On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “Not hurt?” she asked Jack for the third time.

  “No,” he repeated. “There’s a drop of blood by the front door, but it must be his.” Jack was seated in his living room, but the hiking stick was still in his hand. Every light in the flat was on and every room had been searched—inside the cupboards and under the beds, too.

  “And nothing taken?”

  “No.”

  “And nothing damaged except the latch on the skylight. The perp came up the fire escape, and over the roof, and got in that way. Now why do you say he was out to kill you?”

  “You should have seen the look in his eyes,” Jack said with a shudder.

  “Uh-huh,” PC Buttram said, making a note.

  “And he wore gloves and a mask,” Jack emphasized.

  “Well,” the officer said slowly. “These home break-ins—there’s been a rash of them, you see? The perps aren’t very smart but they know enough not to leave fingerprints, or let themselves be seen.”

  “But nothing was taken,” Jack protested. “Sorry, I’m repeating myself.”

  “Here’s the way I have it figured,” Officer Buttram explained. “You surprised him, coming home like you did. He was startled. Probably on something too. Meth addicts sometimes exhibit psychotic behavior. You said he departed when you resisted.”

  “After I jabbed this in his eye,” Jack said, showing the tine of the antler.

  “Do you have any reason to think someone wants to kill you?” PC Buttram inquired. “Anyone ever try to kill you?”

  “I’ve been shot at,” Jack replied.

  “Really? When was that?”

  “In Israel. A car I was riding in was shot at.”

  “Oh.” Officer Buttram snapped her notebook shut. “We’ll put out the word to the hospitals for unexplained eye injuries.”

  “And you think it’s safe for me to stay here tonight?”

  The policewoman nodded and left.

  Nevertheless, Jack dragged the stepladder from the garage all the way to the top of the topmost stairs, and nailed the skylight shut. Then he slept with the hiking staff beside his right hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The throng at the airport contained Israeli cabinet ministers and diplomats, religious leaders, security personnel, television cameras—and Jack. “Why’m I here?” he whispered to Lev. “I just got back yesterday.”

  “Because today’s a historic day,” Lev shot back.

  As the representative of Partners with Zion and a friend of Lon Silver, Lev was invited to attend the Ben Gurion Airport reception for Prime Minister Narendra Modi of India. A double file of IDF forces stood at attention, lining the carpet from the plane’s boarding ramp to the awning under which the crowd stood.

  This soon after arriving back in Israel, Jack expected a breaking-in period at least. He had no idea what Lev expected of him or what his duties were. “Roll with it,” Lev added.

  Prime Minister Netanyahu met his Indian counterpart at the bottom of the plane’s steps. They exchanged an embrace and some whispered words of greeting. The two men stood at attention beside the Air India One Boeing 747 while the national anthems of both nations were played. Blue-and-white Israeli flags snapped in the stiff breeze beside the saffron-white-and-green banners of India.

  “Twenty-five years since India formally recognized Israel,” Lev said when the music ceased. “But this is the first time a sitting Indian PM has made a personal visit. India has a sizable Muslim minority and a minuscule Jewish population too. Do you get it? Up to today the only foreign leaders met at the airport have been the pope and the U.S. president. This is a big deal.”

  Jack realized if he was going to be of use he had a lot of catching up to do—and quickly.

  Turning to the microphones, Benjamin Netanyahu’s broad smile was beaming as he formally greeted Modi on behalf of the Jewish state. “Welcome, my friend,” Netanyahu said in Hindi. Switching to English he went on to say it was altogether fitting for the leader of one democracy to greet the leader of the largest democracy in the world.

  Lev turned toward Jack and raised his eyebrows. World opinion had long wavered to see if Israel was even going to survive. Now, it seemed, some countries decided that Israel—the most modern, most democratic state in the Middle East—was past due being embraced by the community of nations.

  “We had something to do with this,” Lev said. “America, I mean. And Christian Americans especially. New partnerships—India and Israel—Christians and Jews—lots of new ground being broken, faster than ever.”

  Jack nodded, but his head swiveled as he scanned the crowd for Bette. Where was she?

