The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  He covered her hand with one of his own. “So I’m going to tell you something.”

  Rendi breathed purposefully, hoping to keep calm.

  Dennis picked up his head and leveled a steady gaze at her. “We have more than just ‘consistent with.’ We have an actual chemical match between the plastique used in the explosion and a secret lab in Tehran.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rendi once more noted Dennis’s hands. They were again in his lap. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Denny never deliberately misled her.

  “What kind of chemical match?” she asked. “Narrow or broad? What possibility of a false positive?”

  Dennis said, “There’s always a possibility with these kinds of tests, especially with chemicals degraded by an explosion like that.”

  “So… what? Ten percent probability of a match? Fifty percent? What?”

  “More than ten, less than fifty, but not much less. It’s a pretty good match.”

  Rendi was quiet. If the Americans were able to prove that the Iranians had killed their president, there’d be a demand for retaliation from the public and perhaps from intelligence agencies.

  “What are you waiting for? Why not announce your findings and take action against Iran?” she said at last.

  Dennis stretched his legs. “You know why. We have to be one hundred percent sure on this, especially after the WMD fiasco in Iraq. And it could be a false flag—maybe another group has set it up to look like it was Iran. Maybe even the Israelis. They’d love to see us bomb Iran and destroy its nuclear program. Maybe they’re setting up the Iranians. Anyway, before we’d act, we would coordinate with Israel, if they weren’t trying to pull the wool over our eyes. I’m sure you know that your husband’s client Faisal’s group has some Iranian connections through their imam. That’s why the Israelis were so anxious to convict him. Anything that connects the bombing to Iran, even indirectly, helps their cause. Still, the Israelis have great intel on Iran, particularly on the ground. They believe Iran had a hand in it, and they’re trying to convince us of that. I think they may be right, but we’re in no rush. The Iranians aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Unfortunately,” Rendi added.

  Before they could continue, a call came through to Denny’s cell phone. He checked the incoming number, chose not to answer, and stood. Kissing Rendi’s cheek, he explained that he had business to take care of. She watched him leave the café, her mind processing everything he’d said—and not said. She’d hoped to be able to leave this coffee date with definitive answers, even though in the world she and Dennis occupied, definite answers weren’t easy to come by.

  She felt certain that Denny wasn’t telling her everything. This in itself wasn’t an indicator of his being complicit in anything illegal. Her infiltration theory was still a strong possibility—far more consistent with what she knew about him than Abe’s conversion theory was. Rendi knew that in her and Dennis’s kind of work not everything could always be shared, especially not an infiltration, but she wasn’t sure Abe or Emma would accept that. She was just going to have to investigate the Megiddo connection herself. Without telling Abe.

  XLIX

  Armageddon

  THE NEXT MORNING Rendi woke early, kissed Abe’s forehead, and told her groggy husband that she’d be out all day. Then, arming herself with printouts of Emma’s research into Revelation Ruggles and his church, she rented an SUV and drove north toward the biblical town of Megiddo, known in English as Armageddon—a corruption of the Hebrew Har Megiddo, the Mountain of Megiddo. She was determined to learn more about the religious group that had allegedly saved Denny’s life and to clear him of the unfounded suspicion that Abe seemed to have of him. Who was the strange man named Revelation Ruggles? What did his family’s history—going back to Avi Regel and before—tell us about his motives? Did he have any connection to Iran—was that the angle Dennis had been working on when he’d infiltrated them?

  Megiddo, in biblical times a bustling center of activity, was now a kibbutz in the Jezreel Valley with a tiny population of under five hundred people. Tel Megiddo, a small hill, had become a center of archaeological excavation and was a major tourist attraction. In 2005, Israeli archaeologists discovered the remains of an ancient Christian church there, thought to be the oldest in the world.

  Christian fundamentalists flocked to the ruins of the church. Since there were few hotels in the area, it had become a favorite spot for camping. Squatters put up a few shacks in wooded areas not too far from the Tel. One of these shacks served as the Church of the Apocalypse, where Revelation Ruggles lived in ascetic simplicity.

