On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  Could anything be changed, he wondered? Were happy endings possible in such a world?

  He drifted off to sleep, longing for the Spirit of Christmas Past to carry him back where he was once happy.

  Chapter Five

  Heading to work on the first day after the Christmas break, Jack changed trains at Baker Street station before arriving at the Liverpool Street Underground platform. From there it was just a three-minute walk to his office—time he set aside each day to resolve all other thoughts and focus on business.

  The offices of the European Committee on Mid-East Policy were on the east side of the City of London at 30 St. Mary Axe—the building commonly referred to as “the Gherkin.” Completed in 2004, its bulging, then tapering cylindrical shape was supposed to suggest a spaceship but looked more like an upright pickle.

  The floor above the ECMP housed the London headquarters of two U.S.-based law firms. The floor below contained a local cable television studio, and Levantine, an international shipping firm tying the UK to Jordan, Qatar, and Uganda.

  Today he let the elevator bypass his usual stop to go directly to the thirty-eighth floor. When out-of-country members assembled for a general session, the ECMP often used one of the private dining rooms on that higher floor for a breakfast gathering. After that meeting concluded they would adjourn to conduct smaller working meetings in their own conference rooms below.

  When Jack arrived the room was already bulging with participants. Each representative had an entourage of assistants and secretaries and sometimes translators. It was a way for the members to pad their payrolls since meetings were always conducted in English and all these diplomats and businessmen spoke it anyway.

  Jack noted the members from Germany, France, Belgium, Spain, Italy, and the Czech Republic. The participants sipped coffee and munched croissants in a group most notable because they stood apart from, but kept looking at, the delegate from Denmark, Anders Ibsen.

  Ibsen belonged to the conservative end of the Danish political spectrum. He was opposed to open borders for refugees from the Middle East, citing Sweden’s massive increase in assault crimes. The other nations represented at the ECMP admired Sweden’s reputation as the most welcoming country in Europe—or perhaps, the world. Therefore Ibsen was something of an outcast, and a contentious outcast at that. Jack wondered if his ECMP appointment was a reward for the man, or merely a means to keep him out of Denmark as much as possible.

  Today’s gathering was not about the Syrian refugee crisis, or about the Kurdish desire for a homeland. It was not about the Shia/Sunni feud pitting Iran and its proxies against Saudi Arabia and the Gulf states, or about the beheading of Christians in Egypt.

  Today’s urgent discussion was about the status of Jerusalem.

  This year’s outgoing chairman—the office rotated among the member states—was Signore Alphonso D’Angelo of Italy. He gaveled the meeting to order and the representatives assembled around four sides of an open square.

  Jack, as an employee and consultant to the panel, sat behind his boss, executive director of ECMP, Lord Terence Halvorsham.

  “Before we take up our main purpose for today,” began D’Angelo, “It has come to our attention the Israelis are expanding their settlements in the area of Huwara, south of Nablus in the West Bank. This has already resulted in rock-throwing incidents and will certainly escalate violence if not stopped. The first order of business should be to deliver a strongly worded protest to the prime minister.”

  There being no objection, the matter was referred to the executive office to draft a letter for Halvorsham’s approval and then for its immediate dispatch to Jerusalem.

  The next topic of discussion was about the status of Jerusalem. None of the nations represented at ECMP acknowledged Jerusalem as the capital of Israel, though the Israelis claimed it as such. “There is rumbling again in the United States that America will recognize Jerusalem and move their embassy from Tel Aviv.”

  “Ridiculous,” muttered Otto Gernich, member from Germany. “Such a move would undermine any credibility the U.S. has to be an honest broker for peace.”

  “Will Dr. Garrison please give us the historical context?”

  This was the question for which Jack was preparing. A secretary handed out printed copies of his remarks even before he started to speak.

