by Dan Sofer
A lump of embarrassment formed in her throat, and she gave the chef an apologetic smile.
Her nephews were in the games room, judging from the sound of ping-pong balls. Her father lay across the living room couch, his stomach rising and falling through his wife beater undershirt while he stared at infomercials on the big screen.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning.” He didn’t look up.
She picked up the dirty plate he had left on the polished side table.
Greta, the housekeeper who reminded her of a German governess from old movies, had asked her to be extra careful not to scratch the antique furniture, and Galit lived in continual fear of her stern looks.
“Dad, what did we say about cleaning up?”
“Thanks, dear.” He popped a cigar in his mouth and reached for a lighter.
Something snapped inside her. Galit snatched the cigar from his mouth.
“Hey, what was that about?”
“It’s time you got dressed, don’t you think?”
“What?” He stared at her as though she had spoken Chinese.
“You know—get a job, find a place to stay. You’re eating us out of house and home!”
“I think the State of Israel can afford it.”
“No, we can’t!” she said, louder than she had intended.
Fear and frustration surged through her, as she sobbed. Her father stared at her, his eyes wide and confused.
“What’s going on?” Galit’s mother had arrived in a bathrobe, curlers in her hair. She threw an accusatory glance at her husband. “What did you say?”
“Nothing!”
She hugged Galit and walked her to the bathroom.
“He hates me!”
“Your father?”
“No. Moshe. We never talk.”
“Well, dear, he’s been pretty busy. He is the Prime Minister, after all.”
“It’s not just that.” Galit weighed telling her mother the truth of her complex history with Moshe and Avi, then thought better of it. “It’s complicated,” she said.
“Hush now. Every relationship has its ups and downs. How often do you think I’ve wanted to throw your father out onto the street, hey? Sometimes, I wish I had.” She searched Galit’s eyes for a sign of comfort.
How could Galit make her understand? She alone was to blame. Moshe had done nothing wrong.
She said, “It’s like there’s a wall between us, and I’ll never break through.”
Her mother thought awhile. “Be patient, dear. In time, all walls crumble, and he’ll bounce back when he’s ready. Just make sure you’re there for him when he does.”
Chapter 35
“I demand to see the Commissioner!” Moshe said. He was losing his patience and fast.
Yesterday evening, the police officers had dragged him to the Talpiot Police Station for questioning regarding undisclosed charges. He’d been very polite and cooperative. This was all a big misunderstanding. They’d sort it out. The new Police Commissioner was his partner in fighting organized crime. And his efforts seemed to be working—they had released him on condition that he return to the station first thing in the morning.
This morning, however, they had kept him waiting a full hour, along with his lawyer and security detail, in a small interview room. Now he wanted answers too.
The young officer at the interrogation table shook in his boots. “The Commissioner is unavailable at present.”
The kid was just doing his job, but enough was enough. “Then he’d better become available. I have a country to run. I can’t wait here all morning.”
“I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. Prime Minister. I’m sure—” But he didn’t finish. A door clicked open behind Moshe, and the officer sighed with relief. “Oh, thank God.”
Commissioner Golan swaggered into the room. “Mr. Prime Minister. Apologies for the delay.” He dismissed the officer, sat down, and dropped a thick manila folder onto the interview table.
He leaned back, stretched his shoulders, clicked his neck, and opened the folder. Gone was the eager and easy manner of their first meeting, and no flicker of recognition registered in his dark eyes. “We want to question you about some criminal charges that have come to the attention of the Attorney General.”
Criminal charges! Moshe had hardly had enough time in office to do anything illegal.
“What are the charges?”
“We’ll get to those shortly.” He glanced down at a list on the top page. “Do you have your attorney present?”
“Yes.”
“Do you realize that anything you say can and will be used against you in court?”
“Yes. Mr. Commissioner, let’s skip the formalities and cut to the chase. We’ve both got a lot to do.” He did not say “like fighting organized crime,” but he hoped his eyes conveyed the message. “What are the charges?”
“Corruption.”
Moshe wanted to roll his eyes. Like his foot soldiers, the Commissioner was stretching out the interview far longer than necessary. “Can you be more specific?”
Commissioner Golan inhaled and glanced at the second sheet. “Child labor.”
“What?!” That was preposterous.
“Says here that, for the past two years, you have employed a minor to do menial labor in your home on Shimshon Street.”
“That’s news to me. Who was the alleged worker?”
“A Miss Carmel Schneider.”
It took a few seconds for Moshe to make the connection. “The babysitter? Since when is hiring a babysitter considered corruption?”
“The babysitter,” he repeated. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And that was all she did?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Karlin will corroborate that version of the story?”
“Yes. There is no story here, so there’s not much to corroborate.”
“Good.”
“Can I go now?”
“There’s more.” He leafed through the pages of the file. “Is it true that your in-laws have moved into the Prime Minister’s Residence?”
Moshe shifted on the hard seat. How on earth did he know that already?
“They’re visiting; they haven’t moved in.”
“So, they’re paying the government for their food and lodging?”
“Do you have in-laws, Commissioner?”
