Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  “When I was in high school, we had debate competitions in Jerusalem with girls from the Friends School,” Hana said.

  “Did you win?” Daud asked. “And don’t be humble.”

  “I won and lost. They had a lot of smart students.”

  Daud turned onto a street leading directly to the center of the city. They entered an area where many church buildings built in the 1800s still remained.

  “We’re almost there,” Daud said as he turned onto a narrow street lined with different shops and parked alongside the curb. “It’s better to walk from here.”

  Daud reached into the back seat and handed Hana a plain canvas bag. “This is your gear,” he said.

  “It’s not my fashion style,” Hana said, holding up the bag.

  Daud chuckled. “It is today.”

  Hana checked to see what it contained. When she got to the bottom her eyes widened, and she slowly lifted out a Jericho handgun.

  “Did you mean for me to have this?” she asked. “I do know how to use it.”

  “No.” Daud snatched it from her and put it in the glove box. “And that’s the kind of mistake I rarely make. We’ll leave it here. If I thought we’d be in danger, I wouldn’t have brought you.”

  They walked side by side down the narrow sidewalk. Because of its mixed religious background, Ramallah was more liberal than most other towns and cities in the West Bank. Some women wore Western clothes; a few were concealed behind traditional Islamic burkas. A gold-and-red scarf covered Hana’s head. Turning a corner, Hana and Daud reached the tobacco shop.

  “Come inside, but stay by the door,” Daud said as they entered.

  The dimly lit shop was filled with the pungent fragrance of flavored tobacco. The strongest as well as the most popular flavoring was mint. Hana also picked up the subtle aroma of apples. Even though it was early in the morning, there were five or six hookahs in active use. The smoky atmosphere wasn’t a place Hana would want to stay for hours, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. She stayed in the shadows by the door but knew her appearance attracted immediate attention. Daud talked to a man who worked at the shop. After a couple of minutes, he returned to her side.

  “Nabil isn’t here,” the investigator said with frustration in his voice. “I confirmed the appointment with him after I left your hotel, but the man who runs the shop hasn’t seen or heard from him since they closed last night. He called Nabil and woke him up. He claims he’ll be here soon.”

  “What do we do?” Hana asked.

  “Wait someplace else and hope he shows up. We can’t stay in here.”

  They returned to Daud’s vehicle. As soon as they were behind the tinted windows, Hana sniffed the edge of the scarf. Even within a short time, the fabric had absorbed the aroma of smoky mint.

  “This might be for the best,” Daud said. “If I see Nabil on the street, I’ll ask him to join us in here. That way, there’s less chance anyone will notice he’s talking to me.”

  “Where did you meet with him before?”

  “In the shop. I bought one of his most expensive hookahs. The purchase price will turn up on the expense account I submit to the law firm.”

  “And I’ll take it back on the plane with me.”

  “Cradled in your lap,” Daud said, smiling. “Your boss can put it in his office.”

  The side street had a lot of foot traffic. Hana watched the people passing by. “Where are they going?” she asked. “Not to the tobacco shop. It’s tiny.”

  “This is a shortcut to the hisbeh produce market.”

  Daud received a phone call. Hana heard him say the name Mahmoud before exiting the vehicle to carry on the conversation privately. Daud paced back and forth in front of the Land Rover while he talked. Now that she knew the street led to the hisbeh, Hana noticed customers returning with baskets of fruit and vegetables. Daud slipped his phone into the front pocket of his shirt and walked rapidly down the street and out of sight. Hana checked to make sure the doors of the vehicle were locked.

  Several minutes passed before Daud returned, accompanied by a tall man in his late fifties or early sixties. The two men approached the Land Rover and Hana heard the door locks click open. Daud opened the passenger door.

  “Jemila,” he said. “Please allow Mr. Abbas to sit in the front seat.”

  Hana slipped out of the car and into the rear seat. Nabil didn’t seem to pay any attention to her. The two men sat in front.

  “How do you like your hubbly-bubbly?” Nabil asked, using the local slang term for a hookah.

