by Joan Hess
“So Judith and Hershel were together when Gideon was killed,” Theo said. “By the way, I heard a bit of gossip about the package Judith was so kind as to smuggle through customs for the boys. It seems it was not a pot.”
“I warned Judith not to take the package, but she was in the throes of passion, and would have carried Hershel on her back if he’d asked her. I told her it was dumb, not to mention incredibly naïve. I could just see her being thrown in prison with a bunch of Arabs for the rest of her life. Lice, rats, no hair-care products.”
“What did you suspect was in the package, Dorrie?”
“I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t buy the story about Israeli citizens having trouble with customs. Gideon laid on a real snow job, but Hershel was itching in the background as if the package contained a baby nuclear bomb.” She narrowed her eyes. “What was in the package?”
Omitting Sitermann’s name but not his job description, he told her what he had learned in the lobby.
She produced an unseemly squeak. “We smuggled explosives into Israel and now the CIA is after us? I knew Judith was going to get us in terrible trouble! I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! But she said she felt like the heroine of a spy thriller, and that as long as we didn’t actually know what was in the package, we were safe. She actually suggested we wear sunglasses and trench coats, for God’s sake! Talk about an overdose of John Le Carré.” She shook her head in despair. “Who paid for Hershel and Gideon’s gay little shopping spree, assuming one cannot put explosives on American Express or Diners?”
“I don’t know, Dorrie. The kibbutz allotment for personal expenses is quite small, and the boys have been out of the university only a few months. I doubt they could buy the explosives themselves.”
“Oh, great, I always wanted to be in the middle of a full-fledged conspiracy. What happens to me now?”
“I am not sure. The CIA agent will not necessarily share his information with Gili. It is possible that Judith’s involvement will not come out, and nothing will happen to her—or to you. Once Gili abandons his absurd contention that you are a suspect, you and I will be free to return to Connecticut.”
Dorrie shrugged, then announced that she could live no longer if she did not properly apply makeup and tend to her hair. Theo warned her to stay in her room, where he presumed she would be safe. After she left, he fluffed the cushion on the chair while he tried to decide how best to extradite his niece from the situation and get her back to Bloomingdale’s before the racks were denuded. Nothing came to mind.
At noon he went to the restaurant and ate a light meal. Sitermann waved from a distant table, but did not blurt out any hearty invitations to join him. Theo would not have done so in any case. Spies were not always the best luncheon companions. Too devious.
Afterward he approached an unfamiliar gray-haired woman at the registration desk. “Please excuse me for disturbing you. I’m Theo Bloomer of Connecticut, currently a guest in your charming kibbutz. May I presume your name is Anya?”
“Anya Bittleman, formerly of Flatbush. So delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Theo Bloomer.”
“It is entirely my pleasure, Mrs. Bittleman. I’ve been hoping to have the opportunity to speak to you.”
She displayed two rows of dazzling porcelain teeth. “Which you are doing very nicely.”
“Miriam has told me that you were upset the morning Essie failed to come to work. It must have made your day most complicated.”
“Should I love having to mop the floors on my hands and knees? Who would, if I may be so bold as to ask?” Her smile deepened as she studied him through shrewd eyes.
“It hardly suits you,” Theo said gallantly. He wiped his neck with his handkerchief, wondering if there might be a problem with the air conditioner. The lobby was usually quite cool. “I was told that you thought Essie’s apartment had been searched, and that Lieutenant Gili failed to appreciate your perceptive comment.”
Anya put her elbows on the counter and cupped her chin in her hands. “So you think I’m perceptive, Mr. Theo Bloomer? If my dead husband Arnold Bittleman could hear you, he would roll over in his solid oak coffin. He always said, ‘Anya, you are nothing but a nosy old woman.’ When I see him, I’ll remember to tell him what you said.”
“I’m sure he was only teasing, Mrs. Bittleman. Why did you think the girl’s apartment had been searched?”
“What would you think if you came home and found all of your things on the floor? Your drawers emptied and your closets a disaster? Surely your wife is a better housekeeper than that, Mr. Theo Bloomer!”