“Please answer the question.”
“No, of course not. They’re our guests.”
“I see. It seems that the residence received a delivery of cigars. Very expensive cigars. Were these for diplomatic consumption or for your guests?”
Oh, crap. Moshe pictured Miki lighting up in the library. He had assumed that his father-in-law had owned the cigars, but now it seemed that Miki had turned his stay into an all-inclusive vacation. “I’ll have to look into that,” he said. “I don’t keep track of every item ordered at the residence.”
Commissioner Golan grunted, stared at the papers, but said nothing.
“C’mon, Commissioner. What’s going on here? We’re both just trying to do our jobs. Last week I increased your budget for organized crime—”
Golan looked up, and Moshe regretted his words instantly. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“No. Of course, not. I’m just reminding you that we’re on the same side. Now, are we done?”
Golan glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ll be done in five minutes.”
Five minutes? Then it hit him. Isaac Gurion was behind the charges, and the Opposition Leader knew Moshe’s every move. Sivan had suspected a leak; Moshe had discovered an open fire hose.
Moshe would deal with Gurion later. First, he had to end this interrogation—this diversion—and get back to governing. Golan was in Gurion’s pocket. Corruption existed, all right, and its roots ran deeper than Moshe had thought. If Gurion could buy the Commissioner, others could too. And Moshe had entrusted him with the war on organized crime!
“That’s enough.”
Moshe straightened his suit jacket and got to his feet. “This meeting is over. Tell your men to open the door and let us go.”
Golan held his gaze. The command had wounded his pride. “Or else what?”
Indignation boiled within Moshe. A dozen juicy threats came to mind, but Golan would turn them all against Moshe as an attempt to obstruct justice.
But Moshe didn’t need to make threats. The door shuddered in its frame. The table shifted on its legs, inching toward the wide-eyed Commissioner as though it had come alive. And then the ground shook beneath their feet.
Chapter 36
“Are you sure this is the right place?” his friend asked.
Ahmed nodded and pressed onward, entering Clal Center on Jaffa Street. Dara peered at the tired floor tiles and blackened windows of the decaying shopping mall with doubt. Ahmed hid his own hesitation.
An arrow pointed the way to the Dry Bones Society. The last time he had set foot in the Society, he had come under attack. The balding man had recognized him from bus number eighteen and pounced on him with the fury of a much younger man. Murderer! Samira had looked on, her eyes clouding over with disbelief, then disappointment, and Ahmed, unable to lie to her, had fled.
“I hope this girl is worth it,” Dara said.
“She is.”
Hasan had warned them not to leave the mansion in Bethlehem, their new home. For his own protection. As word spread, many would seek out the Redeemer, and Satan’s followers might wish him harm.
“Better than the girls last night?” Dara chuckled. “That’s hard to imagine.”
Ahmed’s shaved cheeks warmed again at the memory. He had brought his new friend along to increase his status in her eyes—a witness to support his claims—but perhaps that had been a mistake.
“She’s different,” was all he said.
Would she recognize him today? Hasan had filled his closet with white satin robes and shiny suits. New clothes for a new man. No longer did they call him Ahmed, or even Walid, only Mahdi. Believers bowed their heads at the sight of him; they muttered praise and whispered prayers. Samira should be proud. She should welcome him with joy. Once again, he would bask in the warmth of her smile.
The quiet unnerved him. The bustle from the Absorption Center on the fourth floor had always echoed down the central pier of the Center. Had the Dry Bones Society moved? The offices of the Call Center would hold the answer. Wherever she was, he would find her.
Avoiding the rickety elevator, he led Dara to the stairs. The third-floor corridor brought a fresh wave of memories: Savta Sarah calling to him, leading him to his first warm meal in his second life; Samira stepping up to their table, that demure smile on her lips. “She’ll take care of you,” the old lady had said. Longing surged in his chest, an intense, painful yearning for that lost moment. The time had come to reclaim what was his.
He marched down the corridor, passing the Absorption Center, to the main offices and the doors with the words “The Dry Bones Society” emblazoned on the frosted window. Ahmed inhaled, puffed out his chest, and knocked twice.
At that moment, his courage fled. What if the old man answered? Surely others would recognize him. Would they cry murder and pounce on him again to finish what the old man had started? Dara’s presence would make them think twice. He had been wise to bring his friend, but was the entire visit a mistake?
As he made to retrace his steps, the handle turned, and a young woman with olive skin and a green hijab stood in the doorway. The sight of her sent a bolt of lightning through his heart. Samira radiated calm and welcome, and his concerns evaporated. He had come home.
“Ahmed?” The welcoming smile faded. She looked over her shoulder, then down the corridor. “What are you doing here?”
She did not curse him or chase him away, although concern wrinkled her beautiful features.
“Can we talk?”
She glanced at the watch on her wrist. “I have to go in five minutes.”
“Five minutes is fine!” His soul soared. He’d trade a year in Boris’s purgatory for five minutes in her presence!
She relented. Inside, she led them past the cubicles and buzz of the Call Center to the manager’s corner office with the large windows. At the door, Ahmed turned to Dara. “Give us a moment?”
