On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  “A radio communiqué from a Middle Eastern terror group claims Masood was, ‘a soldier for the Islamic State.’ Authorities dispute this claim, suggesting instead Masood acted alone. We have received word that in a last text message before the attack Masood wrote he was acting for revenge against western militaries, for their actions against Muslims in the Middle East.”

  “Bloody Islamic terrorist! Like we need to have it analyzed before we name it,” a mailroom clerk at Jack’s elbow growled.

  Lord Halvorsham popped his head into the break room. “Turn that down!” he demanded. “We can hear it out at the reception area. And get back to work. The best thing we can do to honor the victims is to prevent it from ever happening again—and that means finding a just and permanent peaceful solution to all the injustice in the Middle East.”

  Some of Jack’s co-workers scowled at Halvorsham’s words. A few others nodded approval, but without enthusiasm. All began to drift out.

  “Jack,” Halvorsham added as he turned to leave. “Finish your coffee and come see me, please.”

  Jack sat in a mahogany armchair in Lord Halvorsham’s comfortable office. Unlike his last experience in the chamber, Jack was made to feel much more welcome this time. “Terrible shock you had,” Halvorsham said quietly. “Perhaps you’d like something better than coffee. Gin and tonic, perhaps? Or a glass of wine?”

  Jack declined both. He stared blankly at a framed reproduction of Holbein’s portrait of Sir Thomas More hanging on the wall to the right of Halvorsham’s desk. Saint Thomas More, Jack thought. More stood up against the most powerful men of his day and paid the ultimate price for staying firm in his Christian convictions.

  Halvorsham used a coaxing, entreating tone with Jack. “Now you know better than anyone in this organization—better than most people in the whole world, I daresay—how important our work here actually is. We must not just talk about peace, we have to do something—something real, rational, and concrete.”

  Jack turned his stare on his boss. Halvorsham backed up a step to sit down with the desk between himself and Jack. “What do you think would have prevented what happened Wednesday?” Jack asked. “Would pulling back on troops to allow ISIS to butcher more children be satisfactory? Would apologizing to the Palestinian thug who murdered a policewoman serve the cause of peace? How about allowing a caliphate to spread radical Islam all across Europe, let alone the Middle East and North Africa?”

  “Jack, Jack,” Halvorsham said, spreading his hands in supplication, “I don’t say anything this bad can be remedied overnight, but the way you talked just now is a good example. Using inflammatory language as you just did hinders the cause of peace. Surely you must see that.”

  “I see the governments of Europe should be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Israel,” Jack said firmly. “It’s the only democracy in the region; the only nation in the region that allows freedom of religion; the first place terror attacks are attempted—before they come here. They are the front lines. We should be learning from them.”

  “Our mission is not military or security,” Halvorsham said sternly. “It’s about getting justice for downtrodden people. It’s about getting the Palestinians the land they deserve.”

  “You mean the land they could have had twenty years ago when Arafat was offered more than ninety-five percent of his demands and he turned it down? That land? The land that will never be enough? The concessions that will never be adequate?”

  “You know we can’t have that sort of talk around here.” In total disregard of what Jack said, Halvorsham continued, “We are finally making some headway in pressuring Israel to be more reasonable and proper toward the Palestinians. UNESCO has put forth a resolution asserting that, as an occupying power, Israel has no legal or historical ties to Jerusalem.

  “Our office developed some of the language used in the resolution and provided some of the support material,” Halvorsham said proudly.

  “No legal or historical ties,” Jack said, laughing scornfully. “What amazing fiction! I’m a historian in case you’ve forgotten. I deal in facts—not political make-believe.” He paused, but his anger continued to swell even as Halvorsham shrank back in his chair. “United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization? That would be the same United Nations whose relief and works agency runs the schools in Gaza? The same schools Hamas hides their terror tunnels under?”