Theo decided to allow Mrs. Bittleman to think the worst of the nonexistent Mrs. Bloomer. “Would it be possible for me to rent a jeep from the kibbutz?” he asked. “I was thinking I might drive around the region for a few hours.”
Theo subsequently found himself in possession of a key, a handful of brochures, a tattered road map, and a dimpled wish for a pleasant day. He drove through the gate and followed the highway to the south end of the Dead Sea, glancing when he dared take his eyes off the road at the mountains and harsh, chiseled cliffs.
Before they had been distracted by the body in the wadi, Miriam had mentioned that there were caves that were likely to contain scrolls and artifacts. The idea still intrigued him. It was whimsical but possible that he might, should he indulge in a bit of spelunking, crawl into a fantastic discovery. The find would be invaluable, the finder renowned on archaeological circuits (but not on prime-time television, unless there was a reference to sex, preferably of a bizarre variety). In any case, Miriam might enjoy a second outing, if only to escape the well-intentioned solicitude and Hershel’s gloomy presence. It would simply be a thoughtful gesture on his part. No one would think otherwise.
He arrived at an intersection of sorts, with a rough road snaking in a northwesterly direction. There were a few houses, an occasional bedouin tent, and a great expanse of desert. Thirty miles later he turned onto a modern highway that led to the outskirts of Hebron.
The traffic swept him into the center of town, where it promptly stranded him behind a donkey cart that had taken residence in the middle of the street. Between the animal’s ears, Theo could see the narrow alleys of the market, populated by swarthy men in long robes, veiled women in bright, embroidered dresses, nimble children, and a few nervous tourists. Armed Israeli soldiers leaned against walls and perched on rooftops, their weapons pointedly displayed. Only the children smiled.
Theo parked in front of a café and sat back to take in the cacophony of shrill voices and colors. Several children eyed the jeep with mercenary glints, but were shooed away by a grinning man in a dirty white robe and a tattered kaffiyeh, held in place by a piece of twine. His face was unshaven, his eyes lined with red, his teeth stubbles of moss-coated bark.
“Shalom, mister. You want to visit Haram el-Khalil? I can show you, tell you many interesting things, show you the Machpelah Cave where our common ancestor Abraham is buried, and also Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, and Jacob. A condo grave, ha, ha. If you like to see these things, Abbu will take you for an insignificant fee.”
Theo gazed at the guide, and then at the urchins. “Will my jeep be safe here?”
Abbu beckoned to the boys. After a lively discussion, Theo was assured that the hubcaps of the jeep would be guarded for a mere handful of shekels. The two went into the massive building, and Theo was instructed in the intricacies of the architecture and history in a rapid succession of acidic sibilants and smiles. Exotic tendrils of incense tempered Abbu’s more pungent emanation, and the chanting of ancient Arab prayers drowned out the steady camera clicks and the whines of unimpressed children. It was, as Abbu had promised, very interesting.
Once the guide wound up his spiel, Theo paid the fee and suggested they have a cold drink at the edge of the market.
“You want to buy real sheepskin jacket, sir? My wife’s brother makes them out of the finest sheep, using his own hands to—”
“I think not, Abbu. I am curious abou
t the bombing incident that occurred earlier this week, however. Can you show me where it happened?”
“A very bad thing, the bomb. There is much bad blood between the Arabs and the Jews in Hebron, many bad things happen. Many Jews lived here, but were killed in nineteen twenty-nine. More bad things in the last few years. Now we have soldiers, but they cannot stop the fights.” Abbu threw up his hands and sighed gustily. “No peace in Hebron, even for poor men like me who must count on the kindness of tourists who visit the mosque to feed my many children and animals.”
Theo removed a bill from his wallet. “Could I persuade you to leave the mosque area for a few minutes?”
“Come along, sir, we will see the remains of the building where the children were killed.” He darted down a narrow alley made more narrow by the stalls on both sides, the clothes hanging from hooks above doors, the omnipresent racks of postcards, and the vendors with great trays of looped bread, candies, and jewelry. Theo puffed along after him, embarrassed by the abusive squawks of the merchants as he failed to stop to admire their wares.
