“You’re talking about the one-state solution?” Kamura asked.
Fuller nodded his head emphatically.
“The Jews know that if the Palestinians are forced to be part of an Israeli state, with their burgeoning population and their birthrates much higher than the Israelis’, in a matter of years the Palestinians will actually be running the nation of Israel from the inside out. That’s the Israelis’ worst nightmare. So, faced with that alternative, they know they have to make a plan. They’ve got to cut a deal.”
Suddenly Fuller and Kamura noticed that the Secretary of State had been notably silent for a while.
Both turned to him questioningly. Then he spoke up.
“Gentlemen, don’t hit too hard on that Deuteronomy thing. On the archaeological discovery. In fact, I wouldn’t mention it at all.”
There was a stunned silence.
“I don’t know about that, Tom,” Fuller rejoined. “I think it’s a strong argument for the fact that we’ve got the Israelis on the run, and we’ve got the opportunity for a cram-down of a peace plan.”
“Let me repeat again,” Linton said, “don’t hit on the Deuteronomy Fragment.”
“Do you know something I don’t know?” Fuller inquired.
Linton sorted mentally through the protocols of propriety, legality, and confidentiality.
“Let me just tell you that we’ve got some intelligence reports that raise some questions about that discovery. You don’t want to base a major diplomatic pitch on a piece of science or archaeology, as the case may be, that may be subject to some very troubling questions. Let’s just leave it at that.”
With that, the three stood and shook hands, and Fuller and Kamura stepped out for a minute before the walk over to meet the president. The Secretary of State hung back, gazing out the windows overlooking the outer perimeter of the Rose Garden. He was not thinking of the president or the meeting they would be having with her in a matter of minutes.
Instead, he was thinking back to a classified report he had received from the Israel field office of the Central Intelligence Agency, casting doubt on the Deuteronomy Fragment.
Certainly, his Middle East experience had taught Thomas Linton one thing. He knew that when it came to the geopolitics of Jerusalem, even the most brilliant diplomacy must always be strapped, inexorably, to the great grinding stones of history and theology.
15
FIONA CHAMBERS WAS CALLING from the bottom of the stairs for her son, Andrew.
“Andrew, will you please come down—Dad and I are leaving in a few moments…please!”
“I think I’ll go up and get him,” Will said, squeezing her hand and heading for the stairs.
Fiona glanced nervously at her watch.
“It’s just that I promised Da we would be there by no later than eleven. He really counts on these visits…”
As Will climbed the stairs, he gave his wife a gesture of assurance.
“We’re going to be okay, honey. We’ve got time. We’ll be there by eleven.”
Just then Andrew came thundering down the stairs and met his dad halfway.
“I just got off the phone with Danny. His parents are coming over in a couple of minutes and we’re going to go go-cart racing.”
“Oh, Andy, I don’t know…” Fiona said.
“Mom,” Andrew pleaded, “his parents are going to be there with us. And the people who run the go-cart track never let you do crazy stuff. In fact, they make you go so slow that it’s almost boring. Can I go, please? Can I go?”
Will reached out and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder.
“You can go. But you’ve got to be safe. And only if Danny’s parents are with you. And remember this is go-carting—not bumper cars.”
“Great!” Andrew said, and turned to run back upstairs.
“While you’re up there,” Fiona called to him, “I never got a good look at the badge you won last night in the contest. Could you please show it to your mother before we leave?”
Andrew sprinted up the stairs and then came bounding down again, holding a small object over the railing so his mother could reach up and grab it.
Fiona beamed as she looked it over, proud that Andrew had won the Regional Christian Church Bible Memorization Contest. She handed it to Will.
It was a heavy brass badge with a clothing pin on the back. It was in the shape of a shield, and at the top, the words “Shield of Faith” were inscribed. And at the bottom, it read,
Taking the shield of faith.
—Ephesians 6:16
Will smiled as he read the inscription. Before he could give it back to Andrew, he had scampered back up the stairs.
“Do you remember where Dad and I are going?” Fiona said, calling up the stairs after him as Will laid the badge down on one of the side tables in the great room.
“Yeah,” Andrew’s voice responded from his room. “You’re going to visit Grandpa Angus.”
“We’ll be back this afternoon,” Fiona added, “so please be home by supper time. That means no later than six!”
Will and Fiona drove to the care center, arriving ten minutes after eleven. Angus MacCameron had already been wheeled out to the day room to wait for their arrival. The elderly Scottish man had never quite recovered from his series of heart attacks and strokes, and his worn and ruddy good looks had now been reduced to pallidness, his face saggy and shallow. His eyes, once fiery and brilliant with insight, were now sunken and circled.
“Hello, Da,” Fiona said, kissing her father multiple times on the forehead and holding his wrinkled face in her two hands.
MacCameron, a former pastor and editor of a small biblical archaeology magazine, may have been greatly weakened, but he still retained much of his acerbic wit.
“So, I’m the old one here, right?”
“What do you mean, Da?” Fiona asked.
