Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yes,” Hana said. “That’s him.”

  “Three months ago,” Fabia said, reading the caption.

  “Wow,” Farah said. “He’s handsome.”

  “Gorgeous is more appropriate,” Fabia said.

  “And he’s a perfect gentleman,” Hana said. “Very polite and respectful.”

  Fabia ran her fingers through her long black hair. “Talk to Mikael, but I don’t think you should say anything to your father or mother. Not yet.”

  “How will I know you won’t talk to them after I’m gone?” Hana replied. “We’re all terrible at keeping secrets.”

  “We’ll share with each other,” Farah said. “That will satisfy us.”

  “But only if you promise to keep giving us regular updates,” Fabia said. “That will buy our silence.”

  “Deal,” Hana answered.

  Now that Fabia and Farah knew about Daud, Hana was able to easily navigate the rest of the day. Her nieces and nephews were fascinated with Leon, and repeatedly asked Hana to pull up the video feed for the doggie day care website. Images of the puppy playing with his friends became a focal point of the trip for the younger generation. Hana’s mother demanded and gave multiple hugs, and her father seemed satisfied with updates about Hana’s activities at the law firm.

  Late in the afternoon, Hana was sitting on a long veranda that stretched the length of the house when a car pulled up and an old, wizened man got out of the passenger seat. It was Anwar.

  “Did he know I was here?” Hana asked her mother.

  “No.”

  “How’s his health?”

  “He’s rallied recently.”

  Stooped over from the weight of ninety-eight summers and winters lived within five miles of where he was born, the old man approached the veranda. All the adults stood in respect. The children grew silent and stared for a few moments before running off to continue playing. Leaning on a walking stick, Anwar carefully surveyed the assembled adults before his eyes stopped on Hana. She felt his gaze and sharply inhaled a breath she didn’t immediately let out.

  Anwar pointed at her with a slightly crooked finger. “Hana,” he said. “I’ve come to see you. Will you sit with me?”

  Two chairs were hurriedly provided. Hana and Farah looked at each other. Farah’s eyes were as big as saucers. Hana sat down, and the male cousin who’d driven Anwar to Reineh from Nazareth helped the old man to his chair. Most of the other adults hovered around close by. Hana’s mother offered to get Anwar a glass of lemonade, but he declined with a wave of his hand.

  “Leave us alone,” he said.

  Within seconds only Hana and Anwar remained on the open veranda. Hana glanced over her shoulder. She suspected family members would try to eavesdrop from nearby windows cracked open to let in the cooler air that arrived as the sun set.

  “Alone, I said!” Anwar repeated in a louder voice.

  Hana heard footsteps moving away from the closest window. Anwar looked at her thoughtfully. “Even though I’m an old man and can’t see or hear as I once could, I still hear the voice that matters the most.”

  Hana knew what he meant.

  “Do you remember when I told you about Samuel when you were a little girl?” Anwar asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Does the Lord awaken you in the night to listen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Anwar closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “There’s more. Sometimes when a promise is on the way, the Lord sends a Hana to welcome it.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  “Anna in the New Testament; Hannah in the Old Testament,” Hana said.

  “That’s right,” Anwar said, nodding with approval. “And you bring together their faith.”

  Hana waited for a fuller explanation. Instead, Anwar closed his eyes. A minute passed. Watching the old man’s steady breathing, Hana suspected he was asleep. She reached out to gently touch his arm but pulled back before doing so. Suddenly, he snorted and appeared to be awake. He looked at Hana for a moment before recognition came into his eyes.

  “Do you believe?” he asked.

  “Yes, Uncle,” she answered.

  “That’s true. You do. But all faith is tested. I’ve prayed that you’ll pass the test.”

  “What kind of test?”

  Anwar pointed up. “He’s the teacher; he selects the test.”

  Hana felt the truth of what she was hearing, but also frustration at the ambiguity of the message.

  “Come closer,” Anwar said.

  Hana moved her chair until it almost touched the one in which the old man sat.

  “That’s good,” he said. Anwar put his hand on Hana’s head. She bowed lower so his hand rested easily on her hair. Hana felt a slight tingling that ran along her shoulders and then lifted.

  “There it is,” Anwar said. “Amen and amen.” He raised his hand and returned it to his lap.

  “What have you done?” Hana asked.

  “Given you what I can. Meditate on the promises of the Almighty.”

  “I already do that.”

  “Good. Do it more. Call for the children, please.”

  Hana left the veranda, and after relaying the old man’s request, she went upstairs to a room where she could be alone. She didn’t come down until after the old man had departed for Nazareth.

  When asked what he’d told her on the veranda, Hana gave a simple response: “He blessed me.”

  Alone in the upper room, she’d realized she needed to store Anwar’s words in her heart and not share them with others, even her loved ones. After supper, Hana read a story and sang a song to Khadijah. Once all the younger nieces and nephews were in bed, Hana gave her mother a final hug and returned to Jerusalem.

  Jakob waited for Emily to pick him up and take him home before she had to leave for class. He’d scribbled “Tuition” on the outside of the envelope containing the check and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The driver pulled up to the curb. It was hot, and she had the air conditioner at full blast.