The market gave way to limestone walls and boxes of garbage. At last they arrived at a dirt street populated only by impassive, mustached women, howling babies in disposable diapers, goats, and chickens. Donkeys had left redolent proof that they traveled the street. Abbu pointed at a table spanning the gutter.
“That is my wife’s cousin’s restaurant, sir, a very fine restaurant. Would you like to have something to eat, maybe pita and humus or a very fine kosher pizza?”
Theo glanced through the open door and quickly averted his eyes. “I have no appetite at the moment. Where is the destroyed building?”
“Ah, yes, I am taking you there as quickly as I can,” Abbu said in an offended voice. Hopes of a large tip erased the disappointment and he flashed mossy teeth. “It is difficult to take you there, since it is not very fine for tourists to be here. You are safe with Abbu.”
They turned down one narrow street after another, until Theo was totally confused. Many of the houses could qualify as the one he sought; their rooflines tilted to odd angles and the masonry had been done with whimsy, if not drunken disregard. Abbu called to many of the people, who reluctantly returned the greeting as they stared at Theo. When they finally arrived at their destination, Theo was out of breath—and his element.
There was not much to see. The wall was down, its stones scattered like toy blocks. The interior of the building had already been looted for anything of value, leaving a shell of gaping holes. Theo suspected someone would soon find a way to steal those, too.
“See, sir,” Abbu said, gesturing at the rubble with a proprietary air, “this is where the bomb went off, at this side. The wall fell inward, crushing the four innocent children who had the grave misfortune to be sitting there. Many others were hurt.”
Theo winced. “Did anyone on the street see anything before the explosion? Perhaps a car that was unfamiliar, or a package?”
“The people who live here see very little of what goes on, sir. The soldiers asked them many questions, but they were too worried about buying food and clothing for their many children and animals. It is a very poor neighborhood here. The soldiers are not always welcome.”
“Do you happen to have a relative that lives nearby, Abbu—a relative with a very fine memory, who might be persuaded to recount what he saw that night?”
Abbu slapped his forehead in dismay. “My father’s brother’s nephew does live nearby, sir. I had forgotten all about the boy, who works very hard in the market every day in order to support his many children and animals. Do you want to talk to him? It will be very difficult to find him, very difficult.”
Shekels exchanged hands. Abbu agreed to take Theo to the boy’s favorite post near the bus station, and they again went through the alleys under the grim scrutiny from doorways and paneless windows. Abbu at last spotted the relevant relative and loosed a guttural stream of invectives, orders and warnings, or so it seemed to Theo. The boy stared at Theo over a pyramid of soda pop cans.
Abbu gave Theo an ingratiating look. “As I promised, sir. He will cooperate if he can.”
“Ask him if he saw anything before the explosion,” Theo suggested.
More guttural conversation ensued, but this time the boy responded with a great deal of vehemence, punctuated by an arch of spittle aimed at a slinking dog. Abbu turned to Theo and said, “Yes, he saw a jeep in the street the night before, and since there are few cars, he looked at it with some curiosity.”
“Can he describe the jeep?”
“He says not, but he is very worried that he will not sell his drinks if he wastes much time trying to remember what he saw. It has been many days, sir.”
Minutes later Theo owned sixteen cans of expensive, tepid soda pop. The nephew, now released from the distraction of harassing potential buyers, pulled Abbu aside for a lengthy conversation. Abbu’s hooded eyes drifted over the boy’s shoulder to study Theo, but shifted back for the finale of spittle. Theo waited at a prudent distance.
Abbu slapped the nephew on the back, took a can of soda and tossed it to Theo. “These are yours now; you can drink as many as you desire. Shall I find a boy to carry them to your jeep? It will cost only a handful of shekels.”
