“You must be Mrs. Hasan,” Mrs. Zarkawi said in Lebanese-accented Arabic. “Excuse me if I don’t get up. Once I settle in a place, I don’t quickly leave it.”
“And I’m Daniella Rubin,” said an Israeli Jewish woman in her thirties who stood to shake Hana’s hand.
The two women were drinking coffee with a plate of pastries between them on a low wooden table. Daniella introduced Avi to Mrs. Zarkawi. They sat in a semicircle, with Hana and Avi in chairs facing Mrs. Zarkawi and Hakim joining Daniella on the couch. It quickly became clear that while Mrs. Zarkawi might be physically limited, she was a matriarch who controlled all conversations within earshot. She peppered Avi with questions. She’d heard of his shop and had long admired a painting that a friend purchased from the art dealer.
“Paintings aren’t my passion,” she said. “But that one spoke to me because I remember that part of Beirut from my childhood.”
“This is a beautiful home,” Hana said when there was a break in the conversation. “How long have you lived here?”
The question led to a lengthy story from Mrs. Zarkawi. Her late husband’s father bought the residence from another family that lived in Damascus. After the 1949 war, the Damascus family didn’t want to come back to a divided Jerusalem poised on the brink of another conflict.
“My father-in-law bought it at a good price,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “He was able to see the potential for long-term value.”
“I noticed the rug in the foyer,” Avi said. “It’s a very nice piece.”
“My husband bought that for me as a gift not long after our marriage. It’s a seventeenth-century Turkish Oushak rug. We both enjoyed buying items with historical value.”
Hana saw Avi raise his eyebrows. The art dealer asked another question that led to a story of interest to Avi and Daniella. When there was another pause, Hakim, who’d stayed on the sidelines, cleared his throat and lightly touched his mother’s left hand.
“Are you ready to talk about the Bar Kokhba coins? That’s why they’ve come today.”
“Don’t rush me,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied brusquely. “There will be plenty of time after lunch. I’m hungry.”
* * *
Daud parked near the entrance to the Jericho industrial zone, a large, open area of land five kilometers from Ramallah. Hosni Chatti had finally agreed to meet him on-site. Designed along the same lines as similar projects in the US and Europe, the development featured a large modern sign and a futuristic welcome center. The land itself was largely empty, which meant a new company could pick where to build and receive a favorable lease rate from the Palestinian Authority. Daud checked his watch. Chatti was thirty minutes late, and the low-level government official Daud had contacted to give them a tour was waiting for them inside the welcome center. Daud’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Chatti:
Stopped in Al-Bireh due to car trouble. Can you pick me up?
Al-Bireh was a major town in the West Bank with a long history dating back over a thousand years. Daud had been there several times.
Where are you?
Chatti gave him the name and address of a hotel near the central square. It was only fifteen minutes from the industrial park.
Will be there shortly.
Daud entered the welcome center and told his contact what had happened. The man shrugged and continued to look at his cell phone. A new message popped up on Daud’s phone.
What make and color vehicle are you driving? I’ll be in front of the hotel. I’m wearing a light blue shirt and dark pants.
Daud texted the information and pulled out of the parking lot.
The route to Al-Bireh followed secondary roads. The rural terrain featured the same rolling hills as nearby Jerusalem, and it was common to encounter shepherds herding sheep or goats across the roadways. Daud drove cautiously. Insurance on the vehicle would reimburse a shepherd for the value of an animal killed by a motorist, but Daud didn’t want to attract any attention. Sure enough, he rounded a sharp curve and encountered a herd of sheep in the middle of the road. A young man, his face covered with a red-checkered kaffiyeh, stood behind the sheep. Daud slowed to a stop. The young man showed no interest in hurrying the flock across the road. After waiting a few seconds, Daud honked the car’s horn. The sheep skittered forward, but the shepherd stayed in the same place. Daud lowered the window of the car and stuck out his head.
“Move your sheep!” he called out.
The young man suddenly dropped to the ground. The next moment Daud heard gunshots.