“Sure.”
He closed the door behind him. Samira leaned against the desk. Something had changed in her. She stood taller and held his gaze longer.
“Is this your office now?” The office had belonged to the founder, Moshe Karlin.
Samira smiled. “In part. Irina and I run the Society, now that Moshe and Rabbi Yosef are in government.”
Government. There had been an election the day Ahmed had failed to blow up. The day Ahmed had become Walid. Restart had launched Moshe and the Rabbi into Knesset.
“We’ve been so busy,” Samira continued. “You cannot imagine. Waves of new arrivals. New Absorption Centers in other cities, mostly in the south. I was about to head over there when you arrived.”
Her excitement infected him. “Do you still lead the welcoming sessions?”
She laughed. “There’s no time for that anymore, and too many sessions. Teams of volunteers and society members handle that.”
“I pity the new arrivals,” he said. “You were so good at that.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced at her feet, her mouth forming the demure smile he had missed so much. “I still keep an eye on their training,” she said, “to make sure they’re doing a good job.”
They smiled at each other, the recent past a long-forgotten nightmare. Five minutes was not enough.
Her eyes took in his clothes, and she got serious again. “Why are you here, Ahmed?”
The question made his eyes moisten. He didn’t belong here with her. “To see you,” he said. “I too have changed. You’ll hear about me soon. They call me Mahdi. The Guided One,” he added when she shook her head. “The Redeemer. I’ll be addressing a gathering at Al-Quds University tomorrow. The word is spreading. Samira, this is my true destiny!”
Samira didn’t lower her head. She did not mutter praise or whisper a prayer. “You’re a Redeemer?”
The skeptical note in her voice spiked resentment in his chest and tried his patience. Other girls, far more desirable in their makeup and high heels, had felt honored to keep him company, to satisfy his every desire, but this outcast girl doubted him?
“The Redeemer,” he said, keeping his temper in check. “This is the reason I returned. The Shepherd has decreed that I am the One.”
“The Shepherd?”
“The Great Imam.”
“You met him?”
“No, but he has spoken.”
She lowered her eyes again. Had she finally understood?
“Ahmed,” she said, her voice soft and calm, pleading. “Do not make the same mistake twice.”
The same mistake? “There is no mistake—”
“Please, Ahmed. Listen to me. The shepherd tends the flock, and the sheep believe he is their friend. But the shepherd is not truly their friend. They realize this when they enter the slaughterhouse, but by then, it is too late.”
Ahmed’s anger flared again. Why couldn’t she be happy for him? Why did she have to invent flaws in his newfound fame and fortune?
He opened his mouth to chide her, to refute her words, and humble her, but he didn’t get the chance, for at that moment the windows shuddered in their frames and the building shook.
Chapter 37
Clutching a small handbag, Irina stepped into the airy antechamber of the Prime Minister’s Office on Kaplan Street in Jerusalem’s Givat Ram neighborhood. She stepped up to the guard desk and flashed her visitor’s pass. Although Moshe had granted her free access to the buildings of the government precinct, today she felt like an infiltrator and a traitor.
You’re not doing anything wrong.
Alex had come clean. He had confessed his criminal past, the past he was leaving behind to start a new life with her.
And she believed him. One last task stood between them and that new life, a job as simple as it was seemingly harmless. If all went according to plan, she’d settle the matter today.
The heels of her pumps clacked over the stone tiles as she made for a corridor. Moshe had given Irina and other members of the Dry Bones Society management a tour of the Knesset and Prime Minister’s buildings during his first week in office. Although she often thought of Moshe and they discussed Society matters on the phone, she hadn’t seen him in over two weeks.
Moshe’s secretary munched a sandwich at her desk outside the Prime Minister’s office.
“Morning, Ettie.”
Ettie looked up from her newspaper and swallowed her mouthful.
“Irina, welcome back.”
With graying hair and half-moon spectacles on the edge of her nose, Ettie would not give Moshe’s wife any cause for jealousy, no doubt one of the reasons that Moshe had selected her from the list of State secretaries.
“Is the Prime Minister in?”
Confusion passed over the secretary’s face for a moment—or was that concern? “Not yet.”
“Oh.” Moshe’s absence would compromise her plan. She should have made an appointment, but she didn’t want to leave a trail.
Knock it off, Irina. You’re not doing anything wrong. No matter how often she repeated her mantra, the very fact that she was acting on the orders of the criminal underworld made her feel dirty.
“When will he get back?”
That concerned look again. “I can’t say. Soon, I hope.”
“I see.” Was something the matter? Prime ministers were busy people. He was probably stuck in meetings or attending to any number of crises in the Jewish State. All in a day’s work.
She settled on the waiting bench and straightened her skirt.
Alex had worked for the underworld. The thought still made her shudder. The same organization as Boris, although Alex hadn’t had any direct dealings with the slave driver. Thank goodness for that.
Moshe had sacrificed all he had to extract her from Boris’s slave trade. By comparison, Alex’s path to freedom sounded too easy. Was there a catch hidden somewhere, a consequence that she hadn’t anticipated?