  “Busy day?” Jakob asked as he closed the passenger door and fastened his seat belt.

  “Not busy enough,” Emily replied, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ve had two rides stand me up. The penalty payments for no-shows don’t help much.”

  Emily reached over and turned up the volume. Jakob didn’t recognize the music. “Who is that?” he asked.

  “Saed Haddad, a modern composer from Jordan who lives in Germany,” she said in a clipped voice. “We’ve been studying him at school.”

  Sensing that she didn’t want to talk, Jakob didn’t try to start a conversation. When they reached his apartment, he laid the envelope on the seat as he got out of the car. Emily peeled away from the curb. He’d barely closed his apartment door when she called him.

  “What’s up with the check?” she demanded. “If you wanted to freak me out, it worked.”

  “You mentioned a tuition payment coming up tomorrow, and I wanted to help. I wasn’t trying to freak you out.”

  Emily didn’t respond for several moments. Jakob didn’t know what to expect.

  “Thanks,” she said in a much softer tone of voice. “That was very generous. Having someone be nice to me just because they want to has been rare in my life.”

  Jakob wanted to ask why, but whether to explain the comment was up to Emily.

  “What time should I pick you up in the morning?” she asked.

  “I have an appointment with my neurologist at nine, and a deposition in midtown at eleven that should take a couple of hours.”

  “Where is the doctor’s office?”

  Jakob gave her the address.

  “I’ll pick you up at 8:22.”

  “Great.”

  Inside his apartment, Jakob took off his tie and draped it over a chair. There was a knock on his door. Thinking maybe Emily had forgotten to tell him something, he quickly neatened up the living area before opening the door. Butch Watson stood on
the landing.

  “Is something wrong?” Jakob asked.

  “I’d say so. Is it true what I heard about your car burning up?”

  “Every bit of it.”

  Butch drank a beer while Jakob gave his friend a greatly edited version of events that excluded any mention of an incendiary device. Butch carried enough information about the physical attack on Jakob the night the twins were born. He didn’t need another layer of worry.

  “You’ve had the worst string of setbacks,” Butch said, shaking his head. “When that happens to me, there’s always something good around the corner.”

  “I’ll take it,” Jakob said.

  Butch started in with anecdotes about the twins. A half hour later, he finally got up to leave.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Butch said, pausing at the door. “If you ever need a ride home, I’ll do it if there’s any way I can swing it.”

  “Thanks,” Jakob replied. “But I’ve hired a regular Uber driver who’s on call.”

  “Is that the cute blonde with the hot yellow car? That car is sweet.”

  “Yes, I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

  “Oh yeah. Maddie has you under surveillance. Most of the guys in the building have checked out the pictures she took of you and the driver.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Hana relaxed on the bed and thought about the previous day in Reineh. Her phone vibrated, and an unfamiliar number in the States appeared. She hesitated before accepting the call.

  “Hana Abboud?” a female voice asked.

  “Speaking,” she said.

  “This is Sylvia Armstrong with the US Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of New York. Leon Lowenstein gave me your cell phone number.”

  Hana sat up on the bed and grabbed a notepad and pen from the nightstand. “Yes,” she said. “He told me you called about the Gloria Neumann murder.”

  “Right, and he says you’re in Israel conducting an investigation.”

  “For a few days. It’s a preliminary trip. Our goal is to find out as much as we can about the man who attacked and killed Mrs. Neumann and anyone who helped or supported him. The first step is to hire a private investigator.”

  As she talked, Hana racked her brain for the best way to answer any questions the US attorney asked and to counter with her own.

  “US law enforcement personnel oversee the investigative phase under our supervision and then we prosecute. I might go to Israel if the Israeli authorities make an arrest, and I would negotiate extradition of a defendant to the US for prosecution. Have you located a private detective?”

  “How much can you tell me about your investigation?” Hana asked, ignoring Armstrong’s question.

  “Not much because I can’t jeopardize our ability to obtain an indictment and prosecute a defendant.”

  “Is there information you can reveal that won’t jeopardize your case?”

  “Maybe, but that discussion would need to be on a quid pro quo basis. Right now, it doesn’t sound like you have anything to contribute.”

  “There may be a link between Gloria Neumann’s murder and threats against the lawyer who brought the case to our firm.”

  “Jakob Brodsky?”

  “Yes.”

  “I tried to call him a few minutes ago. What kind of threats, and why do you believe they’re connected?”

  “Nothing is confirmed,” Hana replied. “But there’s circumstantial evidence.”

  She summarized the assault that left Jakob with a concussion and the destruction of his car by an explosive device. Armstrong listened without interruption.

  “The Atlanta Police Department contacted Homeland Security, and one of the men who may have attacked Mr. Brodsky recently fled the country,” Hana concluded.

  “There could be a connection, but it doesn’t sound solid yet. What’s the status of your search for an Israeli investigator? We found out about your law firm’s interest in the Neumann murder from a man I interviewed to possibly help us.”

  “Daud Hasan?” Hana asked, her heart sinking at the thought he’d deceived her.

  “No, an Arab Israeli named Sahir Benali.”

  “Right,” Hana said with relief.