  “As you all know, the United Nations voted in 1947 to partition the British Mandate of Palestine into two states—one Jewish and the other Arab. The evacuation of British troops in May of 1948 and the declaration of Israel’s statehood caused the outbreak of war with five Arab armies. The United States, under President Harry Truman, was the first nation to recognize the new state of Israel, followed by other members of the UN. The city of Jerusalem remained the frontline of the conflict, with Jordan retaining control of what is called the Old City, and Israel the western portion. In December 1949, the UN declared Jerusalem to be a ‘corpus separatum,’ a separate body, subject to special treatment from the rest of Israel, and under direct UN control.”

  “Something which neither Jordan nor Israel accepted,” Halvorsham added.

  Jack nodded. “Despite early insistence by the Jewish state that Jerusalem belonged to Israel, the division of the city remained thus until 1967. During what’s called The Six Day War, Israeli forces captured the Old City. Since consolidating their hold on Jerusalem the Israelis moved ever closer to declaring it the capital, first in 1950, and then again in 1980, passing a law in the Knesset designating it that way.”

  “A law branded by the UN as illegal,” Halvorsham noted.

  “And so it is,” said Gernich loudly. “Despite the actions of the dangerously foolish American president, Jerusalem was meant to be an international city. The UN should again name it as such and send the blue helmets there to enforce it!”

  A babble of voices responded, most in agreement.

  Halvorsham cleared his throat and gestured for quiet. “Please continue, Dr. Garrison.”

  “Since the Palestinians also demand Jerusalem as their capital it is easy to see how the debate contributes to conflict. Presidents Clinton, Bush, and Obama have all entertained the idea of moving the embassy, but all have backed away from actually doing so, citing security concerns. Now that the United States and a handful of misguided nations formally recognize Jerusalem as Israel’s capital—and some may move their embassies there—there will be yet another outburst of violence, even a renewed Intifada uprising.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” offered Halvorsham.

  Jack sat down.

  “Nor is the rumored relocation of the U.S. embassy the only concern,” Halvorsham added. “Periodically it is reported certain Jewish factions intend to rebuild a Jewish Temple on the so-called Temple Mount.”

  “Nonsense,” Gernich burst out. “The Muslim Dome of the Rock, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, the Muslim religious authorities who have controlled that space for hundreds of years—it is a Muslim holy space.”

  “And continues to be so with the permission of the Israelis,” the Danish representative Ibsen interrupted. “Since it is they who captured the mount in ’67, and since they have actual control over the space, and anyway since they have a prior claim.”

  Gernich looked daggers at Ibsen and Signore D’Angelo gaveled for silence. “Gentleman, please! It is difficult to see how we can offer concrete suggestions to promote peace if we cannot achieve civility in our own meetings!”

  There was little else to be said, but that didn’t mean an end to the wrangling. A near unanimous voice vote declared firm opposition to both the moving of the Jewish capital, and to the Jews even touching any part of the Muslim Haram esh Sharif—the Noble Sanctuary—and expressing support for making Jerusalem an international city. A voice vote conveyed the sense of the gathering—in the midst of which only Anders Ibsen’s loudly ringing “No!” recorded disagreement.

  Like any well-intentioned and poorly functioning congress, the rest of the day was taken up trying to come to consensus on how to p
roperly express in writing what they already approved.

  Only one concrete step was concluded that morning: Dr. Jack Garrison was to fly to Israel to investigate settlement activity and explore the rumors about any scheme to build a Jewish temple on Palestinian Muslim property. He would then report back to the Committee.

  As the morning session broke up Lord Halvorsham once again got their attention. “Let me remind the delegates this afternoon we will gather at London’s famous Guildhall for our annual photo.”

  Jack returned to his own office to check e-mail and phone messages. When he entered the chamber, his eye fell on the hiking staff he hadn’t used in over a year. In the corner formed by a low, metal credenza and a tall, black metal bookshelf stood a walnut pole topped by ten inches of fallow deer antler. On holiday in the Cotswalds Debbie noticed how much Jack admired the walking stick and secretly went back and bought it from the craftsman.

  After that trip, Jack used it every time he and Deb went on a hiking excursion: up in the Highlands, alongside the Avon in Stratford, beside the white cliffs of Dover. The staff came to represent all their romantic adventures together—which is why Jack hadn’t touched it since Debbie left. This day, as with every time he saw it, Jack felt the customary stab of grief and guilt, then buried both emotions deep under the press of work.