  Halvorsham stood up. “I’d hoped,” he said, “you’d had time enough to recover from your trip. I’m very much afraid the events on the bridge have caused you to have a relapse. Your thinking is fuzzy. You need extended time off. A six month leave of absence seems called for and some medical intervention.”

  “The events on the bridge?” Jack repeated scornfully. “You mean the Islamic terror attack that killed or crippled dozens? No, but you’re wrong. There’s nothing wrong with my vision or my thinking. I see things more clearly now than ever before. You’ll have my resignation in the morning.”

  “I believe that would be best,” Halvorsham agreed. “Don’t bother coming in. We’ll box your things and have them sent round.”

  Turning at the door, Jack added one more thing. He pointed at the painting of St. Thomas More and said, “Why don’t you send that portrait along too? It’s obvious you have no idea who he was or what he was about.”

  Sitting beneath the image of Salisbury cathedral in his living room, Jack lifted his cell phone from the end table, studied it, laid it down again, then retrieved it once more. The mantle clock—the anniversary clock Jack gave Debbie for their first anniversary—still ticked faithfully. The hands pointed to eleven o’clock—1:00 a.m. in Israel.

  Deciding he couldn’t delay any longer, Jack stabbed Lev’s number and waited out five buzzes on the line. Lev and Jack had exchanged emails since the Westminster Bridge terrorist attack, but had not spoken. Now, after ending his time at the ECMP today, disappointment surged over Jack at not being able to reach his friend. He prepared to leave a voicemail message and sign off for the night.

  At the last moment, Lev answered. “Hello, Jack! Everything okay?”

  Taking a deep breath, Jack plunged in. “I’m sorry to call so late,” he said. “Bet you were asleep.”

  “No, no. Big things happening here. I only just got in. What’s up? I figured you’d call when you were ready to talk.”

  “I left the Committee today,” Jack said. “I mean, for good.” He took a few moments to briefly explain what happened and why he absolutely could not remain employed there. “The Committee isn’t working for peace,” he said, “unless it’s a peace dictated by Palestinian terms. Now I understand why the Danish delegate left: in this upside-down view of who’s causing the trouble, there can’t be peace as long as there’s an Israel. They wanted me to come up with a report blaming Israel for everything bad in the region for the last eighty years, and the Jews for most everything bad since—forever.”

  Lev laughed. “As my grandfather would say, ‘So what’s new, nu?’ My people always get blamed. But seriously, Jack, what’s this mean to you?”

  “That’s what I called about,” Jack admitted. “London just doesn’t—it doesn’t feel like home anymore, you know?”

  Lev’s voice from Jerusalem sounded distant, but still conveyed concern. “Must be tough,” he offered. “You’ve used work to get you through the last year, but now that isn’t enough—isn’t even possible.”

  Jack gazed again at the pictures Debbie selected and the furniture she directed Jack to arrange before replying. “Nailed it exactly,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I dunno what to do with myself,” he admitted.

  “Back to America?”

  “I could get a teaching job,” Jack agreed. Then the real reason behind the late night call came with a rush. “And there’s more. I just found out—I’m Jewish.”

  Jack explained about the box, the revelation of what his family connection was, and about searching for his grandmother.

  “So. . .” Jack i
nterrupted his tumbling flow of words. “What would you think about me coming back to Israel? I mean, I don’t know what for yet, but. . .”

  “Stop right there,” Lev affirmed strongly. “I was just waiting to hear you say it. I want you to work with me. I’ve thought it ever since traveling with you. Since the conversation we had at Gethsemane. We need you, Jack. We need your communication skills. We need your help getting the truth out past a global media all too willing to, like we said, blame Israel—blame us,” he emphasized, “for everything.”

  “But where would I stay?” Jack said. Even as he spoke he knew it was a feeble objection. “I paid a year’s lease on this place so I can’t afford much.”

  Lev swatted away the issue. “You’ll stay with me at the Partners’ Hotel. It ain’t the King David, brother, but we’ll make do. How soon can you get here? Like I said, we got big things happening.”