“I’m the one who can’t remember things?”
“What are you talking about?” Fiona asked with puzzlement.
Angus MacCameron turned slowly to glance at the large brown wall clock that now read eleven minutes after eleven.
“You’re both too busy to keep track of time?”
“Angus, you can blame me,” Will said with a smile. “Fiona was trying to get this show on the road. She did her part.”
Angus MacCameron looked up from beneath his bushy, iron-gray tangle of eyebrows with a slight grin. “Chivalry is not dead. Always the knight in shining armor.”
Fiona smiled and glanced at Will. “Yes, that’s just about right.”
Will walked around behind Angus’ wheelchair, and he and Fiona began rolling him out to the outside grounds with their tall trees and well-kept gardens.
“So, Da, how are you?” Fiona asked.
“The food here is terrible. Did I tell you that?” Angus growled.
“Yes. You told me that the last time I was here. And the time before.”
“I really preferred the other place…the other place where I was staying.”
“No, not really.” Fiona threw her husband a helpless look. “In fact, you hated the last place, and when we first moved you here you said you loved it.”
“What?”
“I said, when you first got here you told us you loved it.”
“That must have been my twin brother…because I never would have made such an asinine statement.”
Fiona gave her husband a fatigued look as they strolled around the grounds.
Then Will noticed a rolled-up magazine tucked into the side of the wheelchair.
“What are you reading?” Will asked him.
Angus gave him a slightly befuddled look, then reached down and unfurled the magazine. The cover article dealt with the Deuteronomy Fragment controversy.
Suddenly, Will and Fiona regretted the question.
Angus pointed with an unsteady index finger at the cover of the news magazine.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Da, it was all over the news…wh
at do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Angus said with a combination of hurt and anger. “I spent years tracking this…following the rumors…trying to find out whether it really existed—and you don’t even tell me that it’s been discovered.”
Will explained reluctantly. “Frankly, Angus, Fiona and I didn’t want to upset you. We didn’t want you to get excited. Fiona asked that I keep it quiet when we visited you, so I did.”
“So,” Angus said, eyeing Will, “do you always do what my daughter tells you to do?”
“Only when she’s right,” Will said with a smile. “Which is most of the time.”
By mid-afternoon, Will and Fiona both noticed that Angus was getting fatigued and a little incoherent.
They called for the aide to help him back into bed, but he waved her away testily and looked at Fiona.
“You’re my wee bairn,” Angus said. “And take care of that lad of yours…what’s his name?”
“Andrew,” Fiona said gently.
Then Angus turned to Will. In his expression Will saw a man who had much more to say than his limited capacity would permit.
“And you,” Angus said looking Will in the eye. “Like my own son…and remember…as Paul before Agrippa, so you’ll be.”
Then Angus’s shoulders slumped slightly, and his head bobbed with fatigue, his eyes half-closing.
“I’ll get him into bed. He looks tired,” the aide said.
Fiona kissed her father on the cheek, and Will grasped one of his father-in-law’s limp hands in both of his, squeezed it, and then whispered in his ear, “I love you, Angus.”
There was silence for a while as Will and Fiona drove home. Then Fiona broke the quiet.
“I’ve heard that before.”
“What?”
“What Da said to you. He told me that once before.”
“You mean the business about Paul and Agrippa?”
“You were down in Mexico. During discovery for your case before the International Criminal Court. I went to visit Da. He was still in his apartment then. He told me the same thing. He said something about your standing trial like the apostle Paul stood before King Agrippa.”
She gazed over at Will who, while driving, was beginning to chew on what his wife had just told him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her voice higher than normal.
“Book of Acts. Paul in chains before King Agrippa. He was one of the Herods, I believe. I think it was around chapter twenty-four or twenty-five. Just thinking about that…”
“When Da said that the first time, back in his apartment, he was starting to get a little confused—”
“I know,” Will said with a reassuring smile.
He glanced over at his wife. But the look on her face, just then, told Will that she had not been reassured.
16
GILEAD AMAHN WAS ASLEEP for the last leg of the trans-Atlantic flight. He awakened as the Egyptian Air pilot announced they were preparing to land at Cairo International Airport.
Gilead rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window. As the plane neared the airport, Gilead surveyed the outstretched Egyptian metropolis that housed some seventeen million inhabitants.
After the plane landed, he pulled down his single piece of luggage from overhead, shuffled slowly behind the passengers down the aisle of the jumbo jet, and finally, descended the metal staircase to the tarmac. He knew the significance of that moment.
It was the first time he had set foot on Egyptian soil since he was a boy. Since the time his father had moved him to the United States, he had never returned to Egypt. Until now.
For Hassan Gilead Amahn, his appearance in Cairo, Egypt, at this time and under these circumstances was slowly becoming an overwhelming, even staggering reality.
He knew what it meant. He hoped that his appearing, at that time and place, would be like the first spark that is set to dry kindling.
