Toward the end of dinner, Carole stood, signaling her readiness to speak. David saw Harold gazing with wonder at a daughter who seemed to have such an effortless public presence. “As most of you know,” she began, “and some at considerable cost, this is not the first evening I’ve entertained here. This evening, however, is free of charge—the prime minister assures me that he seeks no lower office.”
David, a tacit subject of this jest, began laughing with the others. “But this is a remarkable evening,” Carole continued, “for a far different reason. Our guest is an extraordinary person—a decorated hero in three wars, the grandfather of six children, the leader of a nation cherished by us all, and a seeker of peace in a time when even the hope of peace is hard to find.” Carole flashed a smile at Ben-Aron. “In fact, I’ve told him he should not seek much peace from you.
“He has come to address your concerns, whatever they may be. That, too, is an extraordinary opportunity for all of us who care so deeply. It is a privilege to welcome all of you and, especially, the prime minister of the State of Israel, Amos Ben-Aron.”
Amid warm applause, Ben-Aron stood, briefly embraced Carole, and waited with a half smile until the applause died down, replaced by the intent gazes of his listeners. “Thank you, Carole—for opening your home to me, and assembling so many important friends of Israel. Perhaps regrettably, I have repaid you by encouraging your fiancé to enter public life. As for the rest of you,” he added, provoking general laughter, “this may be your last free dinner until David enters Congress.”
It was deft, David thought—with the right mix of warmth and humor, Ben-Aron had honored Carole by blessing David’s ambitions. “But I know that Carole is right,” the prime minister continued. “My life in politics has taught me that the only thing more difficult than fighting against our enemies is taking questions from my friends.” Amid knowing chuckles, he promised, “Nonetheless, I shall do my best.
“First let me say this much. I know that those we must make peace with are riven by contending forces. Some have sent their sons, and even their daughters, to kill our sons and daughters. But I believe that we are strong enough to find a better way—in which Israelis, and the great majority of Palestinians, will work toward a day when our grandchildren live as neighbors.” Pausing, Ben-Aron gazed soberly about the room. “And so, your questions.”
Sitting beside David, Stanley Sharfman raised his hand. Before Ben-Aron could point to anyone else, Sharfman demanded, “Israel gave away Gaza and all it got in return was more terrorism from Hamas and Hezbollah. How can you consider giving the West Bank back to people like Hamas?”
“I don’t propose to give it away,” Ben-Aron retorted. “But our occupation of the West Bank is, in the long run, untenable. To persist in keeping the populace of the West Bank under our control means either that we will cease to be a democracy or—if we seek to incorporate three million Palestinians—will cease to be a Jewish state.”
Sharfman blinked; for all of his concern for Israel, David detected, this quandary had never occurred to him. “Now,” Ben-Aron continued forcefully, “we find ourselves mired in the horror of a continuing intifada, where terrorists murder us on buses and in cafés. So to fight the suicide bombers, we strangle the Palestinians as a whole with checkpoints manned by frightened young soldiers who, at times, wind up abusing or even killing the innocent.
“I do not suggest that we have become like terrorists—suicide bombing is infinitely more terrible than whatever we do to thwart it. But hour by hour, a Jewish soldier at some checkpoint creates another enemy.” Fixing Sharfman with his unwavering gaze, Ben-Aron finished, “The vicious cycle of the intifada is bleeding the souls of Jew and Arabs alike. No military solution is clear, none is just, and none, in the end, will leave Israel any safer—”
“But what about the settlements?” David recognized the man speaking as Sandy Rappaport, an insurance broker steeped in right-wing Israeli politics. “Beginning in 1967,” Rappaport continued, “Israel asked its bravest citizens to serve as buffers against invasion by settling on West Bank. Then we permitted Arafat and his armed men to live there, too. Now it seems like you’d abandon the next generation of settlers to placate terrorists like Hamas who revel in the murder of our people—”
Ben-Aron held up a hand. “I didn’t start the settlements. I don’t tolerate murder. I only deal with the consequences.