* * *
The long table in Mrs. Zarkawi’s dining room was covered in a delicately woven tablecloth that allowed the deep shine of the wood beneath to peek through. She placed her walker to the side and sat at the head of the table, with her son to her right. Hana started to take a place near the other end of the table.
“No, no,” the elderly lady said. “I want you beside me so we can talk.”
Hana sat in an antique chair with an intricately carved back that gave it an African look. Plates on the table were filled with fresh fruit, meat pastries, and cheeses.
“Would you hand me the meat pastries?” Mrs. Zarkawi asked. “They’re so much better when hot. And take a few yourself. They’re not all the same, which makes it a treasure hunt finding out what’s inside.”
Amused at the elderly woman’s attitude toward meat pastries, Hana held the plate while Mrs. Zarkawi used silver tongs to make three selections. Hana then put three on her plate as well.
“Eat that one first,” Mrs. Zarkawi said, pointing to one of the pastries.
Hana bit into the best meat pastry of her life. The delicate, flaky crust concealed a seasoned lamb mix that hit all the right spice notes in perfect balance.
“This is really good,” she said to Mrs. Zarkawi.
“It’s a secret recipe,” the older woman replied with a smile. “Now try that one.”
That pastry contained chicken that was almost as good as the lamb. Without being prompted, Hana sampled the third pastry, which contained beef cut into razor-thin strips that were slightly smoky.
“They’re all delicious,” Hana said. “I think you already know where to find the treasure.”
Mrs. Zarkawi replied, “I knew you would be able to appreciate what I have to offer. I could see it in your face when we were sitting on the veranda. Let’s move to the cheese.”
They followed a similar pattern with the cheeses, except the hostess described what they were eating in advance. She focused all her attention on Hana, who felt uncomfortable that no one else at the table was sharing their private conversation. When Hana turned to speak with Daniella Rubin, Mrs. Zarkawi quickly spoke up.
“The fruit doesn’t need any introductions,” she said. “But the dates come from trees cultivated by my husband’s family for over a hundred years.”
The dates were natural candy. Hana sampled one. Mrs. Zarkawi motioned to a young woman whose job was filling the guests’ water glasses. The woman stepped from the room for a moment and returned with a small purple bag that she placed beside Mrs. Zarkawi.
“Now,” the older woman said. “Good food is a blessing, but let’s look at what you really came to see.”
Hana watched as Mrs. Zarkawi’s gnarled fingers loosened the top of the bag. Reaching inside, the elderly woman took out a coin and placed it on the table in front of Hana. Everyone at the table grew silent. Hana could see the image of the lyre on the tarnished silver coin that set it apart from so many other coins minted during the rebellion. Just as important was the inscription of “Eleazar the Priest.”
“Pick it up,” Mrs. Zarkawi suggested. “It won’t break.”
Hana held the lyre coin in her hand. For its size, the coin was heavy, proof of precious metal content.
“It’s one of the best first-year coins I’ve ever seen,” Daniella said. “That’s what I told Mrs. Zarkawi when she asked me to evaluate it a couple of years ago.”
Mrs. Zarkawi took out a second coin. Hana could q
uickly tell it was not in as good condition.
“If these coins could talk, what would they tell me?” Mrs. Zarkawi asked.
“I think I know,” Hana responded.
Remembering her instructions from Jakob, she began with the story of Vladimir Ivanov’s great-grandfather. When she reached the part about the Soviet colonel stealing the coins from a man who’d barely survived the war, Mrs. Zarkawi shook her head sadly but didn’t speak. Hana took out the digitally enhanced photos from the leather briefcase at her feet and laid them on the table. Mrs. Zarkawi moved the coins onto the photos so she could inspect them for herself. Her son also leaned in for a closer look.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Zarkawi asked Daniella.
“As soon as I saw the photos, I thought about your coins,” the archaeologist replied. “May I compare them directly?”
“Yes.”