  Rendi checked in to the modest guesthouse in Kibbutz Megiddo, posing as a journalist—a cover she’d used successfully in the past. She didn’t intend to stay the night but thought the staff at the guesthouse would be a good source of local information. Upon checking in, she was given a pamphlet about the history of the kibbutz, which was established after World War II by Holocaust survivors.

  “Aren’t you afraid to live in the place where the final battle is supposed to be fought before the End of Days?” she asked the old man who checked her in. She was tired from the long drive and anxious for human contact. But also, she knew from her spy days that information often came from the unlikeliest of sources. Striking up innocent conversations sometimes led to important bits of information.

  The man handed her a key and showed her the number tattooed on his arm. “We’ve lived through the End of Days. The future doesn’t frighten us.”

  Rendi paused. The man pulled his arm away and returned to his business behind the desk. She looked around the guesthouse’s main room, hoping to find pamphlets about the Church of the Apocalypse. There weren’t any.

  “Excuse me, sir?” she asked the man. He looked up from the book he was reading. “Could you tell me about Revelation Ruggles?”

  “I know who he is. There are several so-called prophets who moved in around here after they found the old church. It’s good for business. They don’t hurt anyone. We leave them alone. They leave us alone.”

  “Does anyone in the kibbutz have any direct contact with Ruggles?”

  “What are you? A tax collector? He doesn’t have any money. That’s for sure.”

  Rendi shook her head and smiled at the crotchety old man. He was impervious to charm. “No. I’m thinking of writing something about the Church of the Apocalypse.”

  The man peered at her, scratched his head, and returned his attention to his book. “There’s a man in the kibbutz, Sali Gibon, who has spoken to him. Fourth house down the street.”

  “Thank you,” Rendi said, but she needn’t have bothered. The man was absorbed in his reading.

  She walked up the stairs to her small room. Sitting on the bed, she spread Emma’s research out on the coverlet, quickly rereading each page. Then she called Abe.

  “Where are you?” he asked immediately, without even a proper greeting.

  “Hello to you, too,” Rendi joked. “I’m checking on a few things. Nothing to worry about.”

  Abe made a disappointed sound. “This is about Dennis, isn’t it? I want us to be on the same side, you know.”

  “We are on the same side, Abe. I’m doing research, just as you asked.”

  Her evasive answers didn’t fool her husband in the least. “You know I hate it when you’re so secretive.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we met after my spy days,” she replied dryly.

  “Rendi, just be careful, and be in contact. I can’t take any more danger to the people I love,” he said, ending the call.

  Rendi felt a pang of guilt. She hated to be in conflict with Abe, especially now, after the ordeal with Emma’s abduction. But she knew that he was wrong about Dennis, and this was the only way to prove it.

  After splashing some cold water onto her face and freshening up, Rendi walked down the block to a small wood-frame house. A young man answered her knock. He wasn’t more than twenty-five, and, judging
from his tan skin, he spent a lot of time outside. Rendi looked past him into his house, searching for religious articles on the walls or tables. She couldn’t see much, though. “Hi, my name is Rendi,” she said, extending her hand. She smiled her most dazzling smile at him. In her experience she’d found that a little bit of beauty and a lot of flirting often softened the tersest of informants. Especially those who didn’t know they were informing. “Can I ask you something?”

  The man shook her hand absentmindedly, staring at her while he did. She guessed he must not come into contact with many women, because he was all but drooling. He didn’t appear to be very bright, and he was unconcerned that a stranger had appeared at his door. She saw that his hands were dirty. “Sure. Ask away.” His attempt at a flirtatious grin was deplorable. He was missing three teeth.

  But his open manner inspired Rendi to be forthcoming. “What can you tell me about Mr. Ruggles?”

  The man leaned against the side of his door and crossed his arms over a ratty T-shirt. “You mean the old guy in the shack”—he gestured down the street—“or his son?”

