by Fritz Galt
Dean smiled. Things were going according to plan.
Tall Israeli soldiers with drawn guns nervously watched the automobiles pass the immigration terminal. Then Dean saw why the soldiers looked so worried. A crowd of angry Jewish settlers waved shovels and hoes at the motorcade. Dean expected stones to fly toward the bulletproof windows.
Welcome to the Palestinian homeland, the West Bank. They immediately reached a military checkpoint. Israeli soldiers diverted them off the highway that would have taken them straight to Ramallah. They were forced onto a string of narrow country lanes that passed through Palestinian villages.
Seated beside Dean, Omar was looking thoughtful. This was the land he represented. It was half a state, mostly controlled by Israeli troops. If his peace mission proved successful, would the army finally withdraw?
They were near Jericho and had rugged terrain to cross. Only yellow shrubs grew on the steep sides of the mountains. In the valleys, they passed a patchwork of vineyards and orchards and uncultivated slopes roamed by sheep and goats.
People were everywhere. The roads were lined with refugee camps and population centers with only the most rudimentary sanitation. Children played in the dust, as there were no playgrounds in sight.
Dean watched the faces of people staring at their elected leaders. From the perspective of a passenger, it was not a promising sight. The expressions showed neither joy nor pride. Nor did they exhibit anger. They were people with absolutely no expectations.
The rural surroundings gave way to an urban setting. They passed through one particularly neglected no-man’s land. It was a walled-off camp over which Israel maintained jurisdiction. The only services provided were a single, overcrowded school and a health clinic. There were no Israeli or Palestinian police to patrol the dirt roads. The neighborhood stank of uncollected trash. And the haphazardly placed structures reflected a lack of urban planning.
A woman scooped up her little boy in a clean white shirt and dark pants and turned his face away from the cars. She hid him in the folds of her abaya to prevent him from seeing their leaders, from being afflicted by hope.
Dean glanced at the portfolio at Omar’s feet. The slim black folder represented their only hope. It seemed like a small token, but was a powerful symbol of the common roots of the Jewish and Palestinian people. It spoke of a time when they were one people struggling to survive on the stony hillsides of Judea, the flowering hilltops of Samaria and the stark outcroppings of the Galilee.
The faces changed as the caravan approached narrower streets and denser crowds. In the cosmopolitan capital of the West Bank, the normal beehive of activity came to a halt to let the motorcade through. A mild breeze that characterized Ramallah, the former British summer resort, brought relief from the afternoon heat and put a smile on many faces.
The sight of Palestinian flags waving in the breeze as the string of cars rolled over the cobblestone streets prompted a patriotic cheer. The entourage had entered the heartland of the Fatah movement, dedicated to a separate Palestinian state.
A balding man in a gray business suit pumped his beefy fist in the air. Boys jumped from doorstep to doorstep to keep pace with the cars. The street was lined with cheering women and girls, whose brown or green or blue eyes sparkled with admiration. It must have given Omar comfort and renewed his determination to lead his people.
The motorcade slowed as it passed through a menacing twenty-foot concrete wall covered with protest slogans and artwork. The wall prevented the free flow of Palestinians from the northern West Bank to the southern West Bank.
Amid the low-lying temporary buildings, barbed wire and watchtowers, hordes of protesters awaited them on both sides of the Qalandia checkpoint. Dean couldn’t tell who was more hostile.
On the Palestinian side, men with broad chests stood sullenly, with menacing snarls on their bearded faces.
“Hamas,” Omar said, a note of awe in his voice.
The belligerent group had swept the elections in the Palestinian territories and took military control of Gaza. They were as formidable an opponent to the Palestinian Authority as the Israelis, and more threatening to their hold on power. Fatah had kicked Hamas out of the Ramallah government, but Hamas had kicked Fatah out of Gaza. The wounds were fresh and the rage still boiled.
Hamas opposed negotiations with Israel just as strenuously as troublemakers, such as Iran, supported them. Hamas’ primary aim was to take Israel back. Dean was impressed that the Palestinian Authority had the courage to stand up to such a large and intimidating portion of the population.
But the wheels kept turning and the five black cars continued at a snail’s pace past the placards and angry roar of Arabic epithets and the torrent of eggs and rotten vegetables. They made it safely through the checkpoint and advanced across three hundred yards of wind-blown rubbish to the Israeli side.
The personal hostility was replaced by insults, invectives and loud slogans chanted in Hebrew. News reporters with camera teams moved onto the street to capture the mayhem. Israeli policemen had been deployed in large numbers to keep the crowd under control. The anger wasn’t as seething as that directed against the Palestinian entourage from their own side. It was more of an assertion of their right to the land.
While the Palestinians seemed to be settling scores, the Israelis seemed more concerned about the future. They were fighting for greater control of East Jerusalem and the West Bank, which many Jews viewed as holy land. Jerusalem was made sacred by their forefathers who had lived there, and the West Bank was promised to them by God. The Zionist dream had remained alive throughout the two-thousand-year Jewish Diaspora. They wanted a place where they were free to celebrate their culture and determine their future, despite the displacement and discrimination that that had caused.