The coins and photos were passed down the table to Daniella, who picked up each coin and inspected it from several different angles. She held up the inferior coin.
“This one is a possible match, but I can’t say for sure.”
Hana’s heart fell. Daniella picked up the lyre coin and repeated the previous inspection process. While she did, Hana imagined Jakob’s reaction if she had to tell him they’d failed. Nothing on the archaeologist’s face revealed what she was thinking. Because she’d previously been paid by Mrs. Zarkawi, Hana knew there was danger of bias. Finally, Daniella returned the coin to the table and looked past Hana at Mrs. Zarkawi.
“The lyre coin is the same as the photo,” she said. “There are multiple points of identical markings.”
Hana breathed a sigh of relief. She quickly studied Mrs. Zarkawi’s face for a reaction.
“We would need more than one expert opinion,” Hakim interjected. “And my mother was a good-faith purchaser for value without any prior knowledge of problems with the coins’ history.”
“Hakim, if I wanted to hear a lawyer talk, I would have paid Ajmal Barakat to be here,” Mrs. Zarkawi said.
“She’s a lawyer,” Hakim said as he pointed at Hana.
“But she’s different from Barakat,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “I could listen to her tell a story about anything and find it enjoyable.”
“And there’s more to Mr. Ivanov’s story,” Hana said.
“I’d like to hear it,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied.
Directing every word to Mrs. Zarkawi, Hana picked up the narrative and told her about the other items on the inventory furnished to the Russian bank, including the female ceramic head. When she mentioned the head, Mrs. Zarkawi interrupted her.
“That could be a true treasure.”
“Perhaps comparable to the king’s head found at Metula,” Daniella said. “It was in all the papers.”
Mrs. Zarkawi glanced at Hakim, whose face was impassive.
“Go ahead,” the older woman said to Hana.
“There’s not much more. A lawyer friend of mine in the US represents Mr. Ivanov, who wants to recover the items stolen by the Soviet army officer. I agreed to help.”
“What evidence do you have that the artifacts were in fact stolen from this man?” Hakim asked.
Taking out her laptop, Hana showed Hakim and Mrs. Zarkawi the newspaper article about the colonel’s collection and the inventory list for the bank, both of which Jakob had translated into English. Hakim translated the information into Arabic for his mother, who listened impassively.
“This has been a very interesting meeting,” Mrs. Zarkawi said to the entire table when Hakim finished. “I’m glad you came to see me. I hope you enjoyed your luncheon.”
Hana didn’t budge. She’d not traveled six thousand miles to be stonewalled by an eighty-five-year-old woman, no matter how good the meat pastries on the table.
“Mrs. Zarkawi,” she said. “With all respect to you and your house, this meeting isn’t over yet.”
Chapter 33
The side mirror beside Daud’s left hand shattered from the impact of the first bullet. A subsequent shot came through the open window and ripped off the top of the steering wheel before destroying the glass in the windows on the passenger side of the car. Daud jerked his head back inside the vehicle and lay across the seats as he stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The car shot forward as other bullets slammed into the metal. He gripped what remained of the steering wheel, which vibrated violently as the car struck several sheep. Feeling the tires run off the pavement to the left, Daud pulled the steering wheel to the right without taking his foot from the gas. The rear window of the car was blown out by a bullet that continued through the car and pierced the front windshield as well.
Daud peeked above the dashboard and was barely able to swerve to avoid a large rock jutting up from the ground just off the roadway to the right. He crossed a ridge, and the road began to descend into a valley. He sat up in the driver’s seat. Surprisingly, the rearview mirror remained intact. Daud lifted his foot from the gas and glanced behind him up the hill. He saw two men dressed in black, their faces covered with red kaffiyehs, running over the top of the ridge. Each of them had a rifle in his hands. One of the men stopped and raised his weapon to his shoulder. Daud lowered his head, pressed on the gas, and made the car zigzag down the road. He heard the sounds of several shots. A loud ping signaled that at least one bullet had struck the car.