  “It’s the only one I use,” Daud replied. “The rest of them are junk. Would you buy my old ones from me? I’ll sell them cheap.”

  “They will have to be cheap.”

  “I’ll bring them next time,” Daud replied, checking his watch. “I know you’re busy. Did you find out anything that will help me recover my money from the Zadan clan? I know Tawfik is young, but he should not have cheated my client.”

  “He’s like his father, grandfather, and all who have gone before him,” Nabil replied. “Tawfik’s father swindled my brother in a wholesale orange business, leaving him with all the debt. They are all liars, cheats, and fools who get themselves killed by the Jews. No mourners from our family went to their tent.”

  “Where does Tawfik get his money? You said he drives a big car and always has cash in his pocket.”

  “And never the same car,” Nabil replied. “Maybe he leases them. I don’t know. But the money is real. The problem is finding him when he’s not surrounded by his family and powerful friends.”

  “What kind of friends?”

  “No,” Nabil said, shaking his head. “I will talk to you about Tawfik, but not them.”

  “If I don’t know anything about them, how can I steer clear of them?”

  “All you need to know is that they carry guns when no one else has them. Not homemade Carlo toys manufactured in a garage in Azzun, but Kalashnikovs and even new versions of the American M16.”

  “Have you seen these guns, especially the M16s?”

  “No, no. But I know people who have. These guys are waiting for their moment to strike a blow for Allah. I think they’re idiots.”

  “And Tawfik is one of them?”

  “Maybe,” Nabil said, raising one shoulder. “He’s always been lazy. But Abdul was part of this group before he was martyred.”

  Daud was silent for a moment. Hana wanted to ask a question but knew she had to remain quiet.

  “When would be the best time and place to catch Tawfik alone with a lot of money in his pocket?” Daud asked.

  Nabil lowered his voice. “That’s what I’ve worked on since the day we talked in the shop. Tawfik has a new girlfriend in Nablus. He eats with her family every week after Friday prayers. He’s not religious, but they think he is because of what happened in Al-Quds when the American woman was killed by Abdul.” Nabil paused. “If you catch him alone, he’ll empty his pockets. He’ll have money because he’s seeing the girl.”

  “How much do you think I could get?”

  “My family in Deir Dibwan say he brags about always having three to four thousand shekels in his wallet.”

  “He owes my client a lot more than that.”

  “And he has a Rolex watch. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And a thick gold neck chain, not a thin one. I believe he will be wearing both of them when he sees the girl. He wants to show off for her.”

  Daud nodded. “Okay.”

  Nabil turned sideways. Hana could see the tobacco shop owner’s face. He had bushy black eyebrows and a square chin.

  “I wish I could be there to see a Zadan squirm,” Nabil said. “But even so, this isn’t a just revenge since I’m not doing it myself.”

  “Adopt me,” Daud replied. “I can act as your son.”

  Nabil patted the leather armrest of the expensive vehicle. “You don’t need a poor father like me.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Following the group of young ultra-Orthodox men,
Jakob rounded a corner and found himself at the top of a long set of stone stairs overlooking the Western Wall plaza. Even from a few hundred yards away there was no mistaking the massive size of the stones that made up the retaining wall for the enormous platform that once surrounded the temple built by Herod the Great.

  It wasn’t a special holy day in Judaism, and neither the plaza nor the area in front of the Kotel was crowded. Small groups and individuals milled about. To the right was the area reserved for women. Jakob could see that the men clearly had access to the best spots. Descending the steps, he passed the entrance to a local yeshiva and came to the security checkpoint. After passing through metal detectors and the watchful eyes of male and female guards, he walked across the plaza. Donning a cardboard kippah that he had grabbed from a large bin, he continued down the slightly sloping stone pavement to the holiest place in Judaism.

  Ultra-Orthodox men of all ages stood in front of the Wall praying and reading from books written in Hebrew. Some of the men bobbed their heads and upper bodies back and forth. Jakob joined a group of tourists and listened to their female guide explain the history of the Wall. She pointed out the largest visible stone, which was forty-three feet long and weighed over five hundred tons. Archaeologists believed even more massive stones lay hidden from view.

