On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “A glass of wine, sir?” the cocktail waiter finally inquired. Jack had been brooding over the drinks menu for a good five minutes while the increasingly nervous server hovered.

  “I—yes—no—gin-and-tonic,” Jack muttered.

  “Brand, sir?”

  “Sure. What did you say?”

  Sitting at Jack’s right hand Lev answered for him. “Tanqueray, make it a double.” And then as the waiter hesitated he said, “Nothing for me. And you, Bette?”

  The policewoman shook her head and the waiter scurried off.

  The three were seated in a quiet corner of the Oriental Bar in the King David Hotel. Since witnessing the attack in the street Jack showered and changed clothes before joining the other two, but still he sat mute and brooding. He stared at wall sconces shaped like menorahs, or at faux wall columns designed to suggest palm trees, but saw neither.

  Bette and Lev talked quietly before Jack came in, but now they too kept silence.

  Lev reached out and laid his hand on Jack’s arm. Jack shuddered. His eyes flicked to Bette and away. What he saw was a pretty, young woman lying on the stones of Jerusalem, marred, shattered, her life flowing inexorably away. And for what? For what?

  “And I couldn’t do anything to help her!” Jack said fiercely, speaking his thoughts aloud without preamble. “And even if Ghassan hadn’t been holding me down—I was already frozen. I saw the terrorist before…before. He was just ahead. If that policewoman hadn’t been running by, it could have been….maybe she…I have to know her name,” he demanded abruptly. “What’s her name?”

  “I’ll find out,” Bette said. Standing and stepping away from the table, Bette made a call.

  “Where’s Ghassan?” Jack asked Lev. “He wasn’t hurt, was he?”

  Lev shook his head. “He’s fine. Bette said he had to go to headquarters to make his report. The commander wanted to interview you, but Bette said she’d handle it.”

  The waiter returned with Jack’s drink, set it down hurriedly, and disappeared again when Lev waved him away.

  Jack took a large gulp, then looked up expectantly as Bette returned.

  “Her name was Hadas Malka,” Bette reported.

  “She didn’t make it, did she? I mean she’s. . .”

  Bette confirmed the girl’s death. “Hadassah hospital. They are the best, but. . .”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, not really,” Bette replied. “I met her at her graduation from the academy, but I think that’s the only time.”

  Jack nodded gravely as if this was important information, then drained half the remaining gin. “Who was he?” Jack said. “The terrorist?”

  “Eighteen-year-old, from a West Bank village,” Bette explained. “There were three altogether. The other two were from a different village, but they coordinated their attack. They’re all dead.”

  Jack took a deep breath and turned toward Bette. He focused his eyes as if just arriving in the room. “Anyone else?”

  Bette shook her head. “No one else killed. Four injured—police and two bystanders wounded—none seriously.”

  Jack’s phone, lying on the table by his elbow, rang: Beethoven’s Fur Elise. Jack regarded it as if wrestling with whether to answer it or not, then jabbed the button to take the call.

  The thin, distant voice of Lord Halvorsham on speaker asked, “Jack? We’ve only just heard about another attack in Jerusalem. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  Jack confirmed he was okay, then added, “But I was there. I saw it.”

  “It must have been terrible. BBC report says three Palestinians killed by Israeli police. Horrible.”

  Jack waited, then inquired, “Is that all it says?”

  Jack, Bette, and Lev all leaned toward the speaker. “It says others were injured. That’s all.”

  “No mention that it was a terrorist attack? No word about an Israeli policewoman being killed—knifed to death?” Jack demanded.

  “No. But. . .”

  “No hint it was a coordinated attack by ambush?”

  “Jack,” the words from 2,000 miles distant were clipped and brisk. “Are you all right?”

  “Physically, yes,” Jack retorted. “But no, I’m not all right. Look, I need to go. I’ll call you later.” And he rang off without waiting for Lord Halvorsham’s goodbye.

  Jack sat silently again, rolling the tall, chilled glass between his palms. Finally: “What label is this?” he asked Lev. When Lev replied, Jack set the glass down and pushed it away. He suddenly had no stomach for British gin.