From what Dean could gather, the principle purpose of the crowd was to stop the peace process. For them, conceding land was treason. The cars creeping into Israel were there to thwart the settlers’ dreams.
From under the keffiyeh that hung before his eyes, Dean couldn’t help but check the roadside for signs of tampering. Had someone buried a bomb in the dirt?
Who were the Israelis trying to chase away? The Jews who had lived in Palestine since time immemorial had the same blood and DNA as the Palestinians walled off to the east.
The Israel Border Police were more suspicious at the Qalandia checkpoint than at the King Hussein Bridge. They signaled the cars to stop and the passengers to roll down their tinted windows. They looked in to identify those inside.
Dean’s driver rolled down all their windows.
Reporters representing Israeli and international news organizations took the opportunity to muscle in for an interview or at least a few snapshots. That chaotic development gave the protesters courage to break through the police cordon. They jumped into the street and charged the vehicles.
“Close the window,” Dean ordered.
A radio crackled in the front seat. The bodyguard held up the receiver for all to hear. “Keep driving,” the voice said in Arabic. “They have no right to stop us.”
So the driver inched forward. Two female reporters stood in their way. The women had no escape and were forced to jump onto the car’s hood. The driver didn’t stop, nor did the driver ahead of them. As the vehicles picked up speed, the women rolled off in a rumble of bones on metal.
“I’d rather take my chances with Hamas,” Omar said with a touch of black humor.
Soon, the pandemonium was behind them. The peace talks would proceed.
They were leaving one walled city only to approach another. Whereas Ramallah was walled to keep people imprisoned, Jerusalem was walled to keep people out.
An Israeli police escort joined them. Sirens blared and lights flashed, generally drawing attention to their presence. But the fact that few people bothered to watch gave Dean hope.
They were approaching the Old City of Jerusalem.
The first three cars of the motorcade made an abrupt turn toward t
he Old City. The driver checked Dean in the rearview mirror, and Dean nodded to confirm their plan. They continued heading westward. On cue, a new police escort picked up the last two cars of the motorcade and pulled into the street in front of them.
Dean reached into the front seat and squeezed the talk button on the two-way radio. “Space out the cars,” he ordered.
He patted the driver on the shoulder and motioned for him to slow down.
Soon the car bearing Rashid and his bodyguards was half a block ahead. Police on motorcycles drove in front of the motorcade and halted all cross traffic. It was a smooth ride toward the Shrine of the Book. Israel had called the American ambassador on the carpet that week, once they learned from Saul Friedman’s comments that Americans had missing pages of the Aleppo Codex. The Palestinians had arranged the return of the pages to Israel, and Omar would be the face of reconciliation bearing the gift.
They breezed past the swank buildings of the western suburbs. Nobody bothered to stand on the street and shout, or even watch. It always amazed Dean how the other Israelis, the small, voluble portion of the population, dominated so much of the politics.
He quickly reviewed the situation. The Palestinian president’s car was on its way toward the Damascus Gate of the Old City and the Ambassador Hotel where the president would prepare for the next day’s resumption of the peace talks. And Omar’s delegation was proceeding unhindered toward the Shrine of the Book.
The gleaming white dome of the shrine poked above the trees that lined the street. The pavement was even and the Mercedes’ suspension, valued for its performance on sub-par roads, made the trip seem like a dream.
Then it happened.
Chapter 81
Carla had just stepped out of the limousine at the Ambassador Hotel when she heard the first blast.
It was a distant boom, but loud enough to stop everyone in their tracks. The president and his bodyguards looked around, bewildered.
Then a second boom jarred her. It also came from the same direction, but nearly knocked her off her feet.
As she gazed out from under the shade of the hotel, she saw thick black smoke rising to the west. It was where Dean’s part of the motorcade was headed when she last saw them.
Bodyguards began hustling the president into the safety of the hotel. Frantic for information, she went the opposite direction.
She jumped into the front seat of her car and grabbed the two-way radio.
She squeezed the talk button. “Car Five, Car Five. This is Car Two. Do you read me?”
She heard static, but no response. She recalled Dean and Omar climbing into the last car of the motorcade with confident smiles and Dean looking stalwart in his blue suit.
She tried again. “Car Five, do you read me?”
Again, only static.
She had heard her driver communicating over the radio with cars Four and Five just as he pulled up to the hotel. Now there was no response.
Who was in Car Four that was also going to the Shrine of the Book? It was the Dubai businessman. Maybe he had news about Dean.
“Car Four, come in,” she shouted into the mike.
There was no response, just empty silence.
Someone was yanking her from behind. She slapped at the hairy hands.
“Come inside, miss.”
It was the driver trying to pull her to safety.
She let out an exasperated shriek. “It’s the other cars,” she shouted. “They’ve been attacked.”
At last, she relented and let him escort her into the dark hotel.
Standing in the middle of the lobby, she remembered Dean’s words the previous morning. They had been lying in bed and gazing into each other’s eyes when he said, “If anything goes wrong, go to Gihon Spring.”
Well, something had gone terribly wrong.
But where was Gihon Spring?