“Today the problem’s plain enough. The settlements require a large number of Israeli soldiers to protect a relatively small number of settlers. Far from being a bulwark, they have become a national obsession—the focus of our political life and a drain on our public finances. Those are facts. And a rationally drawn border cannot include indefensible outposts peopled by fanatics, like the Bar Kochba settlement of the Masada movement. So must we continue to defend them?” Bluntly, Ben-Aron concluded, “We cannot. A handful of religious zealots should not dictate our actions. Especially when there will be no peace or stability in the Middle East as long as the problem of Israelis and Palestinians exists, and every malefactor in the region can exploit this conflict for reasons of their own.”
This will not be allowed, David recalled the settler saying. As God struck Hitler dead, so, too, will He strike down Ben-Aron.
The atmosphere in Carole’s dining room was taut now. “I don’t favor unilateral concessions,” Ben-Aron continued. “We must give up land for peace, not land for nothing. As for what we must resolve, the status of certain settlements is one of three main issues. The second is the status of Jerusalem; the third is the Palestinians’ socalled right of return to the land that is now the State of Israel.” Ben-Aron paused, surveying the room. “As to all these issues,” he said flatly, “perhaps the biggest barriers to peace are the myths that animate too many Jews and Palestinians.”
At the corner of his vision, David saw a bearded man—an Orthodox Jew of Harold’s acquaintance—frown with disapproval. “Our great myth,” Ben-Aron continued, “is that God gave us exclusive rights to Jerusalem and, beyond that, the West Bank. Their great myth is the ‘right of return’— the inalienable right of all the descendants of refugees who fled in 1948 to come back and overrun us.” Ben-Aron looked directly at his hostile Orthodox listener. “These myths will kill us all.
“First, our myth. God did not dedicate the land we love as a killing ground for religious rivals—that concept should have died with the Crusades. It is not for us to keep it alive. As for their myth,” he added with a swift, ironic smile, “we must help them let it go. We cannot accept our destruction, or countenance the idea that Israel was born in a state of sin.
“For our part, we must acknowledge some hard truths of our own. In 1948, the Arabs did not leave simply because they could not imagine governance by Jews. There was a war. Many Arabs were frightened—Jews overran Arab villages, expelled the families who lived there, blew up their homes to prevent them from coming back. This is hardly unique in world history. But it is a fact.
“In short, we must recognize each other’s histories in order to transcend them.” Ben-Aron smiled briefly. “Tomorrow, at the Commonwealth Club, I will make my own modest proposal as to how we can begin.”
For the first time in thirteen years, David Wolfe began to feel hope.
Beneath the police uniforms Iyad found another map of San Francisco.
Kneeling, Ibrahim saw three lines carefully drawn in pen, leading from downtown San Francisco to the airport. Softly, Iyad said. “He must take one of these.”
But which route, Ibrahim wondered, and how would they know? When would they know? But the hard cast of Iyad’s face kept Ibrahim from asking.
In the dim illumination of the flashlight, Ibrahim and Iyad stripped, trying on the uniforms of two San Francisco policemen.
To Ibrahim’s surprise, his uniform fit perfectly. And so, it appeared, did Iyad’s, the disguise complemented by his air of authority. More clearly, Ibrahim found himself able to imagine their success.
At least, he told
himself, he would die to serve a purpose, at a moment of his choosing. Or God’s.
When Carole touched his sleeve, signaling her willingness to end the questioning, Ben-Aron briefly shook his head.
“But who will be your peace partner?” Sandy Rappaport demanded. “For years the Palestinian Authority was controlled by Fatah, whose original leader, Arafat, never outgrew his role as a terrorist. Now Fatah’s decrepit leadership must cede power to Hamas. If the Palestinian Authority could harness terrorists, that would be one thing. But they can’t. Or won’t.”
A fair point, David thought. Ben-Aron acknowledged this with a brisk nod before answering, “There are terrorists, and there are terrorists. The Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, the militant arm of Fatah, has committed terrorist acts. But Al Aqsa is fighting for its own country—while they think it’s perfectly okay to kill Israelis on the West Bank, many don’t favor killing us in Tel Aviv.” Ben-Aron permitted himself a wintry smile. “You may not deem this a hopeful sign, or Al Aqsa a possible component in combating terror. But consider our alternatives.