  After the murder of the policewoman, and hearing that some Palestinian leaders approved of the deed as “resistance,” Jack had to steel himself for the next round of meetings. He told himself his job required him to be thorough and impartial—but when he closed his eyes he still saw the face of that dying girl.

  The local Gaza office of Rights for Palestine was in a concrete-walled structure on the bottom floor of what had once been a two-story building. The three-room space was entered through a flimsy wall of plywood patching where the concrete had been sheared off. Though the RFP had lavish offices in the West Bank city of Ramallah, the executive director, Rafa Husseini, insisted on meeting Jack here.

  He’d motored to the checkpoint with Ghassan and Bette, but they did not cross the border with him. A pair of dark-green uniformed Gaza security police escorted Jack from the Erez Crossing on Gaza’s northern border. On the drive Jack witnessed school-age children gleaning scrap metal from heaps of concrete rubble.

  It was only about a mile to the RFP location, where the patrolmen waited outside for Jack’s meeting to conclude. “How do you do, Ms. Husseini?” Jack said. “I understand this is a relatively new appointment for you. You were previously the head of communications for the Palestinian ambassador to Germany and also employed by the PLO’s negotiations team.”

  “For whom I still consult, yes,” the thin, middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue hijab acknowledged. “Please, sit.” The two sat across a flimsy table in mismatched chairs. “I offer my expertise to the unity government established between the Palestinian Authority and Hamas. But my official duties are with the RFP, which as you know is a non-partisan organization that only works to bring about better treatment for oppressed people everywhere. Thank you for coming here. It is crucial that you understand the oppression under which my people live their daily lives. The border crossing you used? It once allowed 800,000 Palestinians to find work in Israel every month. Now fewer than 15,000 can cross there in the same monthly span.”

  “As you know,” Jack acknowledged, “the European Committee for Mid-East Policy has a task force dedicated to Gaza. This particular visit requires me to look into Jewish settlements and certain activity in East Jerusalem as barriers to peace.” Jack purposely refrained from naming any rumor of a rebuilt Jewish temple. He feared the tirade such a topic would generate would destroy any meaningful conversation.

  “The settlements are a crime and a violation of every previous attempt by the Palestinian people to achieve peace and security,” Rafa said. “But you cannot understand the depths of Israeli oppression without witnessing occupied Gaza.”

  “Forgive me,” Jack returned, “but I understand Gaza has been self-governing since 2005. There are no Israeli military forces on this side of the border, are there?”

  “You see,” Rafa said forcefully, “how you have been deceived by the Jewish-controlled media? The Jewish air force routinely violates Gazan air space. The Jewish military patrols the sea coast. How is that acceptable to any truly sovereign state? Did you know there is 40 percent unemployment here? How is Gaza to thrive without access to jobs and a working sea port?”

  “Israel cites security concerns for needing to keep tight control on the border, and arms smuggling as the reason behind the naval patrols.”

  Rafa folded her hands and placed them on the desk in front of her. Her knuckles turned
white and so did a line around her tightly clamped mouth. “Dr. Garrison,” she said. “Israel spews hateful propaganda for Western—primarily American—consumption. This is apartheid, pure and simple. As heinous as ever existed in South Africa.”

  “And terrorist attacks from inside Gaza?” Jack queried.

  “Greatly exaggerated!” Rafa stressed. “Pinpricks in the hide of a military giant! Israel’s disproportionate responses have killed more than 2,000 innocent Palestinians since 2008. They are guilty of war crimes!”

  “And the reports of mortars and rockets being fired from school grounds and hospital compounds?” Jack asked. “Also exaggerations?”

  Rafa nodded fiercely. “Or the tragic actions of a handful of teenagers driven to despair.”

  Jack thought for a moment, but did not ask where despairing teenagers received their weapons or the training in how to use them. “I see,” he said. “Will you be able to meet with me in Ramallah? I’d like to expand our discussion to include the West Bank settlement issue.”

