He stared at Khaled as he listened to the wearying silence.
After an interminable wait, the voice on the security service phone came back apologetically. “Sorry it took so long, but something just came in. I had to check it out. Seems you’re a little late on this one.”
“Oh?”
“Young Kafi’s body was found about half an hour ago near the Damascus Gate. Apparently he’d been rammed by a car. Not a pretty sight, they say.”
Book One
The Hostage Takers
Chapter 1
The Mediterranean shimmered in the morning sun as I swung the camcorder in a slow pan of the Jaffa waterfront. Gulls circled above the world’s oldest working port. A steady breeze bore the smell of salt and dry seaweed.
“Come on, Greg,” Jill called. “Keep playing with that little black box and you’ll miss the bus.”
I smiled at her. “Just so I don’t miss the bus for dinner. Besides, you’re the one who made sure I brought plenty of tapes.”
I popped a stick of Mr. Wrigley’s famous Spearmint into my mouth. I’d quit smoking a few months earlier and was suffering the inevitable withdrawals.
“Maybe so. But I didn’t intend for you to use the tapes as if they were going out of style.”
I let it go. For a man who had survived sixty-five years on his wits, that was a concession.
“Are you going to put together a film for the next class party?” Folds of dark hair above an arched brow belied her sixty-plus years.
“I’ll limit it to epic proportions,” I said.
All kidding aside, I had counted on this trip to separate me by time and distance from the agonizing predicament making my life unbearable back home. My situation seemed as insolvable as the standoff between the Palestinians and Israelis. Here it was played out with rocks, bullets and bombs. In my case, I felt the entire Metro Nashville Police Department was lined up like some Civil War regiment, glaring down their barrels at me. For the moment, though, my problems seemed remote.
Grasping Jill’s hand, I strolled beside her out to where our group stood on a large open plaza. Clustered around us were entertainment places, restaurants, an art gallery and one of Israel’s countless churches named for Simon Peter, the Galilean fisherman Jesus chose to lead the early Christians. We were mostly seniors, on a tour organized by our Sunday School class from Gethsemane United Methodist Church in Nashville. I would give long odds that we had not missed a single St. Peter’s since our arrival on a hot November morning two weeks ago. Some had questioned our sanity in traveling to this battleground of the Jews and Palestinians. But we had landed during a lull in the unpleasantness.
By now the weather had cooled, making my yellow cardigan feel good when we started out from Netanya after breakfast. But the sun was nudging the mercury toward a high in the seventies. I was pulling off the sweater when I heard a cheery voice from nearby.
“Hey, Greg!”
Sam Gannon strolled over, pointing across the plaza. “You won’t believe what I saw in that gallery over there.”
“What?”
Gannon stands half a head taller than my five-foot ten, and he’s depressingly slim while I bulge in all the wrong places.
“I just peeked in the doorway,” he said, “and saw this painting of an old C-47 in the desert. Boy, I haven’t been in one of those jewels in many a year.”
A retired multi-engine Air Force driver, Sam had been the point man in organizing this trip to Israel and Jordan.
I glanced at my wife. “I’m glad it was just a painting. If it was real, she’d probably want to buy it.”
Jill smiled. “A C-47 would look nice in the backyard.”
I should point out that I am also a retired Air Force officer, but not a flier. I spent my time in the OSI–Office of Special Investigations. I pursued such evils as overpriced wrenches and stolen toilet paper, plus chasing down drug-pushing airmen, communist spies and terrorist groups that posed a threat to Air Force personnel and installations. Jill was the pilot in the family. She had held a commercial license for many years, once running her own charter service.
Just then two scruffy looking boys came racing across the plaza on bicycles, jabbering away in Arabic and paying no attention to where they were going. One of them cut just in front of the tour group and the other skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with Jill.
“Idiot!” I shouted.
I stepped around Jill in a move toward the boy.
She grabbed my arm as he stood there, glaring. “Cool it, Greg.”
“Damned juvenile,” I muttered. As I spoke, the boy peddled away at full speed.
