On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “It’s not about the statues,” Ibsen said forcefully, apparently feeling ganged up on. “It’s about the enemy of all that’s good.”

  “To whom do you think the prophecies refer?” inquired Signore D’Angelo.

  “Forty years ago I was convinced it referred to Russia—which will still have a role to play. But more recently I think the reference includes the resurgent forces of Islamic jihad.”

  “Preposterous,” retorted Gernich. “Positively Islamophobic.”

  Mutters of agreement swirled around the room.

  “Gentlemen,” Ibsen continued, “I intended to reserve this announcement until after tonight’s dinner, but now I see it cannot wait. I am resigning from the committee effective immediately. I see no point in joining you in a photo. I wish you good success in the committee’s work—but I am not hopeful.” The Dane bowed his way out of the chamber, leaving a momentary silence behind.

  “Good riddance,” Gernich said. “He was always obstructionist and pro-Zionist. Probably secretly Jewish. In any case, as I said, no one believes such nonsense anymore.”

  Feeling a tug on his sleeve, Jack turned to find the diminutive French delegate, Yves Tornay, waiting to speak with him. Tornay said not one word all day that Jack recalled. “Monsieur Gernich is wrong,” Tornay said. “I was there in President Jacques Chirac’s office in 2003 when President George W. Bush called to speak about France supporting the invasion of Iraq. The U.S. president very clearly said—I heard him with these, my own ears—he said, ‘Gog and Magog are at work in the Middle East. This confrontation is willed by God—to erase His people’s enemies before a new age begins.’ ”

  “There you have it,” Otto Gernich applauded. “Just what I said: No sane, rational person believes such things any more. President Bush! Ha!”

  The headquarters of the Levantine Shipping Company, one floor below ECMP, were expensively furnished but starkly modern. Chrome and black leather chairs received no warmth from the pale birch paneling. The walls were hung with art of acrylic paint on burnished metal so the images resembled asteroid strikes.

  Lord Halvorsham stood in front of the company’s owner, Brahim Rahman. “The meeting went exactly as expected,” Halvorsham reported to Rahman. “The Dane has resigned. He will give us no further trouble. The Committee will remain an impartial, unbiased voice, urging European governments to support Palestinian statehood while deploring illegal Jewish settlements.”

  “And Garrison?”

  “He will soon be leaving for his ‘fact finding’ trip.”

  Rahman plucked at the pocket handkerchief in his Hugo Boss suit. “I meant, are you concerned at all about his attitude? It troubles me he has a close Jew friend. Why did we not know this before hiring Garrison?”

  “Seixas? They aren’t really close; haven’t been for years. Besides, Seixas is not political. He’s some sort of preacher.”

  Rahman regarded Halvorsham from under thick, dark eyebrows. “Did Garrison see Faisal following him?”

  “As you suggested: only enough to make him wonder if he’s being followed. Keep him off balance. Garrison’s academic credentials are impeccable. When he returns, his report to the Committee will be exactly what we want it to be.”

  “Which is?” Rahman prodded.

  “That Israeli settlement activity is a barrier to peace in the region. Any Israeli pretension to the Haram will cause a renewed intifada. That Israel is a fictional modern state deliberately harming the legitimate aspirations of the Palestinians.”

  “Nicely rehearsed,” Rahman remarked drily. “This Seixas is also a Christian? Don’t you find that a dangerous development? Christians and Jews must not be allowed to make common cause against my people. Christian Jew is not just an oxymoron. Such a mixed-breed cur is dangerous.”

  Halvorsham made a dismissive gesture. “Only extreme evangelical types equate the modern Jewish state to Biblical Israel. Mainstream Christians are just like secular Americans—except more anti-Jewish, perhaps. University students marching for Boycott, Divest, and Sanction against Israel are supported by Christian churches who are convinced the Israelis are a cruel occupying force, applying apartheid restrictions to Palestine. Garrison is a useful voice for us, especially since he is American.”

  “Keep an eye on him,” Rahman ordered.