  India’s prime minster was a trim, distinguished figure whose silver hair gleamed from his head, his neatly trimmed beard, and even his eyebrows. When it was Modi’s turn to speak he said, “It is my singular honor to be the first ever Indian PM to visit Israel. We have to secure our societies against the common thread of terrorism.”

  “That’s as plain as it gets,” Jack said. “Is it true there’s no official visit to the Palestinians?”

  “Nope,” Lev confirmed as applause erupted all around them for the Indian prime minister’s remarks. “This trip is all about better relations and more trade—technology and agriculture.”

  “Bet the Palestinian leadership is torqued,” Jack observed, thinking about Rafa Husseini’s open hostility toward all things Israeli. “Say, Bette should be here. I wonder where she is?”

  “Don’t know how to break this to you,” Lev returned with a grin. “But she does have to work for a living and you’re no longer her assignment.”

  “Yeah? Well, I may have to do something about that,” Jack said. “Long term, I mean.”

  At the moment the two heads of government were exchanging hugs and speeches in Tel Aviv, Bette was some fifty miles away. She was posted at the Mazmoria checkpoint south of Jerusalem, on the road to Gush Etzion.

  The call on the restricted phone only used to connect her to Yamam headquarters came at five that morning. Without explanation Bette was told to be in uniform and report to the commander immediately.

  Once more she stood at attention in front of Commander S.’s desk. “I need you to help out with security on highway 398,” her boss ordered. “We have intel; an attack timed to embarrass Netanyahu on the day of PM Modi’s arrival. I want you out there to assist. Uniformed show of force. Be alert.”

  Technically Bette was still part of Border Police operations, but checkpoint security was in the distant past on her résumé. Bette knew better than to ask why she was selected for the duty, but Commander S. volunteered an explanation anyway. “I need to get you back out in the field,” he said. “I’m afraid you may have lost some of your edge doing convoy duty for the American. Now get going.”

  That was six hours earlier. Increased security meant slower travel through the checkpoint. Papers were examined, photographs compared to the occupants. Suspicious vehicles were pulled out of the line and thoroughly searched. So far the only contraband located was a half kilo of hashish and five kilos of dried parsley for sale to tourists as Arab marijuana.

  The line of cars waiting to be checked so they could proceed north extended out of sight past a gas station and a tire store. Bette yawned and wondered what Jack must think about her absence. She shook her head and tried to regain her focus. It was dangerous to not pay attention. It could get you killed.

  The car Bette walked alongside was a beat-up station wagon containing an Arab mother and father and six—no, seven—kids. Mom was gesturing with one arm out the window and yelling at nobody about being late for a dentist appointment. Dad looked stoic and grim and much like he’d rather be anywhere else.

  The next car back was a small, white Mitsubishi. The subcompact-sized four-door vehicle was crammed full of six full-sized Arab men. The man in the front passenger seat looked out the window at Bette, gave a perfunctory wave of his hand, and looked away.

  Despite what the commander implied, Bette’s obser
vational skills had not lost a beat. Without conscious thought she noted the front green-on-white West Bank plate: 4530943.

  Bette stared into the interior of the car. None of the men looked at her.

  Something wasn’t right. Arab men, especially traveling in a pack, usually leered at Israeli women and often made rude commentary. These men did neither. Instead they seemed to be concentrating on the road ahead—even though the station wagon was no more than three feet in front.

  The Mitsubishi edged forward, then stopped again. Bette stepped farther back along the line, then glanced over her shoulder—4003943 the rear plate read.

  They didn’t match. Bette’s hand dropped to the butt of her sidearm. Mismatched plates meant a stolen car—at the very least. She whistled sharply to the border policemen walking the other side of the line of cars and gave a sharp jerk of her head toward the suspect vehicle.

  Three other border police joined the confrontation. Five Israeli weapons covered the Mitsubishi. “Hands where we can see them,” the ranking sergeant ordered in Arabic. “Pull it over there out of the line and get out—slowly!”

  The six men emerged, hands in the air. Lined up alongside the vehicle, the driver was asked for his ID card. He claimed to have lost it.

  None of the six occupants, who all appeared to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, had any form of ID on them.