  “I’m not going to contact Hasan independently, but I need to make sure you’ve not hired a mole who’s working for the bad guys before we exchange any intel.”

  “A friend and colleague who worked with me in security at Ben Gurion Airport recommended Daud Hasan. He’s also an Arab Israeli and served in the IDF. His qualifications are on his website.”

  “Got it. I assume he has the basic report of the attack prepared by the Israeli border patrol and the local police. It’s twelve pages in Hebrew and dated forty-one days after the murder. It gives the chronology of events.”

  Hana quickly checked what Daud had given her. Sure enough, it was twelve pages but without the date.

  “I have twelve pages but no date,” she said.

  Armstrong read the introductory paragraph in English. Hana followed along and did her own internal translation.

  “Does that sound right?” Armstrong asked.

  “Yes, but my copy has certain names redacted.”

  “I have a clean one, which I’ll send you. What’s your secure email address?”

  Hana assumed her work email met the definition of secure. The law firm had a sophisticated firewall. She gave the information to Armstrong, who reciprocated. The call ended without Hana’s having taken a single note. But from the initial call, Armstrong seemed like a hardworking ally, not a hindrance.

  Hana spent the day working on her investigative to-do list. She visited the Jerusalem police station closest to Hurva Square to see if she could figure out the origin of the report she’d received from Daud. When Hana explained what she was doing, a helpful female clerk located several photographs of the crime scene. All of them were stored digitally, but several had been printed onto photo paper.

  “You can review them here,” the woman said in Hebrew. “But I can’t release them without a court order or authorization from one of my superiors.”

  “I understand.”

  Hana stepped away from the counter and sat down in a plastic chair in the corner of the room. She didn’t want to open the folder, but she knew she had to. The color pictures of Gloria taken as she was being prepared to leave in an ambulance were worse than she’d imagined. In some ways, the similarity in appearance between Gloria and Sadie made the photos of the mother more heartrending to see. Also included were graphic photos of Abdul’s body. In death, the young man looked harmless, yet minutes before he’d been viciously stabbing a mother and child with a large knife. Hana held it together emotionally until she reached the last three photographs and saw Sadie.

  Tears streamed down Hana’s cheeks at the sight of the jagged cut on the little girl’s face. Unlike her mother, whose eyes were closed, Sadie’s eyes were open and filled with uncontrolled terror. Hana wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and tried to stop crying. More tears overwhelmed the flimsy dam and flowed down her face. Closing the folder, she knew the images would never leave her. Through blurred vision she saw the female clerk watching her. Hana placed the folder on the counter. The woman held out a handful of tissues.

  “I’ve seen these,” the clerk said. “I have a daughter about the same age as the little girl. I hope you find the people behind this and make them pay.”

  “We will.”

  Thankfully, the other items Hana checked off her list were less emotional. She obtained contact information for the border patrol unit that responded to the attack, as well as the identification and current address for the company that had placed the surveillance camera in Hurva Square.

  She had time to return to the hotel and rest for a few minutes before getting ready for an early dinner with Daud. Putting on a simple skirt, blouse, and sandals, Hana was sitting in a chair in the lobby when Daud entered and greeted her in Arabic.

  “You look nice,” he said with a smile.
“Let’s go. I’m parked in a spot out front where I’ll be towed if I don’t move my vehicle.”

  In the daylight, Hana could see that Daud’s Land Rover had a few dents and dings, but it was clean on the inside.

  “Chinese or Ethiopian food?” he asked once they had snapped their seat belts.

  Following the immigration to Israel of thousands of Ethiopian Jews in the 1980s and 1990s, restaurants featuring their cuisine had sprung up all over Israel. However, Hana loved Chinese food, and Israel had a lot of great Chinese restaurants. It was easy to keep a kosher Chinese kitchen because virtually no dairy products were used in South Asian cooking.

  “Chinese,” she said.

  “Good choice.”

  Daud left the predominantly Jewish neighborhoods of West Jerusalem and made his way into Arab East Jerusalem. He turned down several residential streets and stopped in front of a two-story building with a simple neon sign featuring two Chinese pictographs.

  “What does it say?” Hana asked, pointing at the sign.

  “My best guess is ‘Chinese Food Here,’” Daud answered.

  Hana laughed. They left the bright sunlight and entered a tiny dark room with only five or six tables, all empty. An older Chinese woman greeted them in Arabic.

  “Marhaban, Daud!”

  “Ahlan wa sahlan, Mrs. Wong,” Daud replied.

  “Who is your honored guest?” the Chinese woman asked.

  “Hana Abboud, from Reineh but currently living in the United States.”

  The woman eyed Hana closely and then nodded. “Sit wherever you like,” she said with a broad gesture.

  “Where are the other customers?” Hana asked Daud in a soft voice.

  “They’ll arrive after we leave. I reserved the whole restaurant for our meal.”

  “What?” Hana asked in surprise.

  “So we can talk. It didn’t cost much. The dinner crowd won’t start trickling in for over an hour. But it’s a good thing you chose Chinese.”

  The menu was in Arabic and featured multiple noodle-based dishes. A young Chinese waiter brought tea, and Hana started with a cold noodle salad.