  “Even while he’s in Palestine?”

  “Especially while he’s in Palestine. It won’t be difficult. We have cloned his cell phone, so we can listen in on his conversations and plans.”

  Two days after the incident in Huwara, Bette stood at attention in front of the desk, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed at a point on the wall over her commanding officer’s right shoulder. Commander S.—his real surname was never used—said sternly, “You chose to use less than lethal force to neutralize the threat, even though mortal danger to civilians was imminent. Why?”

  “Sir,” Bette said. “I assessed the likely angle of attack and judged the use of my weapon created more hazard to the civilians than the approach I chose.”

  “How close?”

  Bette’s gaze flicked downward, then up to a neutral spot again. “There was a civilian immediately in front of me, sir, closer than I am to your desk, and the attacker’s target, and the clerk, just in front of the woman. Since I had to clear my field of fire before discharging my weapon both male civilians would then have been in jeopardy.”

  “Show me your weapon,” Commander S. demanded.

  Bette produced a sidearm from beneath her sweater, dumped the magazine, ejected a round from the chamber, and passed it over.

  “Glock 43,” the officer observed.

  “Yes, sir. Concealed carry. In keeping with my undercover role. If I may add, sir, our directive is to take terrorists alive for interrogation whenever possible. . .”

  “Consistent with protecting civilian lives, yes,” Commander S. agreed. He stared at her until she finally dropped her eyes again and met his stare. Then his formal demeanor parted with a crooked smile. “Official inquiry is over. Sit down, Bette. You did well.”

  Bette felt her shoulders drop a couple inches and she exhaled a long, silent breath. She took a seat in the stiff metal chair in front of her boss, the head of Yamam.

  Yamam—short for Yehida Merkazit Meyuhedet—was an elite counter-terrorism division of the Israeli Border Police. Charged with hostage rescue operations and sometimes offensive action, Yamam consisted of only a couple hundred officers in all Israel. A framed copy of the Yamam crest rested on the corner of the commander’s desk. It displayed a winged star and a strong tower surrounded by a laurel wreath. This central icon was flanked by the images of commandos fast-roping from a helicopter and a lone commando in full SWAT gear.

  “Do you have any reason to think this was part of a coordinated attack or the opening of a new terror campaign?”

  “Given the lack of preparation or any evident training by the perp, I think the answer is no. This was a lone wolf event.”

  “Is there any reason to think you were the actual target, or that your identity was compromised?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Good. We’re pleased with your progress, Bette. Adding female officers, particularly those who have undercover experience, was a big part of my goal when I took over this job.”

  Bette relaxed still further.

  “In keeping with your success I have a new—temporary—assignment for you.”

  Bette was pleased. She volunteered for military service, was with the anti-guerilla unit of the famed Golani Brigade, then spent several years honing her special forces skills with Magav, the Israeli Border Police, before winning this coveted position. “May I know what it is?”

  “Yes, since it begins soon. You will provide escort and liaison for a member of the European Committee for Mid-East Policy. American, actually: Dr. Jack Garrison.”

  Bette was incensed, and struggled not to show it. Escort and liaison? Bodyguard? This was not what all her training and experience was sup
posed to produce! “Am I—is this disciplinary?”

  “Have I ever been that secretive about discipline?” Commander S. demanded. “No, Bette, not at all. Put that idea out of your head. You were specially chosen for this duty before the terror incident.”

  “But—why? Surely some member of the regular protective detail would. . .”

  “If I am not hard to read about discipline, neither do I expect to be questioned. Look, Bette: I lobbied hard for our unit to get this assignment. This man—and the Committee behind him—want to explore the hardest questions facing Israel’s future. He is not a tourist. He needs to go places and ask important questions that may place him in danger. His guide needs to be able to get him successfully in and out of those locations. We need someone who also can analyze what he sees and hears so we can assess its probable impact on the state. He must be provided with the best officer we have. Did you want to suggest I locate someone else?”