  Rendi followed his gesture with her eyes but didn’t see anything of note. “I didn’t know he had a son. Let’s start with the old guy.”

  “Revelation. Weird name, huh? He’s some kind of religious figure. People come to see him. Not too many. And not too often. Mostly he stays to himself.”

  “The man who owns the guesthouse down the street told me that you’d met him.”

  He shook his head and smiled his toothless smile. “I sell fertilizer, among other things. He needed some. You need some?”

  Rendi schooled her expression, but her heart started beating rapidly. This was a lead. “No, thank you. Was it for his garden?”

  “I guess, though he has only a tiny garden and he ordered a lot. I was out there on deliveries four or five times. He always paid in cash. Maybe he has another garden somewhere in the woods.”

  Rendi took a breath. “I’m writing an article on his church. What can you tell me about it?”

  “He wouldn’t let me in. He said only believers could enter. I didn’t want to go in anyway. I could see inside, and it was weird. There were calendars all over the wall. Dozens of them. Marked in different colors. It didn’t look like a church, although there was a crucifix with a very bloody Jesus. It grossed me out.”

  Rendi said a silent prayer of thanks. If only all her witnesses were this helpful. The poor man hadn’t even asked her who she was. “Did you ever see any of his followers?”

  “Once, when I came to deliver the fertilizer. I think he was an American. Tall, blond, crew cut. Looked American. Could have been Swedish. I’m not sure. Another time his son pulled up with a truck as I was leaving.”

  Tall. Blond. Crew cut. That matched Denny. Again her heart picked up speed. Logic told her there weren’t too many Swedish-looking Americans in this part of the world. This didn’t prove that Dennis had become a worshipper or a believer. It only indicated that he’d met with Ruggles. Perhaps the American agencies had learned about the fertilizer purchase and sent Denny to investigate? But how to explain his first meeting with Ruggles, after he’d been shot? That had been years before….

  The man, not realizing he was interrupting the dozens of thoughts racing through Rendi’s mind, asked, “Why don’t you write something about the kibbutz? It’s a lot more interesting than a church in a shack with calendars on the wall.”

  “Maybe I will,” Rendi said as she shook Sali’s hand and thanked him. He leered at her once again, told her to come by anytime she needed fertilizer, and then disappeared into his house.

  Rendi considered calling Abe to tell him what she’d found out about the fertilizer, but she didn’t want to worry him. Nor did she relish another argument with him about Denny. She decided that she’d contact Abe once she’d spoken with Revelation.

  Revelation Ruggles’s shack was only a few miles away. Getting into her car, she followed a map the owner of the guesthouse gave her and passed the path to the small shack several times in an effort to get a good look. There was a truck parked near the shack; she wondered if it was the same truck that Sali had mentioned. If it was, then it belonged to his son.

  Rendi parked her SUV about a mile from the path to the church and walked the remaining distance to the shack. She checked her cell phone on the way to see if Abe had called her; he’d promised he would if he, Habash, or Emma came up with any information on the security details and their possible connection to Iran. There were no messages. She continued to hike, remembering how she hated the heat of the desert. If I decided to chuck civilization and live in a shack, I’d do it on a lake, she thought.

  Fifteen minutes later she knocked on the door of the Church of the Apocalypse. The truck was gone, some dusty tire tracks in its place. The man who answered was rail thin and had a long, dirty beard. His hair was down to his waist, covering the ribs that poked out through his yellowed skin. He wore pants and nothing else: no shirt, no hat, no shoes.

  “Hello, Reverend.” She didn’t offer her hand, mostly because he looked so dirty that she didn’t want to touch him. “I was hoping to talk to you about your church.”

  “Are you a Christian?” Ruggles asked suspiciously.

  “No, I’m not,” Rendi answered.

  Revelation stepped outside the shack and closed the door. “I’m sorry, then, but you cannot enter the church. How did you hear about us?”

  “I came because my husband heard about you from Elizabeth Mitchell.”