“The first, and worst, is Hamas.” Abruptly, Ben-Aron’s smile faded. “Most of the suicide bombers who come to Israel are Hamas. Those in the vanguard of Hamas mean to destroy us, and they are patient men. And now they dominate the Palestinian legislature. Their next goal is simple: to finish supplanting Fatah as leader of the Palestinian Authority.”
Sandy Rappaport, David observed, looked as grim as the prime minister. “Imagine,” Ben-Aron told him, “a fundamentalist Islamic state on our doorstep, sixty miles from Tel Aviv. That is the nightmare I wish to prevent—”
“How?”
“Israel cannot accomplish that alone. The leader of the Palestinian Authority, Marwan Faras, opposes violence. But we need more from him than noble sentiments. We need a Palestinian leadership willing—and able—to crack down on terror, end corruption, deliver services to its people, and stop the torrent of hatred that turns suicide bombers into heroes.” Ben-Aron spoke slowly and emphatically. “If Faras can promise Palestinians what they most want—freedom from occupation—then perhaps his people will turn away from Hamas. Then the militants of his own party, the Al Aqsa Martyrs, might become the means through which Faras can control Hamas. Or, perhaps, Faras can eventually engage Hamas in the serious business of creating a society that works for Palestinians in the land where they now live.
“I need him; he needs me. Israel and the Palestinian moderates need each other.” Sternly, Ben-Aron surveyed his listeners. “If we fail, our sole alternative is Hamas.”
When David raised his hand, Ben-Aron looked relieved. “Yes, David.”
David felt others turn to stare at him, not only as the questioner but as Carole Shorr’s fiancé, the congressman-in-waiting. “You seem to be suggesting,” David said, “that the greatest threat to peace is religious fundamentalism—or, perhaps, fundamentalist extremism. Could you amplify that point?”
“Gladly,” Ben-Aron responded. “But first let me distinguish between fundamentalism and religion.
“Fundamentalism is certitude—it’s ideology, not religion. Hamas and our extremist settlers share a common dialectic, the absence of doubt. They are cousins of the American Christian fundamentalists who believe that the Jews and Arabs must annihilate each other to bring about the Second Coming.
“I, for one, would rather we not play our part.”
Though the dry remark drew chuckles, Ben-Aron continued without pause. “This is a very serious thing. There are Jewish fundamentalists in Israel who say that I am betraying God. It is this absolutist God, interpreted by a madman, who made the peacemaker Yitzhak Rabin into a traitor worthy of death. And the chance for peace died with him.
“Extremists learned this lesson well. If Jewish extremists destroy a Muslim holy site with a rocket, they could destroy this chance of peace. The same is true if Palestinian religious extremists blow up a school filled with Jewish children. The Middle East is like a bomb, and fanatics on both sides are forever looking for the fuse.”
“What about extremist regimes such as Syria or Iran?” David asked. “How do we control them? And won’t they keep on fomenting violence in order to prevent peace?”
Though this question underscored for Carole’s guests David’s grasp of geopolitics, his concern was real. “Yes,” Ben-Aron answered promptly. “And the most dangerous are the mullahs in Iran.” He jabbed an index finger into his open palm, emphasizing each point. “They are extremist and they are fundamentalist. Their intelligence services are powerful and skilled, with tentacles around the world. They help Hamas recruit Palestinians, and enlist Israeli Arabs against us. They wish to change the balance of power in the Middle East. That is why—and do not doubt this—they are building a nuclear bomb until they become the dominant force.
“As an ideological matter, Iran wishes to eradicate the State of Israel. As a practical matter, Iran needs violence between Jews and Palestinians to divert the world from its nuclear ambitions. Which, once realized, are a mortal threat to Israel.” Softly but emphatically, Ben-Aron finished, “Israel can stop suicide bombers—by themselves, they cannot destroy us. But one nuclear warhead could do that very well. We must deal with Iran, our greatest threat, which is why I am so determined to give peace between Israelis and Palestinians this one last chance.”