Gilead hailed a cab. He was picked up by a dented, older-model yellow Mercedes. It dodged in and out of the horn-blasting, weaving, and bobbing mass of vehicles that were passing through the downtown of Cairo. He drove past sights that had been long forgotten, but that were now rekindling old memories. Past the blocks of five-story-high square, unadorned red-brick apartment buildings, separated from each other by streets full of rubble, trash, and refuse. Children were playing amid the broken concrete between the buildings. They occasionally passed carts pulled by donkeys, which were piled high with alfalfa or onions.
Gilead gazed through the dirty cab window at the streets of crowded shops selling raw meat and vegetables hanging from hooks, baskets, and trinkets. Some of the shops had small, makeshift hibachis constructed out of metal buckets, with burning coals in them.
And everywhere he saw the robed adherents of Islam. The men in their fezzes and headscarves, and the women—a few in modern dress and driving vehicles—but many, if not most, walking like human silhouettes along the roadside, draped in the black burkas of traditional Muslim dress.
This was Cairo. It had been his home. And it had also been the scene of his mother’s cruel murder.
And now, at last, he was here again. This was the beginning.
Gilead asked the driver to take him to the Citadel, in the Islamic quarter of Old Cairo.
“You wish me to take you to the front gate…for the tourist’s trip?”
“No, not there,” Gilead replied. “Take me beyond, to the Salah ad-Din Square. Just outside the Citadel. Drop me off there.”
The Citadel, a mighty fortress of Islamic power, with its domed top, huge mosque, and two towering spires on each side, surrounded by battlements and walls from the thirteenth century, had initially been constructed by Salah ad-Din, known to Westerners as “Saladin.”
Saladin, Sultan of Egypt, had left Cairo with his Muslim army and attacked Jerusalem in the fall of the year 1187. His goal was to drive the Crusaders of Christendom out of Jerusalem forever. After an eighty-eight year occupation by the Crusaders, on October 2, 1187, Saladin’s forces finally breached St. Stephen’s Gate in the outer wall of Old Jerusalem, invaded the city, vanquished the Crusaders, and broke their grip on Jerusalem and the Holy Land.
The cabbie pulled the dented yellow Mercedes to a stop at the curb at the perimeter of the Salah ad-Din Square, and turned around, reaching out his hand.
Gilead paid him fifty Egyptian pounds, grabbed his bag, and exited the taxi.
In the open square leading to the mammoth Citadel, Gilead surveyed the army of pedestrians. Tourists from Europe, pilgrims from Africa, Muslim worshipers from around the world swarming to the Citadel—a symbol of ancient Islamic domination.
Gilead walked approximately thirty yards into the square, then put down his bag and zipped it open. He grabbed a handful of small pamphlets. Then he closed his eyes, lifting his hands to the sky, and said a silent prayer.
Then the young man opened his eyes. With his hands still outstretched, and in a voice loud enough for passersby to hear, he said,
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil…
17
“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?”
“I do some,” the Swedish tourist replied. He was standing with his wife in front of Gilead Amahn, in the Great Square of Salah ad-Din.
“Do you come to see the Great Citadel? And the mosques?” Gilead asked.
The Swedish man and his wife nodded.
“Have you read about the great Salah ad-Din, the Muslim warrior who built the Citadel?”
The man nodded again.
“The great Salah ad-Din, the Sultan of Egypt, followed one whom he believed was greater than he. He followed the Prophet Muhammad,” Gilead continued.
As Gilead was conversing with the tourist couple, an older man, sporting a bushy moustache and wearing a long black robe and red fez on his head, passed through the tourists, business-people, and Muslim worshipers in the square and stopped a few feet short of Gilead
, staring at him intently.
Gilead ignored him and pressed on.
“But there’s One whose coming has been foretold. There is One greater than Salah ad-Din. And greater than Muhammad. He shall establish a new kingdom and shall rule the world with a rod of iron.”
“What are you saying?” the man in the fez asked in Egyptian Arabic.
Gilead quickly turned to the man and answered him in the same dialect.
“I am preaching the coming of God’s Anointed One. The One who is greater than Muhammad. One whose coming has been prophesied from age to age…the One whom you have rejected…the One who is not worshiped in all your great Islamic mosques. The One whom the Quran has spoken about…but both it and you have not understood. You hear, but you do not listen. You see but you are still blind…”
The man in the fez threw his arms out in a frantic plea.
“It is forbidden! You must not say these things…you defile this holy place!”
Gilead turned from the man in the fez back to the wide-eyed Swedish couple and handed them a pamphlet. Its cover read,
THE ONE WHO IS
GREATER THAN MUHAMMAD.
The Egyptian man continued to yell. Then he bent down, snatched off his sandals, and began striking Gilead in the head with the heels.
“You are accursed!” He continued to strike Gilead in the face and on the head.
Within moments several worshipers, a few local businessmen, and an imam of the local mosque had gathered around Gilead. After learning of his “blasphemy,” they too removed their sandals and began slapping, punching, and kicking him with the heels of their shoes.
The Last Judgment Page 8