  Revelation’s eyes softened, and he warmed up to Rendi instantly. “A fine woman. I’ve known her family for years.”

  “I’m thinking of writing something about your church.”

  Revelation stepped back into his shack, speaking as he went. Rendi had to run to catch his words. “We do not want to be written about. People will not understand us. We do not want people to understand us. We are a small church of believers.”

  “How many are you?” she asked quickly, moving closer to him.

  “I cannot continue the conversation. I do not want to be rude, but you must go now. I want to be alone.”

  He tried to shut the door in her face, but she jammed a foot inside the doorframe. “Can you tell me about your son?”

  “We are private people. Good day,” he said, kicking her in the shin so that she’d move her foot. He closed the door quickly, but not before Rendi caught a glimpse of the calendars and the bloody crucifix.

  She stood staring at the closed door for several moments and then set off for her car. When she returned to the guesthouse, she placed a call to a friend who worked in the Israeli telephone company—at least that was his cover. He was a Mossad operative who could find anyone. He told her that there were only six Ruggleses in all of Israel: Ecclesiastes in Tel Aviv, Job in Eilat, Revelation in Megiddo, Romans in Jerusalem, and Kings in Ashkalon. Lamentations was the only other Ruggles. He lived in Haifa, at 12 Palmach Street. This was Revelation’s son—the son with the truck.

  Armed with an address and a phone number, Rendi got into the SUV and drove to Haifa, headed toward Lamentations’ house. She found the street with no trouble and walked to number 12. She knocked. No answer. She knocked again. This time she thought she heard a slight noise from inside. Maybe a dog or cat. She tried to look inside through the window, but the drapes were shut tight. She went around the back to see if there were any windows through which she could take a peek inside, but every one was covered tightly with drapes, curtains, or shades. Then Rendi smelled something peculiar. She couldn’t immediately identify the smell, but it was familiar. She sniffed again. Then she remembered. Fertilizer. She bent down and dug up a small sample of dirt from the ground and put it in her handkerchief. Again she heard a slight noise. She looked up just in time to see the window shade move ever so slightly in an upstairs room. She was being watched. She returned to her car and drove back to the guesthouse in Megiddo.

  She walked quickly over to Sali’s house and knocked on th
e door.

  When he saw her, he opened his door wider so that she could enter. “You’ve decided to write about the kibbutz? Come in.”

  She stayed where she was, on the stoop. “No, not yet, but I have a question for you. Does this sample of earth contain fertilizer?” she asked, opening her handkerchief.

  The man bent over her open hand and inhaled. “Sure does. Where is it from?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Can you tell whether this is the fertilizer that you sold?”

  Sali picked up a bit of fertilizer on his finger. “I can’t, but somebody can. The government makes everyone tag their fertilizer with a chemical ID. They did that after the Oklahoma City bombing in the United States.”

  Rendi didn’t respond to him—her mind was racing too quickly. She carefully rewrapped her handkerchief around the sample, placed it in her bag, and began to walk away. As she did, she heard Sali call after her, “You’re not really a writer, are you?”

  As she headed for her car, she left Abe a message saying that she wouldn’t be home until the next day.

  L

  God’s Work

  I CAME AS SOON AS I COULD,” Denny said to Revelation Ruggles as he sat down at a small table in Lamentations’ home in Haifa. The old man sat on a chair, balanced on its very edge. His spine was completely erect, and his hands were folded at his knee. Denny noted that his hands shook ever so slightly, and the old man hardly ever showed emotion. A knot of dread settled in Denny’s stomach. “What does she know?”

  “Too much,” the old man said. “She knows about Lamentations. And we think she knows about the fertilizer.”

  Dennis inhaled slowly.

  “She was sneaking around my yard,” Lamentations complained. He looked nothing like his father. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he wore fashionable clothes. He worked for an insurance agency in Haifa and looked every inch the part of a conservative businessman. The truth about him was more elusive. He’d gone to school in Macedonia, where he’d studied chemistry.