  Now Bette was smiling. “Not at all, sir. Thank you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Unlike flying to and from the states, Jack was not at all groggy when the El Al Boeing 777 arrived at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport and taxied to Terminal 3. The flight took less than five hours to complete, in a comfortable business class seat no less. Despite the fact local time was 10:15 p.m., it was two hours earlier back in London; not a late night arrival at all.

  Before any of the rest of the 275 passengers were allowed to deplane, an attractive, petite, dark-haired, dark-eyed Israeli appeared beside seat 14B and called him by name. “Dr. Garrison? Or do you prefer Professor?”

  “Dr. Garrison. And you are?”

  “Elizabeth Deekmann, Bette, if you like, here to take you to your hotel.”

  “Why the special treatment?” Jack asked, gesturing toward the other passengers.

  “As you are the representative of the ECMP the government of Israel wants to extend you every courtesy. You are staying at the King David Hotel, is that right?”

  “Correct.”

  Jack’s luggage was already being loaded into the Mercedes E-class limo when Bette opened the rear door for Jack to seat himself. To his surprise there was already someone behind the wheel and Bette seated herself next to Jack in the rear compartment.

  “Excuse me one moment,” she said, then addressed the driver in Hebrew. Jack recognized his own name and the destination as the King David Hotel, but nothing else. The chauffeur nodded and they sped off.

  “My apologies,” Jack said. “When you said you were taking me to my hotel I thought you were the limo driver sent to collect me.”

  What was the motive behind that fleeting, quirky smile? Jack wondered.

  “No,” Bette corrected. “Perhaps you should think of me as your guide to see that your trip goes smoothly. This is Ghassan, our driver, at least for the evening.”

  “Arab?” Jack asked, commenting on the driver’s name.

  “Druze,” Bette explained. “Ghassan Arslan.”

  Looking up at the sound of his name, Ghassan glanced at the mirror and gave a quick wave of his hand.

  “It will take us about,” Bette studied her wristwatch, “about forty minutes to reach your hotel at this time of day. Do you want to talk about your plans for tomorrow? I did not receive an itinerary.”

  “No, and you weren’t supposed to,” Jack returned. “We didn’t announce my destinations in advance because I didn’t want anyone to arrange what I’d see.”

  Bette frowned. “You think the Israeli government would censor your visit—in advance of your arrival?”

  Put that way Jack’s statement sounded both suspicious and pompous. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to be offensive. The truth is I don’t know where I need to go and what I need to see until I start to go and see. Does that make sense?”

  “In Israel,” Bette agreed, “It makes perfect sense.”

  “By the way,” Jack added. “Ghassan is military, yes?”

  Bette nodded.

  “But what about you?”

  “I’m with the police,” she said, “but I’m not a regular serving officer.”

  Jack smiled. “I thought it’d be something like that. So—tomorrow. Will you be joining me again?”

  “Ghassan and I will both be with you tomorrow,” Bette returned. “What time did you wish?

  “I’m an early riser. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

  “Eight it is,” Bette confirmed.

  Buried in coach, twelve rows behind Dr. Jack Garrison, Faisal Husseini could only watch with frustration as his quarry was met and escorted from the El Al flight. The anger cooled quickly. That woman was some kind of Israeli government employee, which meant an official car would be picking up Dr. Garrison at the airport. It didn’t really matter. Faisal knew about the reservation at the King David Hotel.

  All travel arrangements for ECMP members and staff were vetted by Levantine Shipping.

  Jack’s room in the King David hotel was plush, as befitted a five-star establishment, but not lavish. The staff was effusive in its welcome, but the place had an air of faded glory. If not luxurious the King David was still awash in history. Built of pink limestone in 1931, the inn witnessed all the struggles over Jerusalem ever since. In 1946, before there was a modern state of Israel, the hotel was the headquarters of the British Mandatory authorities—and the recipient of a bombing that killed ninety-one people.