She stepped over to the concierge desk. “This is important,” she whispered to the young man. “Can you tell me how to get to Gihon Spring?”
“I’m sorry, madam. The police will announce a curfew in a moment. There are no taxis and the spring is closed.”
Just perfect.
“Could you show me where it is on a map?”
He pulled out a walking map of the city and drew a zigzagging line through the Old City and beyond. “As you can see, it’s over a mile away. I suggest you wait until after the Sabbath.”
She thanked him and waited for an opportune moment to slip out of the hotel.
Once the Palestinian president and staff members had been taken by bodyguards up to their rooms, the drivers pulled the cars away from the hotel’s entrance.
She watched them go. Would they blow up, too?
The way was clear to discreetly exit the hotel. Map in hand, she crossed the driveway and eased around a wall. She darted across the road and slid between parked cars. Moments later, she was free of the hotel and heading toward the spring.
With the first turn, she lost sight of the rising column of smoke. She was entering a maze of tiny streets.
She struggled to follow the map, but wasn’t sure of her directions. Few street names were posted. Many didn’t even appear on the map. And some ended in a flight of stairs.
She wondered who might have planted the bombs. The FBI man at Langley had warned her that there was a second killer on the loose.
Could anybody survive such violent explosions?
She choked back a sob and pressed on.
The map was difficult to read through tears. The streets were empty as people stayed sealed in their homes. The few remaining outside looked anxious and didn’t pause to answer her questions.
Was Jerusalem always so jittery?
She walked in and out of shadows. Either the sun beat down hot on her head, or the shade had a biting chill.
She thought back to the previous morning in Amman, which had begun so wonderfully in bed with Dean. What had been going through his mind? Did he expect the car bombs, or was he merely preparing for the worst?
It gave her some comfort that he planned ahead so thoroughly, but did he know he might be the target of an attack?
Who could she expect to meet at Gihon Spring?
She avoided a carpet that hung over the alley. The neighborhood smelled rank and her footsteps echoed hollowly. One of the world’s oldest cities seemed abandoned.
The worn stones in the street and smooth facades had a luminescent yellow-pink quality. She could see how people adored the Old City, but the sameness turned the place into a labyrinth of mutually indistinguishable streets.
She could hear the sandals of figures from the past pounding down the golden flagstones. Would her halting and awkward footsteps be similarly imprinted on the city’s history?
It took an hour of wrong turns down countless streets past closed stores before she found a landmark she recognized on the map.
She looked up from the glossy photo that glared in the sunlight and saw a city gate. Gihon Spring was beyond the Old City wall.
She checked if anybody was watching, then hurried through the gate into an even older part of town. The map called it the City of David. In a hodgepodge of poorly constructed buildings and piles of ruins that must have dated to before Jerusalem was built, she came to the cool shade of a hillside. There sat a stone building under a sign that read “Gihon Spring.”
Instead of a front door, the building had a tall gate made of iron bars. She shook the handle. It was locked.
She walked over to the ticket booth. It was closed. As the concierge had pointed out, it was the Sabbath.
She looked around. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful spot, or distinctive in any way. Houses squatted nearby among half-excavated towers along the eastern ridge of what might have been an old wall.
A plaque posted at the ticket booth described what it called Hezekiah’s Tunnel. The tunnel was dug in the Eighth Century bc. That sounded ancient, even by Jerusalem standards. Certainly the thing would have crumbled by now.
/> According to the plaque, it was dug quickly by King Hezekiah’s people to supply water to the City of David before a siege by Assyrian forces. The engineers started from both ends at once and got turned around under the city until they miraculously met in the middle.
Why had Dean insisted that she come there? The place felt like a tomb. Only worse, it was an ugly, forgotten place, the last place in the world she wanted to be.
Then she heard a man sobbing uncontrollably. It seemed to emanate from the depths of the Earth, as if the city itself were grieving.
However, the sound was coming from behind the stone building. She jumped into the shadows of the building and pressed her back to the wall. Was she in danger?
The haunted screams grew louder.
Why was a man crying? She peered through the bars.
As the sound grew closer, the hysterical pitch turned into a mere whimper.
She could see steps leading down into darkness. Water trickled deep in the hole. Why would someone ever go down there?
Eventually, the crying stopped altogether. A bird twittered from the stone tower above the spring. A siren, with a strange, amplified effect, came from far away. She felt sandwiched between nature and the big city, between the past and the present.
Then she heard footsteps approaching from within.
She heard sloshing and cursing. Eventually a large man appeared at the top of the steps, his business suit soaked through and through. He wiped his eyes. The next man was soaked as well. He had a ghostly expression as if he had just crossed the River Styx.
Then a tall man appeared in a robe. Finally, looking disheveled and also in a robe, a smaller figure climbed out of the dark.
Slowly he pulled off his checkered keffiyeh and revealed a mop of blond hair.
“Dean!” she gasped through the bars.
The others stood dripping and dazed, but Dean reached for a knob and unlocked the gate.
“Step inside,” he said.
She hesitated, but opted for the safety of the dark building.
“Wasn’t your car blown up?” she said, and appraised him at arm’s length.