As David had hoped, his question—and Ben-Aron’s answer—seemed to drain the antagonism from the room. “Given all of these enemies,” Dorothy Kushner asked with obvious worry, “do you fear for your own life?”
“Fear?” Ben-Aron gave her a faint smile. “Those who wish to kill me are like customers in one of your ice-cream parlors—on a busy day, you have to take a number.
“I have no wish to die. But I cannot add more days to this waning life by making myself safer at the cost of lives much younger than mine, either Israeli or Palestinian.” With a shrug of fatalism, Ben-Aron finished. “I’ve given much of my life to keeping Israel alive. What will all that have meant if I cannot leave it safer?”
Quickly, Iyad opened the wooden box of plastique.
Wrapped in newspaper, the explosives looked like greenish blocks. Iyad placed one in Ibrahim’s hand.
It was eerie, Ibrahim thought, to hold the instrument of his own destruction.
“Very light,” Iyad said in a conversational tone. “Easy to use.”
Taking the block from his hand, Iyad pointed to the motorcycles. “See those saddlebags on each side of the rear tire? Pack them with these and it’s enough to do the job, even on an armored car. All you have to do is get the wiring right.”
Ibrahim tried thinking of his sister.
Kneeling over the box of plastique blocks, Iyad casually tossed one over his shoulder. Startled, Ibrahim failed to catch it before it clattered on the metal floor.
Laughing softly, Iyad said, “They are very stable—they do not detonate by themselves. That is what the wires are for.”
Within minutes, Iyad had rigged a toggle switch to the handlebars of a motorcycle, then drawn the wires from the switch back to the saddlebags. The black wires, the color of the motorcycle, were virtually invisible.
“It’s really very simple,” Iyad said with satisfaction. “Anyone can learn to do it.”
Before he left, Ben-Aron drew David Wolfe aside. “This was an honor,” David said.
Ben-Aron smiled wryly. “For me, as well. Although, at times, I was reminded of your President Lincoln’s story about the politician who was tarred, feathered, and ridden out of town on a rail. ‘But for the honor of the thing,’ the politician said, ‘I’d have passed it up.’ ”
“They’re frightened for your country, Mr. Prime Minister.”
“Aren’t we all.” Ben-Aron touched his shoulder. “I didn’t say so tonight, but we need more involvement from your government. There are interests who want America to stay on the sidelines, not involved in the process of making peace. That could be fatal.” Leaning closer, Ben-Aron gazed at David with new intensity. “You
can be a part of this, David. When your time comes, I hope that you will help us.”
Briefly squeezing David’s shoulder, Ben-Aron turned away, kissed Carole on the cheek, and left, surrounded by his security detail.
From the window, David watched the street below. With the lights of police cars swirling, David saw the motorcade begin to move, headlights cutting the darkness, slowly turning a street corner like a giant serpent before it disappeared.
15
In the darkness of the compound, Iyad backed the van to the door of the storage container.
Ibrahim opened the rear doors. Swiftly, they began loading the van— first the boxes with their uniforms and helmets, then the extra wires. After this, sweating in the cool night air, they hoisted the motorcycles, rigged with wires and plastique.
As they left the compound, the guard looked up from his magazine and gave them a perfunctory wave. Heart in his throat, Ibrahim waved back.
To David’s surprise, Harold Shorr emerged from the kitchen with a snifter of Armagnac and sat heavily in the overstuffed chair that was his favorite. This was unusual; Harold seldom took an after-dinner drink, and it was his practice to leave Carole and David to themselves after a social evening.
Briefly, David glanced at his fiancée. “Well?” he said to Harold.
Harold broke off his contemplation of the crystal snifter, looking up at David with a pained smile. “The ‘right of return’ is a ‘myth,’ didn’t he say? Something that can be wished away like a fairy tale told to children. But they’ve nurtured that myth for sixty years by staying in what they still call ‘refugee camps.’ It’s just another way of saying ‘Jews are not wanted here.’ Just like we weren’t wanted in Germany, or Russia, or Poland.” Harold cocked his head toward Carole. “To what place would we return? The Polish village where I come from, now empty of Jews?”
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