  Leaving the group, Jakob saw that the cracks between the stones were filled with tiny pieces of paper—prayers deposited as close as possible to the Almighty. A couple of times a year the papers were removed and buried in the Jewish cemetery on the slopes across the Kidron Valley from the Old City.

  After traveling such a long distance to this unusual place, Jakob didn’t want to miss anything it had to offer him. He didn’t have any paper in his pocket, and he wasn’t sure if he did what kind of prayer he would insert into a crack. He reached out and touched the stone in front of him. It was cool to his fingertips. He glanced up and down and then heard a voice that caught his attention. A few feet behind him a man was praying in Russian. Jakob glanced over his shoulder and saw a slender tourist about his own age with close-cut brown hair and wearing a white shirt and blue jeans. Like Jakob, he, too, wore a cardboard kippah on his head. His eyes closed, the young man was praying in a normal tone of voice to Jesus Christ. Not wanting to eavesdrop on a private spiritual moment, Jakob started to move away. But then he heard something that stopped him.

  “Lord God,” the man said, “hear my cry in this holy place. Speak to the Russian Jews and reveal to them the good news that Jesus Christ is their Messiah. Speak to them in Russia; speak to them in Israel; speak to them wherever they are found in a way that they may know the truth and be set free. May they believe and receive!”

  The hair on the back of Jakob’s neck stood up. The man paused. Jakob wanted to move, but his feet seemed stuck to the stone pavement. The man prayed a second time in a language Jakob didn’t recognize. He then switched back to Russian.

  “Heavenly Father, I pray that Russian Jews standing in this very place will believe that Jesus Christ is their Savior. They may wrestle with you like Jacob did when you changed his name to Israel, but they will come away from that encounter so transformed that they will, like him, have a new name.”

  At the mention of his biblical namesake, Jakob turned around and stared directly at the young man, whose eyes remained closed. The man switched again to a language Jakob didn’t understand. But Jakob had heard enough that he did understand the purpose of the man’s prayers. He walked gingerly past the Russian speaker. Every few steps as he moved away from the Wall, Jakob glanced over his shoulder. The man remained in the same place, never opening his eyes. Returning his cardboard kippah to a large bin, Jakob left the plaza and climbed the stone steps that led to the Jewish Quarter. He turned around at the top of the stairs and found the spot where he’d stood before the Wall. The man who had prayed in Russian was gone. Jakob carefully scanned the entire area. More people had arrived, and he couldn’t spot the man wearing a white shirt and jeans.

  Making his way back to the Jewish Quarter, Jakob felt different but wasn’t exactly sure how. He reached Hurva Square and sat down on a stone bench across from the ice cream shop. This time his mind didn’t return to the video of the attack on Gloria and Sadie Neumann. Instead, he watched the people passing by. Most of them were Jewish. Jakob had been around Jewish crowds in New York City, but never before had he felt any connection to other Jews beyond general membership in the human race. He knew some of the basic facts of Jewish history but had never personalized them at a deep level.

  Today was different. As he watched the Jewish people moving across the square, something grew inside him. At first, he wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. Then, suddenly, it hit him. He was a part of them, and they were a part of him. And with that realization, a floodgate opened, not of ethnic pride, but of an awareness of the sadness and success and tragedy and glory and pain and persecution and achievement and prejudice experienced by the Jewish people for thousands of years. Though many had died, others survived and thrived. And now they did so in their ancestral home. He looked down at the ancient stones of Jerusalem and saw them in a new way—as the foundation blocks for his own identity.

  “Why didn’t you ask him the name of the group Abdul Zadan joined?” Hana asked as soon as Nabil left and she had returned to the passenger seat. “He knew more than he let on. That could give us the big break we need for the case.”