Raising his head a second time, Daud couldn’t see anyone remaining on the ridge. He floored the gas pedal again and shot down the road toward the Route 60 connector that would take him back to Jerusalem. He looked in the rearview mirror again, but no one seemed to be following him. Reaching the main highway, he entered the flow of traffic. The condition of his car unavoidably attracted attention from other motorists, and he slipped on dark sunglasses. As he neared the Qalandiya checkpoint for reentry into Israel, the temperature gauge for the engine began to move toward the danger zone. Before reaching the checkpoint, Daud pulled off the road into a vacant lot close to the old Atarot Airport. Opened by the British in 1920, Atarot was the first airport in the region and now served as an IDF base. Before getting out of the car, Daud checked his phone. There was a text message from Hosni Chatti:
Still waiting. Where are you?
Daud didn’t reply. Instead, he phoned Aaron Levy. The phone rang six times before the Shin Bet supervisor answered.
“You’re not sneaking over the border again, are you?” Aaron asked.
“I’m at Atarot.” Daud told him what had happened near Al-Bireh. Partway through, Levy interrupted.
“That incident came across our intelligence feed a few minutes ago as a local dispute between sheepherders fighting over water rights. It mentioned that shots were fired but indicated no injuries or the presence of a vehicle. There are PA investigators on the scene right now.”
“It was an attempt to kill me.”
“Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”
Daud wasn’t wounded, but he’d been close to death. The adrenaline that had initially insulated him from shock drained from his body. He felt himself tremble.
“No,” he answered. “But I need to get back into the country. My wife is in Jerusalem and doesn’t know anything about what happened.”
“I’ll send someone to pick you up, and we’ll open an investigation without disturbing the narrative put out by the news media. We’ll debrief later.”
After the call ended, Daud closed his eyes for a moment before getting out of the car to inspect it. In addition to the broken side mirror and shattered windows, there were three other bullet holes in the vehicle, including one next to the engine compartment. Coolant was pooling on the asphalt beneath the front of the car. A blue minivan with Palestinian Authority license plates pulled up next to him.
* * *
“You heard my mother,” Hakim said to Hana. “We’ve listened politely to what you have to say, and now it’s time to go.”
Hana glanced across the table at Avi, who didn’t seem in a hurry to leave either. His body language gav
e her courage. She turned to Mrs. Zarkawi.
“Can you see the justice in Mr. Ivanov’s desire to recover what belonged to his family?”
“Justice has not always been the currency of this land,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied soberly. “At least not for our family and maybe not for yours.”
“But the opportunity to do right is the choice each of us must make during our time on earth,” Hana answered.
Mrs. Zarkawi studied her for a moment. “Are you a lawyer or a priest?”
Avi spoke up. “I’d say an equal mix of both with a heavy dose of rabbi thrown in.”
Mrs. Zarkawi nodded her head. She selected a plump purple grape from the plate in front of her and put it in her mouth. Everyone sat in silence while she chewed and swallowed it. She then turned to her son.
“Hakim, I know what I want to do.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” Mrs. Zarkawi reached out and gently touched the Bar Kokhba coin with the lyre embossed on it.
“I’m going to keep the coin,” she said.
Hana felt like she’d been punched. “But—” she started.
“As my fee for helping Mr. Ivanov recover what he really wants . . . ,” Mrs. Zarkawi continued.
“You know where the other items are?” Hana blurted out.
“Perhaps some of them,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied. “But before talking any more, I’ll need a written agreement.”
Hana left Mrs. Zarkawi’s house with a list of terms for a contract. The Arab heiress would keep the best Bar Kokhba coin as a finder’s fee in return for information leading to discovery of the queen’s head. The savvy collector knew the ceramic piece was the crown jewel of the Ivanov collection and intimated she had a good idea of where it was and who had it. Hana needed to obtain the approval of Jakob and Vladimir Ivanov before drafting the final form of the agreement. Mrs. Zarkawi invited her to return the following day if Jakob and his client wanted to move forward.
Promised Land Page 27