Theo insisted that the nephew retain ownership, despite Abbu’s obvious disgust. As they walked back through the market, Theo asked what had been said about the mysterious jeep. Abbu stopped in the middle of the pedestrian traffic, his lips pulled back to expose his teeth. It did not have the warmth of his previous smiles.
“The boy looked very hard at the jeep. From what he told me, it was exactly like the one you are driving today, sir. Is not that very interesting, very interesting, indeed?”
“And the driver?”
Abbu held his ground, despite the thrusting crush of buyers and sellers. “It was not a bald man with glasses, or I would have put a knife between your shoulders. One of the wounded children was my brother’s youngest daughter, a very fine girl.”
“I’m sorry, Abbu. I want to find out who did this terrible thing, so that he will be charged by the police.”
“The Jews will never arrest one of their own, no matter how bad the crime,” Abbu said. “Especially when it was a woman.”
“A woman?” Theo repeated, stunned. “Is your nephew quite sure about that? What did she look like?”
Abbu’s shoulders rose and fell under the robe. Dust drifted from the folds. “He could not describe her. He says all Jews look alike, sir.”
17
Theo followed Abbu out of the market. As they approached the jeep, he saw a figure sitting on the passenger’s side, a figure in a cowboy hat adorned with quail feathers and a rattlesnake skin. Bleached denim jeans and a plaid shirt with silver-rimmed buttons. Ornately carved leather boots, high-heeled and pointed at the toes. The only elements of costume absent were a guitar, battered saddlebags, and a horse tied in front of the saloon. More than a dozen awed children giggled in a nearby doorway.
“Sitermann,” Theo said in greeting, “does Buffalo Bill know you escaped from the sideshow? I thought you had given up the Western motif.” He tipped his squadron of car tenders, told them where they might receive a discounted soda, and shook hands with his guide. Folded bills were discreetly passed. Abbu wandered away to find another tourist, but the children remained, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Hopalong Cassidy was not a frequent visitor to Hebron.
“Hey, Bloomer, I just thought I’d take a look at the sepulcher. I even bought myself one of them guide books. Did you know that Abraham is as important a dude to the Arabs as he is to the Jews? This thing started out as a grave, and Herod the Great built the boundary walls two thousand years ago. You know, I could get into this archaeology stuff.”
Theo got into the jeep and started the engine, then turned to smile at the huddle of spectators. “He’s not really a cowboy, children. He’s a spy from the Central Intelligence—”
“Bloomer! For Christ’s sake, you don’t
have to go around telling everybody! It’s supposed to be our little secret.” Sitermann threw a handful of coins to the children and grinned as they scrambled in the dust. “Hey, how about I keep you company on the way back to the kibbutz?”
“Why don’t you saddle up Old Paint and gallop back to the bunkhouse?”
Sitermann punched him lightly on the arm. “Quit your teasing, Bloomer; I only put on this stuff to contribute to the local color. Did you find out anything about the bombing from these Arab guys in the funky bathrobes? Did they tell you about the jeep?”
Theo gritted his teeth as he drove away from the market. Once they were on the highway, he said, “Nothing that you were not already aware of, it seems. A jeep was noticed on the street, apparently one of those belonging to Kibbutz Mishkan. A woman driver, but no further description.”
“I know who it was, so you can rest your britches. It was Ilana Tor. The two boys went with her, but waited at the edge of town in order not to arouse suspicion. A lone non-Arab woman in that part of town is curious, but two non-Arab men is a declaration of war. It’s a nervous town, Hebron.”
“So Gideon, Hershel, and Ilana are the charter members of the Sons of Light and were responsible for the explosion.” He nodded to himself. The conclusion had been obvious all along. It did not, however, explain how they had paid for the explosive.
“Yep, they sure as hell were. They’ve pulled some other cute tricks as the Sons of Light, but this was their first biggie. Damned kids, they ought to know better than that.”
“One would think so. How did they get through the gate that night?”
“Sympathetic guard, I reckon. You think this has anything to do with Gili’s murder investigation? I’m used to bombers—you could say it’s my speciality. But I’d hate to shield an ordinary murderer.”
