their home in Montreal to discover the truth of her husband’s whereabouts.” He turns to her. “Genevieve Al-Masri, what do you think has happened to your husband?”
“I wish I knew,” she says in a French-Canadian accent that would be charming were she not clearly angry. “All we do know is that he’s missing. Israeli officials won’t tell us where he is, whether they have him in custody, or whether he’s even alive.”
“What makes you convinced he’s being held by Israel? Couldn’t your husband be in hiding?”
“From whom? He was last seen at Ben Gurion Airport. Then he vanished.” Now her voice rises in pitch, as though she is reciting from a prepared text. “It is no secret that the Israelis have been trying to silence Edward from telling the truth about the Palestinian holocaust. I warned him not to go to Israel, but his family is here. He came to write a book documenting the ethnic cleansing of his people. Now the Israelis have him.”
“Mrs. Al-Masri, what’s your next step?”
“I want my husband back. Our son needs his father. Later this evening I expect to meet with the Canadian ambassador to enlist his aid. The Israelis can’t simply pick up a Canadian citizen and hold him incommunicado. Not even the Nazis went so far.”
“Mrs. Al-Masri, according to CNN sources, a possible exchange is being discussed: your husband for the two IDF soldiers captured the very same day he arrived in Israel. As you know, Hezbollah claims the two soldiers were taken in response to his arrest. Has anyone in authority confirmed that a trade is being negotiated, or even envisaged?”
“I hope and pray such a trade is in process, but no one has informed me one way or the other. Failing such an outcome, I will bring t
his outrage before the High Court of Justice in The Hague. The time has come to put a stop to Israel’s trampling on the human rights of the Palestinian people, whether in the conquered territories or within Israel itself.”
“Thank you, Genevieve Al-Masri, wife of Palestinian spokesman Edward Al-Masri, whose name viewers will recognize as that of a frequent CNN commentator on the subject of Palestine.” The correspondent is in motion, his cameraman following. “I am now walking over to the leadership of today’s protest outside the Knesset, Israel’s parliament.” Abruptly, his way is blocked by a mounted policeman. “Now, if I can get through, perhaps we can have a word with Edward Al-Masri’s mother, Zeinab Al-Masri, one of the leaders of the joint Jewish-Muslim peace movement known as Citizens in Black.”
The mounted policeman holds his ground, the tall sorrel horse a snorting, high-stepping barrier. “You must go back!”
“I’m with CNN. Press.”
“Go back!”
“Look, I just want to—”
The mounted cop is not about to engage in a discussion. He edges his mount sideways so that its advancing flank forces Hooper to edge back.
“You can’t do this!” Hooper shouts into his microphone, addressing his audience of millions as well as the mounted cop. “I’m press!”
47
At their villa in Caesarea, three members of the Barr family watch the confrontation on CNN. Seated between them, Dahlia takes the hands of her husband and son.
On the television screen, Hooper has taken up a new position at the rear of the left-wing demonstrators. With the aplomb of a seasoned correspondent he gestures broadly behind him. “So that’s the situation from Jerusalem, Wolf. One group calling for justice—in this case, the release of Edward Al-Masri, believed to be held by the Israeli security services—the other side calling for war against Hezbollah, the Lebanese-based Palestinian freedom fighters whose militia claims to hold two Israeli soldiers captured on the northern border.” He leans forward, trying to hear what Atlanta is saying.