  “Keep them over there,” the sergeant directed.

  More policemen converged on the car and proceeded to take apart the headliner, the door panels, and the trunk. Success was not long in coming. Underneath the spare tire was a bag containing glass bottles full of gasoline and stoppered with rags, two stun grenades—and five butcher knives.

  After the car and the would-be terrorists were removed from the checkpoint the sergeant remarked to Bette, “Good call. Had they made it into Jerusalem we’d be looking at a major—bloody—incident. Well done.”

  The professional barriers between Jack and Bette were now completely down. By candlelight on the terrace of the King David, he drank in her gold-flecked, brown eyes like rich, smooth Sabra liqueur.

  “So I’m no longer your responsibility?”

  “Not officially, no.” She held up two wine glasses. “Here is the situation. Are they half full? Or half empty?” She poured the deep purple liquid into one glass, and the wine brimmed to the rim. “Very full I think.” She winked.

  “I get your point.”

  “I never told you before—I was warned by my superior before you left—I was not permitted to fall in love with you.”

  “After you were once again the hero—heroine—of the hour, that was extremely ungenerous of him.”

  “That’s what I said. And you know what he told me? He said, ‘This guy is not even Jewish.’ ” She sipped the wine and passed the glass to Jack. “So now you are fired from your official position and don’t need a bodyguard. My falling in love with you is no longer an issue.”

  He took a drink and held the wine in his mouth for a moment. “I taste hints of chocolate and raspberries.”

  “And I simply taste wine. You see? I am not a woman of nuances. Straightforward. The wine is good. The wine is bad.”

  “And what was your first impression of me?”

  “I did not like you at first. But what is that song? From Phantom of the Opera? ‘I’ve grown accustomed to your taste?’ ”

  Jack laughed. “I think it’s, ‘I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face…’ And it’s from My Fair Lady.”

  “Well—that too—your very nice face—so whatever. Anyway, my boss cannot tell me not to fall in love. It’s too late anyway.”

  “And I didn’t expect to fall in love with you, Bette. Life is filled with good surprises.”

  “Mostly good and we must do all we can to protect ourselves against the bad surprises. I’ve asked for time off. So I can spend time with you.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard this week.”

  “I think you are being tailed, you see. I think you are not safe, Jack.”

  “Why? What?”

  “A feeling mostly. Instinct—after so many years.”

  “So you are a woman of nuance after all.”

  “My mother calls it maternal instinct.”

  “A bear with her cubs.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

  “And you are my cub, Jack.”

  It was only two days after their candlelit dinner when Bette insisted she had somewhere to take Jack and it couldn’t wait.

  “Someone I want you to meet.” Bette and Jack wound through market crowds in the busy Old City Souk. “He has lived here a very long time.”

  Off a narrow side street was a high wall and a scarred gate. Bette smiled over her shoulder, then touched the mezuzah on the doorpost with her fingertip, and kissed it. She punched a security code on a keypad. The lock clicked and the hinges of the entrance groaned as the door swung open, revealing a cool, walled garden. The space was twenty by thirty feet, bordered by a stone house on one end, and shaded by a huge purple Jacaranda tree and festooned thick with flowers.

  A colorful ceramic plaque declared SHALOM; peace. Indeed the secret refuge lived up to its name. The gentle trickling of water and the soft music of wind chimes made the serene atmosphere seem almost timeless.

  Bette inclined her head toward a bench, indicating Jack should sit. Jack had not suspected this place existed behind the high walls, but he had long since ceased to be surprised by anything in Jerusalem.

  Minutes passed in silence. Bette did not attempt to explain and Jack instinctively knew he should not ask questions.

  Jack heard the sound of a door open and close from within the shadowed alcove. A silver-haired man with a short, closely trimmed beard stepped into the sunlight. He wore pleated, linen trousers and a tan canvas jacket. His white shirt was open at the collar. An old black and white photograph was pinched between thumb and forefinger. He raised the picture, gazing at the image, and then studied Jack closely, almost with wonder, as he shuffled toward them.

  Bette and Jack rose. She exchanged greetings with the stranger in Hebrew. Bette introduced Jack. “Sol Baruch, this is my friend, Jack Garrison. From America.”