  Chapter Six

  Morning light illuminated Huwara, the West Bank town near Nablus. On the main road between Nablus and Ramallah, the town of some 6,000 lay near the base of Mount Gerizim, the Hill of Blessing. Twenty-seven-year-old Elizabeth “Bette” Deekmann directed her Toyota Corolla into the parking area of the Sonol petrol station and convenience store at the crossroads of Highway 60 and the road leading west toward Tel Aviv.

  Since 2008 the Jewish settlement where her friend Aly lived with her husband and two young sons had been on the list to be evacuated and handed over to the Palestinian Authority, but new homes were recently built there. Aly and Zach had just moved in and the house needed “Everything!” Aly gushed. “Help me!” she pleaded with Bette.

  Today, while Aly’s husband babysat the kids, Bette was taking her friend on a shopping expedition to the Azrieli Complex shopping center on the coast. “Why are we stopping here?” Aly complained.

  “It’s still too early!” Bette returned. “I need more coffee. Remember: it was your idea to leave this early.”

  “Before the kids wake up,” Aly reminded Bette. “Before Zach calls, desperate for help. I don’t get many chances to get away and I mean to make the most of this one.”

  At the curb beside the station was another Corolla, the identical year as Bette’s, except this one was torched—windows smashed and burned so its paint color was no longer distinguishable. It sat on its rims and what remained of melted tires. The aroma of destruction still hung heavy over the area.

  Leaving Aly in the car, talking on her cell phone to another friend who was going to meet them in Tel Aviv, Bette entered the Quick Stop market and filled a Styrofoam cup from a thermos of coffee. The same sign declaring a price of eight shekels per small cup or ten for a large also promised the coffee was “Freshly Brewed on the Hour!”

  Joining the back of a three-person line waiting for the lone attendant, Bette sipped the java and made a face. Well, they didn’t say which hour, she thought.

  The man at the front of the queue was not buying anything. Young, bearded, with curly peyot sidelocks framing his face below his kippah and wire-rimmed spectacles, he shook a collection canister at the counterman. “Spare some change for Yad Eliezer?” he asked, naming a Jewish anti-hunger charity.

  Just ahead of Bette was a short, plump woman in a faded rose-colored headscarf holding a gallon of milk and impatiently tapping her foot.

  Bette noted all the details without really intending to do so, but old habits die hard. She turned her face away from the line of shoppers.

  In the snack aisle a few paces away, beside candy bars and other treats, something wasn’t right. Another young man, scruffy beard and wearing no hat but with a long coat over khaki shirt and trousers, idly lifted a bag of chips then replaced it without looking at it. Next his fingers wandered over a pack of cookies with the same detached disinterest.

  Getting ready to steal something, Bette thought, Or…

  From beneath his coat the Palestinian produced a butcher knife. With a cry of strangled rage he leapt toward the charity collector, sweeping the blade over his head and then downward into the Jewish man’s shoulder.

  As the blow landed a number of other things happened.

  “Look out!” Bette yelled. Bette’s left hand swept the woman customer aside, knocking her to the floor and bursting the milk carton. At the same moment Bette threw the scalding coffee in the attacker’s face, she drew an ESP collapsible baton from her pocket and flicked it open.

  As the terrorist snarled and mopped drops of coffee from his eyes, he turned toward Bette and lunged at her.

  The first flick of her baton snapped smartly against the attacker’s wrist and deflected his aim. Her backhand swipe broke his nose. The next downward swing knocked the knife free from his grip and it clattered to the ground. She followed this move by lowering her shoulder and crashing against the terrorist so both of them smashed into the checkout counter.

  A moment later he was on the ground. Her baton was across his throat and her knee in his back. “Hold still,” she ordered. “Don’t give me a reason to break your neck.” To the clerk she commanded sharply, “Call security. Do it!”