  “Do you think it didn’t cross my mind?” Daud replied testily. “But he’d already told me more than he intended to. I didn’t want to make him suspicious about my true intentions. Interrogation is a dance, not a fight.”

  “Okay,” Hana sighed. “I’m not trying to be critical. You were amazing. The conversation flowed so smoothly, and the final touch about him adopting you was brilliant. It opens the door to future communication.”

  “Thank you,” Daud said. “Keep talking.”

  “I’m done,” Hana replied. “Remember, pride goes before destruction.”

  Daud started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Did you like your investigative alias?” he asked when they slowed to a stop in a line of traffic.

  “Jemila has been a common name for women in our family,” Hana answered.

  “Jemila means ‘beautiful.’ Were they as beautiful as you are?”

  Hana rolled her eyes. “With you, all conversation, whether interrogation or personal, is a dance,” she said.

  “I like that,” Daud said, glancing at his watch. “We have time to swing through Deir Dibwan if you want to. It’s just a few kilometers from here.”

  “Let’s go.”

  It took less than thirty minutes to reach the town of slightly over six thousand residents. Houses shared space with ancient olive trees that stretched up the rolling hills.

  “The village has been here a long time,” Daud said as he turned off the main road. “But you can see that a lot of the houses are newer.”

  “And large,” Hana said as they passed rambling multistory dwellings with flat roofs. “I guess many of the residents work in Ramallah.”

  “And the Zadan clan is prosperous,” Daud said. “Nabil can say what he wants about them being liars and cheaters, but some of them worked hard to establish what they have here.”

  It was a familiar story to Hana. People drawn to fundamental Islamic beliefs didn’t come from the lower class but from those prosperous enough to provide their children an education. Teachers planted seeds that bore fruit in radical terrorism activity, viewed by some as the highest and best expression of faith.

  They turned a corner and came upon an expansive lot that featured a large new house surrounded by a wall. Red bougainvillea flowers peeked over the top of the enclosure in places. Daud slowed to a stop across the street. A new BMW was parked alongside the curb in front of the house.

  “That’s the Zadan compound,” Daud said. “I watched the demolition video online. The house was rebuilt with money collected by the PA from places like Qatar. It’s much n
icer and bigger than the one that was destroyed.”

  The metal gate in the wall opened, and a young man in his late teens or early twenties came out. He glanced at the Land Rover before putting on a pair of sunglasses.

  “It’s Tawfik!” Hana said, sliding down lower in the seat.

  “Don’t worry,” Daud replied calmly. “My windows are opaque to anyone standing five feet away.”

  “What if he comes over here?” Hana asked. “Go, go!”

  “No,” Daud replied calmly. “I’m going to talk to him.”

  Before Hana could protest, Daud opened the driver’s-side door. He walked in front of the Land Rover and raised his hand. Tawfik stopped and looked in his direction. Crossing the street, Daud began talking to the young man. Tawfik was well dressed and wearing what looked like a silk shirt and tailored trousers. His hair was carefully groomed. The young man listened to Daud for a few moments and then pointed to the left. Daud reached into his wallet and handed Tawfik his business card. The two men shook hands. Tawfik hopped into the BMW and left.

  “Why did you give him your card?” Hana asked when Daud returned. “That seemed unnecessarily risky.”

  The investigator reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed her a card that read “Fadi Wazir, East/West Trading Company, Ramallah.” Below the name was an address in Ramallah and a cell phone number.

  “It’s a front company I use when I make contacts in the West Bank,” Daud said.

  “Is that the one you gave to Nabil?”

  “No, I used a different one for him that’s based in East Jerusalem. After hearing what Nabil told us about Tawfik, I suspect Tawfik is laundering money for a terrorist group. Otherwise, why would a twenty-year-old with no job drive a BMW and wear a five-hundred-shekel shirt? I told him I was looking for the home of a wealthy man who lives up the road. When he asked about my business, I told him I ship software used by hackers in Israel. That caught his attention, and he asked for my card. If he calls that number, it will appear on my cell phone with the name of my company so I know what it’s about and how to respond.”