  “Shalom,” the old man clasped Jack’s hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. “Sit. Sit, please.” The old man moved a wrought iron chair directly opposite the bench and sat down. He smiled slightly and leaned closer. Searching Jack’s face intently, it seemed as though he was trying to memorize every detail.

  At last Sol spoke in heavily accented English. “So. You are Jacob de Louzada.”

  “He was my grandfather.”

  The old man held up the faded photo. It was as though Jack was looking at his own face in a mirror. “This is Jacob de Louzada. This is you.” With a gnarled finger he pointed at two grinning, young men in berets and suits standing before the Eiffel Tower. “And this is me, with Jacob. We were Sol and Jacob, friends like brothers—from infancy, even. We attended the Sorbonne together. And this photograph was our last day together. Before the war, you see.” Faded blue eyes brimmed. “When I saw you enter through my window here, it was as though my dear friend Jacob had come into my garden. You are so much like the way I saw him the last time at the train station.”

  Emotion constricted Jack’s throat as he gazed at his grandfather’s image for the first time. “Yes. I see that. Our resemblance. We really are so very much. . .”

  “I would have known you anywhere. You are taller than Jacob, I think. Or perhaps I am shorter. But you are indeed his grandson, without explanation or question.”

  Jack ducked his head slightly and searched for words. “I am looking for my grandmother. Jacob’s wife.” He briefly explained all he learned in his mother’s note. Sol nodded again slowly, then shook his head in sorrow at the last revelation.

  “I am sorry, Jacob—may I call you by his name?”

  “Yes.” Jack squeezed Bette’s hand in gratitude. “Of course. You can call me Jacob.”
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br />   “Well, then. My life is complete. I tell you, your face is a miracle to me now.”

  Bette interjected, “Sol, do you know anything about Jack’s—I mean—about the wife of your old friend? It is believed she came here to Jerusalem in 1947. Maybe ‘48.”

  “Ah. War of Independence. Hard years—I never met her, you see. I only heard in a letter from my friend Jacob that he had met the love of his life. That they married. They had a child—a baby girl. And they wanted to make Aliyah but were denied visas by the British Mandatory Government. And then, of course, it is just as the story says. Their baby girl they put on a kinder transport. Giving your mother up was a terrible grief for your grandfather. His last letter told me he wished he had listened. He wrote me they should have left France. And by then it was too late. The Nazis conquered France. And I heard no more from Jacob. I thought Jacob and his wife both perished in the death camps.” The old man relived it all. He wiped a tear with the back of his hand. “Never forget, we say. Never forget? But already the whole world has forgotten the Holocaust. And now—the young Jews in Europe—in France, are living through what we lived through. They should all come to Israel now before it is too late.”

  Bette tried again. “The Agency has reached out to you, the ones who came from France during the British Mandate. You are the only one who answered.”

  Sol placed his hand on Jack’s hand. “I am sorry, my son. I would not know her. She would not have known me. Never met. And now—there are so few of us left.”

  Jack tried not to let his disappointment show. “I am grateful, Sol. Very grateful. I did not expect—after so many years—to learn what you shared in one afternoon.”

  Sol nodded. “I believe everything means something. The day I heard your grandfather had not survived was June 14, 1946. That very night there was a Blood Moon over Jerusalem. I was gathered with a small band of Haganah resistance fighters. It seemed somehow to me this eclipse was a sign from heaven that one day we would be free—that Israel would truly be a Jewish homeland—that Jerusalem must be our capital city again after 2,000 years. I did not know what it meant until just recently. Now I have learned your American president was born on June 14, 1946—on that very night. As the Blood Moon appeared over Jerusalem the future president of America—who would one day declare Jerusalem as the eternal, undivided capital of Israel—was born. Yes. That fulfillment somehow softens the memory of the terrible night when I grieved your grandfather’s death.” Sol raised his finger with an idea. “I have kept a packet of your grandfather’s letters. Give me a few days to search. You and beautiful Bette come for Shabbat dinner? Sunset this Friday. I will search for the letters. Somewhere in my treasure chest of memories. Perhaps you will like them?”