  Pulling back the curtain, Jack stared east across a dark swath of central Jerusalem at the brightly-lit Temple Mount and the golden gleam of the Dome of the Rock. Right, there it is, he thought. The focus of my visit and arguably the focus of strife in this part of the world. If there were no Israel how much less trouble would there be in the world?

  Jack studied the object of his inquiry. It was no more than a couple miles away, if that. Even nearer was the blocky outline of the Tower of David that marked the western edge of Old City Jerusalem—straight down the hill and on a line northeast from Jack’s window.

  Calling up a map on his smart phone Jack asked it to indicate a walking path between the two Davids. There it was: “Fifteen minutes,” it said.

  Why not? Jack thought. I made such a point of being unpredictable; of choosing my own path. I think I’ll start now.

  After the flight and the limo ride it felt good for Jack to stretch his legs. Right on Paul Emile Botta street, down the slope, then left on Eliyahu Shama. “Use caution,” the map advised.

  Here in the depths of this valley it was dark and deserted. This was a park or garden in the center of Jerusalem. Some parking areas were illuminated with the orange glow of street lamps, but great shadowed spaces existed between them.

  With a swirl of east wind one of the shadows moved. Jack felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and he hesitated before taking another step. He had almost reached the bottom of a set of stairs at the lowest point of his journey. The form of his goal was just ahead. For a moment Jack relived the sense of being followed toward Clifton Gardens, then reminded himself how absurdly that fear resolved itself. He left his hotel room seven minutes before. There was his destination, seven minutes ahead. No threat, he decided. Just palm fronds stirred by the breeze. He continued forward.

  “Jack Garrison.” A figure stepped from concealment at the base of a palm tree. The man who addressed Jack was not asking a question. He knew Jack’s identity before he spoke.

  “Yes, and who are you? Did that policewoman send you?”

  The figure did not answer the question. “You may call me Eliyahu.”

  “Eliyahu Shama? Like the name of the street? What do you want?”

  “I have been sent to instruct you.”

  “Instruct me? In what? By whom?”

  “I have installed my king in Zion, says the Lord; on my holy mountain.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re quoting Scripture to me? Listen: I don’t buy it. I won’t believe any more in your so-called Lord until I’m convinced of three things: the Bible really does contain accurate,
real prophecies, Israel is still somehow important in some cosmic sense—not just 2,000 years ago but now, today. And three: all those speeches by long dead men are actually relevant to today—to tomorrow, in fact.”

  Where had that outburst come from? Angry. Jack felt angry. He was irritated at the absurdity of arguing with this—this—theatrical phantom. He was annoyed with himself for getting angry over—nonsense.

  “Well?” he demanded, but Eliyahu made no reply except to say, “On the Mountain of the Lord it shall be provided.”

  “Who are you?” Jack said again.

  He heard steps approaching him from behind and whirled around.

  “Professor?” It was Ghassan, the driver.

  “Did you arrange this high school drama production?”

  “Who were you speaking with?” Ghassan inquired.

  “Don’t give me that!” Turning with his index finger outstretched, Jack gestured toward an empty circle of lamp glow. “Where’d he go?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play games with me! Why’d you follow me?”

  “I saw you leave the lobby. It’s my job to keep you safe. But if you insist on walking about in the middle of the night you should warn me first.”

  “And you didn’t…hey! You speak English! In the car you and Ms. Deekmann spoke in Hebrew.”

  “Yes, and I speak three other languages as well and I’m learning Mandarin. So?”

  Thoroughly disgruntled, Jack was in no mood to continue toward the Old City accompanied by this—this lying shadow. “We’ll see about this—tomorrow,” he said. Passing Ghassan without another word Jack retraced his steps to the King David Hotel and his room and shortly fell into a fitful sleep.

  It was a place of unutterable beauty. The high mountain meadow exhibited thick grass and lush moss. It was ringed with tall, swaying pines, and majestic redwoods whispering to each other in the silken breeze. Though the air was bracing, the elevation was not so great as to eliminate spring and rebirth. Jack scented the mingled aromas of jasmine blooms and orange blossoms.