  “Of course. The purposes of our two organizations are very parallel, aren’t they? My work is much narrower in focus, but we both want a just and lasting peace with prosperity for all peoples, do we not?”

  “Indeed we do,” Jack agreed, thanking her yet again.

  Once back in the auto driven by Ghassan, Bette handed Jack a folded newspaper and showed him the latest front page. The headline read: Hamas Terror Tunnel Found Beneath Two UN-Run Schools in Gaza.

  Hamas maintained that such passageways were for legitimate military operations against Israeli military targets. A survey of such tunnels discovered in 2014 revealed their exit points were only 1,000 yards from Jewish civilian structures. When destroying the passages, Israel also asserted it disrupted a plot for 200 Hamas terrorists to simultaneously emerge by night and carry out widespread acts of murder and hostage-taking.

  Now there were more such clandestine terror-highways.

  The newspaper story detailed the discovery of a Hamas-backed infiltration passage running beneath two schools built by the United Nations Relief and Works Administration. The report pointed out the schools were still under construction, leading to the question: How much did UNRWA officials know about the tunnels directly beneath playgrounds and classrooms?

  “How did your meeting with RFP go?” Bette asked politely.

  Jack did not reply. Gripping the paper in one hand, he cupped his chin in the other and stared out the window.

  Chapter Eleven

  The breeze was fragrant and soft. It carried the scent of pine forest mingled with ocean air. Reminds me of the Carmel Highlands above Pacific Grove, California, Jack thought. He wondered about that association for just a moment before being glad he had not expressed it aloud. No kidding, he chided himself. Guess I might be the last person to make that connection. The place where he stood was on a slope of the Israeli National Park known as God’s Vineyard—Har ha Karm-el—Mount Carmel. Like its namesake halfway around the world, the original Carmel was also the rocky headland of a peninsula thrust into the sea. Here it marked the southern barrier to the Jezreel Valley and guarded the left flank of Haifa, just as the Carmel Highlands loomed above Monterrey Bay.

  They came here at Ghassan’s suggestion. One day earlier Jack felt so battered and weary and hopeless about his mission he was ready to give up and go home. “I need a quiet place to sit and think things through,” he said.

  “Mount Carmel,” Ghassan suggested at once.

  Bette and Lev concurred. “Nothing better,” Bette said. “You need to get out of the city again.”

  “The tension here can get oppressive,” Lev agreed. “And I’ve only been up there once. I’m eager to go again—if you want my company.”

  “I may not be much for sparkling conversation,” Jack admitted. “But yes, I’d like the company, please.”

  “Good call,” Lev praised Ghassan. “What made you think of it?”

  The Druze grinned sheepishly. “It’s my home village,” he admitted. “Daliyat al-Karmel on the east side of the park.”

  So while Ghassan spent the afternoon visiting his widowed mother, the remaining trio climbed the slopes. From the lowest levels, dotted with olive groves, they ascended through laurel and oak growth, until finally breaking into the pines.

  A pair of trees, blown down in some Mediterranean storm, fell across each other beside a limestone ledge, forming a sheltered nook and some ready-made seating. “What do you think?” Jack asked.

  “Perfect,” the other two agreed.

  While Lev and Bette sat some distance away, talking quietly, Jack wedged himself between a pair of lopped off branches. Lifting his face to the warm sun, he closed his eyes and felt his shoulders droop.

  What was it about this land that created so much conflict? What drove people to such hatred and despair they’d go to certain death to kill someone else? A suicide bomber in Manchester—a bus shot to pieces in Egypt—a young woman slaughtered in Jerusalem—what did all these events have in common, and what could be done about it?

  The Palestinians longed for a homeland. But hadn’t it been the Jewish longing for their ancestral home that brought them here over the last one hundred years or so? If there was space and water and air enough for all, where did the unending hatred come from?

  It was like there was an unseen war greater than the visible outbursts of violence that shattered lives and caused such grief. How could Jack explain this to anyone else if he couldn’t wrap his head around it himself?