  Captain Elizabeth Deekmann, Golani Brigade veteran and now a member of the Yamam anti-terror task force, addressed herself to the charity collector. “Are you all right?”

  The young man fingered the slash in his jacket over his left shoulder. “I—I think so,” he replied in a shaky voice. The tips of his fingers showed blood.

  “Take your coat off,” Bette instructed. “This nice lady,” she said to the cowering matron, “will get the first aid kit from behind the counter and help you.”

  Five minutes later Israeli security took charge of the scene. Five minutes after that, Bette had given her statement and she and Aly were again on their way toward Tel Aviv. “I’m never stopping there again,” Bette observed. “They burn their coffee.”

  “Welcome, gentlemen, welcome,” intoned the white-haired docent in his navy blazer and necktie bearing the imprint of London’s coat-of-arms. “Welcome to ‘istoric Guild’all.” Greeting the ECMP members at a private entrance he whisked them into the medieval great hall which lent its name to the entire building.

  Moving smoothly into his well-rehearsed talk, the guide allowed the European delegates to prowl the premises while he spoke: “Back hin the Roman era there was an amphitheater ‘ere and sommut later the Saxons built the first Guild’all on this very spot. The building hin which we are standin’ was begun hin 1411 during the reign of ‘Enry the Fourth.”

  Jack, who visited the site many years before with Debbie, tuned out much of the talk and pondered what the day’s meeting meant to him on a personal level. He was indeed about to be dispatched to Jerusalem to investigate claims about the reconstruction of the Jewish temple. The idea of this trip was privately discussed between Lord Halvorsham and himself in preparation for this gathering, but nothing was officially concluded until today—and no one should have leaked their conversation.

  So how did Lev speak of the upcoming journey with such confidence and authority?

  “We are hin,” the guide continued, “the only non-ecclesiastical stone buildin’ survivin’ from that era to this. It ‘as been the location of many notorious trials, includin’ Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Days’ Queen, and the Gunpowder Plot conspirators after they tried to blow hup Parliament in 1605.”

  Jack couldn’t help it. Though he tried to ignore the patter, the outburst of history swept him back to a longing for Debbie again. How the two of them loved learning about the lives of the people in the past. Before their marriage, while at a formal dance with him and Debbi
e dressed to the nines, they spent the entire evening leaning across a table toward each other, sharing insights about the life and wives of Henry VIII and his impact on the world. When Jack and Debbie at last emerged from the 1500s to find two hours gone, they danced one dance together. They left for their homes perfectly content with the evening and convinced they were perfect for each other.

  “We are very fortunate that the Guild ’all escaped with only some damage from the Great Fire of 1666—but it was severely ‘urt by German bombs on the night of 29 December, 1940.”

  “Gentlemen, if you please.” Lord Halvorsham interrupted the history lesson. “If you’ll please gather here at this end of the hall for our photograph and then we will adjourn to a cocktail reception in the historic crypt.”

  The group jockeyed for position beneath a gallery overlooked by a pair of carved wooden effigies. The figures were dressed in a combination of Roman and Medieval armor and carried spears and shields.

  “Who are they supposed to be?” inquired the German Otto Gernich.

  Before Lord Halvorsham could reply, the docent lifted his chin and pronounced, “Right you are to hask. The one on the left is Gog and on the right Magog. Some says they represents a race of giants defeated when London was first founded. Wicker copies of them are carried through London on the day of the Lord Mayor’s Show—guardian spirits of London, one might say.”

  “And others say,” Anders Ibsen said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “they represent the forces of darkness which must be defeated in the last great battle between good and evil. A battle which will take place in Israel, I might add.”

  “Surely no one believes such a myth!” Gernich snorted. “No one sane. No one rational.”

  “They are mentioned in the Bible,” Jack said, recalling a late night dorm-room conversation with Lev.

  Ibsen eyed Jack curiously as if surprised to find an ally in this crowd.

  Lord Halvorsham was also eyeing Jack. The historian hastily bowed to the German and offered, “But of course you’re right. Very few take such an apocalyptic view of a couple old statues.”