During my OSI days I was noted for a volatile temper. Retirement and Jill’s patience had mellowed my disposition. But my troubles with the Nashville cops, plus the burden of no smokes, had begun to trigger old habits. As a voice called out at the front of the group, I caught Jill casting me an unhappy glance.
“Okay, people,” our tour guide said. “You have about twenty minutes to look around, shop, whatever. Then we have to be back on the bus. We’ll drive through some of Tel Aviv, then head toward Jerusalem.”
Jacob Cohen gestured to the southeast with the long olive wood walking stick he referred to as his “staff.” Ever quick with the pun, he had introduced the stick at the start of the trip with, “Thy rod, my staff–a little Twenty-third Psalm humor.” Originally from New York, Cohen had lived in Israel the past twenty years. He looked a typical bearded synagogue worshiper. Unlike most Israelis, however, he was a Messianic Jew, a member of a congregation that believed in Jesus Christ as the promised Messiah. He was also a walking encyclopedia of the Bible.
I remembered something I needed to take care of and moved over to where Cohen stood with two of the younger women. They were gazing at the towering spire atop the Franciscan Monastery of Saint Peter.
“Jake, you were going to give me the name of your Messianic Jewish friend in Nashville,” I said. “You’d better do it now before I forget.”
He rummaged around in his shirt pocket. “Sorry about that kid on the bike. Some of them don’t have much respect for their elders.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “Okay, it’s David Wolfson. Here’s his name and phone number.”
“You said he was a computer nut? I might get him to give me some advice on an upgrade.”
“He’s good with advice. Another ex-New Yorker. Funny thing, his father was an Orthodox rabbi. They had a pretty heavy falling out when Jake turned Messianic. He inherited some of his dad’s biblical curiosity, though. He’s into all this Bible codes stuff.”
I gave him a puzzled look. “Bible codes? Never heard of it.”
“It has to do with the letters in the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. Supposedly concerns hidden messages God placed in the text. It’s too far-fetched for me. I guess it came natural to David, though. He was a computer hacker in college. Then he went legit and signed with the National Security Agency.”
Jill grabbed my arm. “You look calmer, thank goodness. Let’s head on toward the bus. Look at Wilma over there at that van. I’ll bet she’s buying more knickknacks.”
A dusty gray minivan had parked not far behind our red and white Middle East Tours bus. Its tailgate was swung up, displaying an array of olive wood figures and other trinkets. Dealers like this made us run a gauntlet to reach the bus. At our hotel in East Jerusalem, a Palestinian had greeted the ladies out front each morning, peddling souvenirs from the trunk of his car.
As we paused beside Sam Gannon’s wife, Wilma, another tour bus edged past. It fouled the air with its diesel exhaust. I fanned the stench away with my Titans cap. Just then a husky man with black hair and a black beard approached me. He wore a dark suit, no tie. He had a round face and white teeth.
“Perhaps your last chance to buy souvenirs,” he said. “I show something just for you.”
As he leaned into the van, I wondered how he knew we were on the final leg of our tour. Our bus driver or another passenger had proba
bly mentioned it. Also I had a vague impression I had seen this face before. He appeared to be Arabic, but Jews and Arabs had descended from the same Semitic line. I had been trained to remember facial features, and memories of September 11 had kept me alert during our two weeks in the Holy Land. I watched as the souvenir seller held out a miniature Dead Sea Scroll jar, opened the lid and lifted up a paper scroll.
“Just like parchment...real Hebrew writing,” he said. “The one you get is all packed secure. Because I need to make haste home, everything is now bargain price.”
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Normally is twenty-five dollars. For you, only ten. Yes?”
“It’s bigger than those we saw before,” said Wilma Gannon. She studied the reddish clay jar. “And they cost that much or more.” Tall and lean like her husband, she had a grandmotherly swirl of white hair.
“What would I do with a Dead Sea Scroll jar?” I asked. It looked like a flower vase to me.
Jill grinned.