  “Would day after tomorrow be too soon?”

  “Perfect. There’s a group of UN delegates arriving for a tour of Israel. Amir and I have promised the PM’s office to help show them around.”

  “Seriously?”

  “They want to see a combination of the modern state and the ancient sites. Who better than us? Who better than you?” Lev stressed. “Academic credentials and diplomatic experience too.”

  Jack laughed as he protested, “Easy on that diplomacy stuff! Remember I just got canned for my inability to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Then come where you’re appreciated!”

  How had Jack ever regarded ECMP as fair and unbiased? Thinking back over previous meetings and reports, he perceived blatant anti-Semitism—and he was part of it.

  Now that Jack had resigned it was difficult for him to define exactly how he felt. He was relieved, certainly, to get away from the prejudice, but he also experienced some guilt for his previous involvement. Part of what he hoped to accomplish with Lev was—what was the word?—a form of restitution.

  Then too, seeing Bette again soon was a positive electric charge—but there was a nagging negative in the sense of unfaithfulness to Deb’s memory. He knew Deb would never accuse him of that, but he couldn’t help it.

  The idea that Israel might continue unfolding to him in dreams and visions was both humbling and exciting—but London had been home for so long. . .

  It’s a trial step, he told himself. Nothing permanent yet. If things don’t work out with Lev—or with Bette—I can always return here. He could find a university position again somewhere—maybe. Many institutions of higher learning were even more openly anti-Israel than the ECMP.

  Enough! Jack thought. Bette is in Jerusalem. That’s enough of a future for right now.

  There was just one thing he absolutely had to do before heading back to Israel.

  When Jack resigned he thought there was nothing in his office he cared about. Books, papers, a couple inexpensive art prints of PRB scenes Deb picked out for him, but nothing with any real emotional investment—except the walking staff.

  Jack was not about to leave it behind, nor trust someone else to ship him something so awkwardly shaped. It was the weekend and Jack had no idea if his keycard had already been deactivated, but he couldn’t wait until Monday to call. He headed back to 30 St. Mary Ax to see if he could get in.

  Both outer door and inner office opened with a swipe of Jack’s card. He scanned the room once, felt no regrets, then grabbed the hiking stick and headed back to the elevator.

  The lift dropped only a single floor and the door reopened to reveal two men. One had his back toward Jack. The other was an Arab male in a business suit. The expensively-dressed man looked Jack in the eye, put a hand on the other fellow’s arm, and said tersely, “Sorry. Please go ahead. We’re not quite ready after all.”

  Jack nodded and punched the “Close Door” button.

  Brahim Rahman did not release Faisal’s arm for a full minute after encountering Jack at the elevator door.

  “I saw something in his eyes,” Rahman said. “Some recognition of either me or you.”

  “Not me,” Faisal replied. “He’s never really seen my face and he didn’t get more than a glimpse right now.”

  “He’s smart,” Rahman said. “Who knows what he might put together if he has time to think it through. I thought getting him out of the Committee would be enough, but now I’m not sure.”

  “What would you like me to do?”

  “Take care of him tonight,” Rahman ordered as he punched the call button for the lift. “Can you get to his flat before he does?”

  Faisal shrugged. “Motorcycle. Fifteen minutes—perhaps twenty. It will take him at least an hour.”

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Always,” Faisal Husseini confirmed.

  Out on the street, heading for the Tube while toting the walnut rod got Jack a few odd looks but no remarks.

  It was only when back on the Bakerloo train he figured something out: the wealthy- looking figure was the man whose photo Jack had seen in the Daily Mirror—what was his name? Jack couldn’t remember. The story had something to do with money laundering.

  Was there anything familiar about the other man? It seemed so, but Jack didn’t think there could be. After all, he only saw the man’s build, his back, and a hint of his profile. It almost seemed like his arm was grasped to prevent him from turning to face Jack. Pretty silly notion, Jack thought.