  Suddenly the pastoral, tranquil beauty of the place was muted. The colors seemed dimmed, somehow. The air was less refreshing. An undercurrent of something—what was the word?—sinister—leapt into Jack’s consciousness.

  He looked around. There was no threat. There was no danger, but the suspicion of something unpleasant took away from the joy.

  Jack suddenly had the sense of something being wrong—some reason for him to be depressed, quite apart from what he experienced in Jerusalem. What changed?

  Or what was about to change?

  The air was full of voices. Some were human. Others were—something else.

  A ring of boulders surrounded an oblong space of crushed, yellow grass. The encircling trees were dead or dying. Fallen leaves had long since been ground to powder underfoot. The leafless corpses of the oaks begged for rain from a sky so clear it seemed to never have seen a cloud.

  In the center of the lifeless pasture was an ornate stone altar. It was built of blocks decorated with the wavy lines of storm clouds. Into some of its panels were carved a bearded figure wearing a cone-shaped crown, who strode about carrying a lightning bolt in his hand.

  Ashes and dried blood and bits of bone littered the blocks.

  Throngs—thousands of people—crowded around the oval clearing. They jostled each other. Some were angry. Some appeared nervous. Some laughed and made mocking sounds.

  Some held infant children in their arms, or led toddlers by the hand.

  Jack knew he was having another vision, but for the first time he was also frightened. He was not just a distant observer. He seemed to be in the middle of whatever was taking place. He was truly glad Eliyahu was beside him.

  “Is this still Mount Carmel?” he asked.

  “Oh yes,” Eliyahu confirmed. “There has been no rain for three years. There is no grain. All the crops have failed. Even King Ahab cannot find grass to feed his horses. Instead of repenting of their sins and returning to Jehovah God, the people have intensified their worship of Ba’al Addu—the Lord of the Thunder. They think if they worship him hard enough he will bring back the rain. Look.”

  A double file of men dressed in ornate robes embroidered with stars and lightning bolts and crescent moons parted the sea of onlookers and walked toward the altar.

  “Priests of Ba’al,” Eliyahu commented.

  The priests presented obvious contrasts to the common worshippers. Where the villagers’ clothing was tattered and their faces gaunt and pinch
ed, the priests seemed well fed and prosperous. Their shaved heads gleamed with oil in the morning sun and they appeared haughty and proud.

  “Queen Jezebel promotes adoration of Ba’al and the fertility goddess Ashtoreh,” Eliyahu said. “Ba’al and Ashtoreh demand all manner of sexual perversion as worship—and they get it. But the queen wants no opposition. She has had most of the prophets of Jehovah God killed. In fact, only one is left who is not in hiding. That one has sent out a challenge to the priests of Ba’al, to settle once and for all who is really God.”

  “How will they do that?”

  “The lone, remaining prophet has challenged the 450 priests of Ba’al and the 400 priests of Ashtoreh to meet him here. This was once a place for worship of Jehovah God.” Eliyahu extended a long, bony finger and pointed to where the stones of an abandoned second altar lay tumbled and scattered.

  “It was a place for victories to be celebrated,” Jack offered. “I heard that from here you could see where Gideon defeated the Midianites with just 300 men.”

  “But no longer,” Eliyahu returned. Jack’s guide nodded toward where a shifty-eyed figure wearing royal robes and a circlet of gold walked forward and rested a dismissive sandaled foot on one of the discarded boulders. “After his priests win today,” Eliyahu said, “King Ahab will slaughter the prophet of God and claim total victory. The challenge is this: the priests and the prophet of God will each kill a bullock and lay it on the wood of an altar, but not set fire to it. The god who answers by sending fire is the only true God.”

  So Ba’al the Thunderer—the god of storms and lightning—was supposed to send down fire? No wonder mocking voices swirled through the crowd and on the air. It seemed Ba’al already had the upper hand.

  “But I already know how this turns out,” Jack remarked to Eliyahu, only to find his guide was no longer by his side.