“You drive some hard bargain,” said the man, frowning. “Five dollars.”
“He’s not going to let you get away without buying it,” Jill said. I had given her a hard time a couple of days before about buying so many souvenirs. A lot of them had to be stuffed into my bag.
The man reached back into the van and pulled out a box a little larger than the clay jar. It was sealed tightly with clear plastic tape. “This one ready to pack in your bag. No way it can break. Only five dollars. Okay?”
I had to admire his persistence. And it did sound like a good deal.
The man held out the package. “Americans are good people,” he said. “I like you. Four dollars–my last offer.”
Jill whispered in my ear. “For God’s sake, buy it.”
I shrugged and pulled a money clip stuffed with dollar bills out of my pocket, peeled off four and handed them over. “You’re quite a salesman,” I said.
I don’t know why, but I had an odd feeling that I might have bought more than I had bargained for.
Chapter 2
Back on the bus, Jill leaned across to listen to a pixie-eyed woman who always had a joke to tell. I debated what to do with my new souvenir. I finally stuck the box in the webbed pocket of the seat in front of me, next to my water bottle. We had drunk the water in the hotels with no problem, but on the road I figured discretion was the watchword. I wasn’t interested in a visit from Montezuma’s circumcised cousin, Mordecai.
When Sam Gannon wandered up the aisle a few minutes later, he stopped to lean against my seat. “Wilma told me about the way you took that Dead Sea Scroll guy to the cleaners. I didn’t know you were such a haggler.”
“I’m not,” I said. “And I don’t know that I got the best of him. When you think about it, some Palestinian potter probably got no more than a buck for that jar. The piece of paper with some Hebrew scratching couldn’t have cost more than fifty cents, and the box maybe another buck. The guy still made a decent profit.”
As the bus began to push through the crowded streets of Tel Aviv, the sights quickly put salesman and souvenir out of mind. We passed Ben-Gurion Airport with jets roaring overhead, then traveled through the stark, desolate Judean hills. Nothing grew there and certainly nothing could live there. It made you wonder why this was called the Promised Land.
We took a rest stop at an isolated service station with a small market. Our Palestinian driver refueled the bus and the rest of us picked over an assortment of drinks and snacks. I had some reservations about hanging around in isolated areas of Israel, but the tour company was owned by Arabs, and we had been told the Palestinians knew this and would give us no trouble. There had been car bombings during the past week, but so far no threats had come our way.
When we turned north again around Jerusalem, Jake Cohen jabbed his stick at a steady stream of sights, including the Arab town of Bethany just east of the Holy City. As we whizzed past, he pointed out the supposed site of Lazarus’ tomb and the inevitable church connected with it. One thing that strikes you on a visit to the Holy Land, whenever you come across a spot believed to have been related to Jesus’ life or ministry, somebody has built a church on it.
“There’s another Bethany in Jordan,” Jake said, “not far from where you’ll cross over. It’s the place where John the Baptist did his baptizing, according to John one, verse twenty-eight. It was also around there that Joshua led the Israelites across the Jordan River into the Promised Land. Also, Bethany has a tel called Mar Elias, or Elijah’s Hill, where the prophet is said to have ascended to heaven in a whirlwind, riding a chariot of fire pulled by horses of fire.”
“That’s from Second Kings, chapter two,” said deep-voiced Arnold Demontbreun. He was our class biblical authority, but I sometimes wonder about him. Arnold can quote the Bible verse by verse but can’t remember his wife’s birthday.
“Are we going to stop there?” This from a small, white-haired woman on the front row named Martha something or other. She was from what we uncharitably called the Old Ladies Class.
“Sorry,” Sam Gannon said. “By the time we get through Israeli customs and immigration, cross the river and get checked out by the Jordanians, we’ll do well to reach Amman by dark.”
I popped another piece of gum and wondered if this might not turn out to be a three-stick bus ride.