  A pair of German tourists with rucksacks and camping gear chose that moment to admire his hiking stick and Jack put the brief encounter out of his mind.

  The streetlight at the corner of Formosa and Elnathan Mews was out. There was another lamp, but it was at the far end of the cobblestone lane. Even though it was fully dark Jack wasn’t bothered. Number four was only a few homes in from the cross street, and the bright yellow door was impossible to miss, even in the shadows.

  Jack sniffed the air. Someone was cooking: cabbage. There were times when Jack thought he could identify London’s neighborhoods by the prevailing aromas at meal times.

  Leaning the hiking staff against his left shoulder, Jack fished in his pocket for the Yale latchkey. The door swung open into the hallway that ran straight toward the kitchen. He stepped in and kicked the door shut behind him. Jack fumbled for the light switch, found it, then flicked it up and down in frustration. Burnt out.

  When Jack left home it was still day, so he did not leave any light on in the kitchen or on the lower stairs. The farther inside he went, the darker it became, except for the faint glow from a lamp at the very top of the stairs. It didn’t matter. Jack and Deb shared this space so happily he knew it by heart; could probably climb all the way to the skylight without opening his eyes.

  Jack hung his latchkey on the hook by the entry and headed for the stairs, passing the door out into the garage. The carpet underfoot muffled his steps.

  From somewhere in the distance came the wail of a siren. Closer by, but in the other direction, loud rock music came from the barge converted into a pub down in the canal basin.

  Grasping the hiking stick by the antler with his right hand, he let the tip trail behind him. After he passed the kitchen, over his right shoulder was the doorway leading into the dining room. Jack hadn’t entertained any guests since Deb’s death, so the room was left unused.

  It was not until his left foot was on the first tread of the stairs that he heard a noise behind him in the dining room. He barely had time to turn his head before a masked assailant, dressed all in black, burst out from behind the dining room door, brandishing a knife.

  Without turning to face the threat, and out of instinct rather than a plan, Jack pushed down on the antler. The butt end of the walking stick pivoted upward into the attacker’s midsection.

  The first stroke of the blade was downward, but it missed Jack’s shoulder by half the length of the staff. The invader batted aside the stick and charged.

  It was difficult to turn on the stairs. During Jack’s pivot toward his opponent he let his right hand
slide downward on the stick while his left grasped the antler. The hiking stick became a quarter-staff—and it worked. He managed to parry the second blow with the middle of the walnut rod.

  “Help!” Jack yelled. “Help!”

  The glow from the light at the top of the stairs illuminated the adversary’s eyes—the only visible part of him because of the ski mask over his face and the gloves on his hands. The eyes were fiercely determined; not the look of a robber, but of a killer.

  Jack’s cell phone was in his inside coat pocket. No chance to reach it to dial 999. The only thing keeping him alive was the hiking stick.

  The third frenzied slash was upward, aimed at Jack’s belly.

  Jack brought the staff down hard on the attacker’s wrist, preventing the thrust from reaching him.

  What happened next was faster than all the previous movements.

  After the last blow the tine of the antler was facing the assailant’s face. With every ounce of his strength, Jack thrust the walking stick forward and upward—directly into the opponent’s right eye.

  With a loud shriek, his adversary dropped the knife, clutched his face, and fled toward the front door, where he fumbled with the latch.

  Jack took a step after him, then stopped. What if this guy had more than one weapon on him?

  The moment’s indecision was enough to allow the invader to fling open the door and rush out into the night.

  Jack slammed the door and locked it, then quickly reopened it and stepped out into the lane. What if the invader had not been alone?

  Moving to where his back was protected by the corner between two walls, Jack relinquished his grip on the staff long enough to thumb a call to the authorities. He stood brandishing the sharp end of the staff at every noise until the police arrived.

  PC Buttram was a five-year veteran of the Metropolitan Police. She was young enough to remain energetic; experienced enough to be skeptical.