We were soon passing through a barren, rocky section of Judean desert. There were several Bedouin camps nestled among the sand-colored hills. The small settlements back away from the highway were marked by long, rectangular tents. Some had wheeled water tanks, and in most the crafty Arabs had traded their “ships of the desert” for pickup trucks.
At the Jordan River border post we were herded off the bus. We were warned to bring everything with us, since we would be boarding a Jordanian coach as soon as we cleared immigration. I decided to give Jill the scroll box to put in her carryon since mine was bulging with camera equipment. Thanks to Jake Cohen we moved quickly through passport checks and visa slip returns. The Israelis were preoccupied with a large group of departing Palestinians, giving us Americans only a cursory look. I noticed the Arabs got a thorough checkout. One of the customs officers, a friend of Jake’s, told him they got frequent alerts about attempts to smuggle guns and bomb-making materials into the country. But a warning bulletin had them on the lookout for a Palestinian attempting to smuggle something out. He didn’t say what.
Back in the parking lot, we were instructed to identify each of our bags from the Israeli bus before they could be loaded onto the Jordanian coach. Such security precautions brought no objections as we recalled the explosions and bloody confrontations seen on the nightly news. And the sight of Israeli soldiers everywhere armed with rifles during our trip had served as a grim reminder of the uncertain conditions.
After a lengthy round of hugs and kisses and handshakes and good-byes, we left Jake and the Land of Israel, finally rolling across the Allenby Bridge, named for the British general of World War I fame. On the other side it was called the King Hussein Bridge. As with the scrawny Jordan River, the bridge looked more like something from the Tennessee backwoods than an international border crossing.
In Jordan we sat on the bus while our guide collected passports and hustled them into the immigration office. He returned in the company of a stoop-shouldered man with shifty eyes and an unsmiling face. I had encountered enough of the type to know if he’d had on a badge it would have read BUREAUCRAT.
“Where is Mr. McKenzie?” the man called out.
Jill and I were seated near the front. I held up my hand. He strode over, stared at me, then focused on my open passport.
“You are Gregory McKenzie?”
“That’s right,” I said, wondering what I had done to merit such distinction.
He suddenly gave me an improbable smile. “Welcome to Jordan, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Enjoy your visit.”
Our guide was a young Jordanian with a confident air. In textbook English he assured us this was only a
routine spot check.
I was not so certain.
Chapter 3
At our hotel in Amman that evening, we sat with the Gannons, enjoyed a buffet and talked about our trip. The dining room was impressive, decorated with wine-red draperies. The napkins matched the drapes and the tables were set with fine china and spread with enough silverware to handle a family reunion. I called it “sheik chic.” Exotic aromas rose from the buffet.
“What impressed you most about the trip, Jill?” Sam asked. He was about to dig into a plate of salad greens and veggies, but he waited thoughtfully for her answer.
“There was so much it’s hard to single out one thing. I guess I’d have to say the places in Jerusalem where Jesus once walked. Like the Garden of Gethsemane and the Holy Sepulcher.”
“What about Galilee?” Wilma asked.
Jill smiled. “Like I said, it’s hard to choose between them.”
I decided to offer my two shekels’ worth. “I was most impressed by the big restorations,” I said. “Places like Masada and Caesarea and Meggido.”
“Why those?” Sam held out his coffee cup for the waiter.
“I took a year of archaeology as an elective in college.”
“That why you bought the Dead Sea Scroll thing?”
“Jill pressured me on that.”
She squinched her nose. “Okay, blame me. I just didn’t have the heart to wait for him to get down on his knees.”
Sam laughed. “A real salesman, huh?”
“He was dogged.” I pushed my chair back, knowing I had reached my salad limit. “Anybody ready for the real thing?”
We trooped over to the main buffet, which was loaded with all kinds of hot and cold dishes. A lot of them defied identification. But one thing I knew for certain–we would find olives. We had come to expect them at every meal, morning, noon or night. Early on I had observed that the Holy Land was composed of two things, rocks and olive trees. Both were everywhere. And Jordan was no exception. I proceeded to load up my plate.
Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4 Page 2