By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  Michael stepped into the foyer and turned down his collar, wondering if he should leave his wet coat in the hallway. He didn’t have to wonder long, for Devorah tugged on his sleeve and pulled him forward, virtually dragging him into the dining room where the table was still strewn with breakfast dishes. Asher sat in one chair, an uncertain smile on his face, and a somber Rabbi Cohen sat in another.

  “Boker tov, good morning, Captain.” Asher lifted his gaze from the table and stood to offer his hand.

  Michael accepted the handshake and the smile but knew this was no time for small talk. His hunch proved reliable a moment later when the rabbi looked up and gestured to his son. “Asher, take the umbrella and walk Devorah to the taxi.”

  Asher dropped his napkin on the table, then nodded at Michael and moved to do his father’s bidding. Michael turned in time to catch the forlorn look on Devorah’s face, then she moved down the hallway and out of sight.

  The abrupt slam of the front door sounded like a death knell in Michael’s ears. He turned to the rabbi and managed a twisted smile. “She will be safe, sir. This is not a high-risk mission.”

  Michael saw a flash of teeth in the rabbi’s dark beard. “I do not fear outside dangers, Captain Reed. The Master of the universe, blessed be he, will watch over my Devorah.”

  The rabbi fell silent, and Michael could feel the weight of his gaze, as dark and powerful as the sea. “Is there something else?”

  “Just this.” The rabbi folded his hands. “I have seen the way you look at her. You admire her, yes?”

  Feeling like a sixteen-year-old about to take a girl out for the first time, Michael shifted uncomfortably. “She is an unusual woman. Very talented, intelligent, and brave.”

  “She is a true daughter of Israel. And she will have no life apart from her people.” A tremor passed over the rabbi’s face as a spasm of grief knit his brows. “Do you understand?”

  Michael lifted a hand in a defensive posture. “I can assure you, sir, I have no plans to pull your daughter away from her family. I respect you and your beliefs.”

  “I know this is true.” The rabbi smiled, but with a distracted, inward look, as though he was listening to some voice only he could hear. “But the heart is deceitful and desperately wicked, who can know it? I trust you to guard my daughter, but I would urge you to guard your heart as well.”

  The rabbi lifted a hand and murmured a blessing in Hebrew, then sent Michael out the door.

  “Would you like something to read, monsieur?”

  The pink-cheeked flight attendant stopped by Michael’s seat and offered a selection of periodicals. Caught a little off guard by the offer, Michael withdrew a Belgian news magazine and thanked the woman with a smile.

  Devorah reached out, her hand brushing Michael’s arm as she tapped the glossy cover. “If we’re lucky, we might catch a glimpse of this guy on this trip. Who knows? A friend of mine went to New York and actually saw Donald Trump getting into a cab on Sixth Avenue.”

  Michael stared at the magazine, noticing for the first time that the cover featured a profile shot of Adrian Romulus, president of the European Union’s Council of Ministers. Since the Council headquartered in Brussels, Romulus undoubtedly spent a great deal of time in the city.

  “I don’t know that lucky is the word I’d use to describe an encounter with Romulus.” Michael held the magazine up and frowned at the picture. “Most of the people I know don’t trust the man.”

  Devorah shrugged and folded her hands over her seat belt. “I don’t really know much about him. Unless he begins to instigate acts of terrorism, I’m perfectly content to leave him alone. I’ve never been terribly interested in European politics.”

  “Maybe you should broaden your horizons.” Michael flipped through the magazine and turned to the article on Romulus.

  As the plane backed out of the gate and the flight attendant began her emergency instructions, he skimmed the first paragraphs. According to the writer for the Belgian Newsday, Adrian Romulus had rescued Europe from the verge of financial collapse in the wake of the Year 2000 Crisis. Now that Europe had coalesced and economic markets had stabilized, he wanted to turn the world’s attention to spiritual matters. “Man is more than intellect and emotion,” he told the writer for Newsday. “He is also spirit. For too long we have celebrated our intelligence and indulged in pleasure. Now it is time we focused on spirit and discovered the divine flame burning bright within each man, woman, and child.”

  Michael nudged Devorah with his elbow. “Did you know that Romulus is planning a worldwide convocation of religious leaders next summer.”

  Her disinterest showed in her face. “Really?”

  Michael referred back to the article. “Yeah. The meeting will be held in Rome on July 29. They are expecting over five thousand religious leaders from all different faiths.”

  Her mouth took on an unpleasant twist. “Well, I hope they aren’t expecting my father and his crew. It doesn’t sound like their kind of party.”

  Michael consulted a list printed in a sidebar. “Judaism will be represented, though. This article lists three prominent rabbis who have already endorsed the meeting.”

  Devorah sniffed. “Reformed Jews, no doubt.”

  Michael suppressed the urge to chuckle. “What is this attitude? I thought nonobservant Jews were below your disdain. Why should you care what they do?”

  “You can’t help caring about something that is completely and forever a part of you.” Her words came out hoarse, as if forced through a tight throat. “You must understand, Michael—I was reared in the Chareidi, the ultraorthodox community. My education, through school and my year of seminary, was markedly Jewish. Even Jewish women are expected to have an extensive knowledge of practical Jewish law and a solid grasp on basic Jewish philosophy. While my brother and his friends were studying Talmud, I was pouring over Tanach, Jewish Scripture. I think it’s fair to say that any girl who graduates from the Orthodox school system knows more about Torah than the average non-Orthodox rabbi.”

  Michael turned in the seat and stared at her, struggling to conquer his involuntary reactions to the gentle, confused look on her face. She was like no woman he had ever met—bright and beautiful, warm and engaging when she chose to be, yet consistently aloof, almost unearthly.

  As the plane taxied down the runway, his mind fluttered back to a movie he’d taken Janis to see years before. The film had portrayed the story of a woman who entered a convent and spent seventeen years systematically suppressing every human desire. When the nun could no longer handle the supernatural struggle and left the convent, she had difficulty learning how to be human again—how to make small talk, how to make change in a market, how to relate to men. In some ways, Devorah was like that nun—a woman in the world, but not really of it.

  He let the magazine fall to his lap as the jet climbed through the clouds, then he reached out and gently brushed a dark curl from Devorah’s shoulder. “For a woman who has left the world of Orthodox Judaism, you certainly speak with a lot of conviction.”

  She looked down, the fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “I haven’t left it,” she whispered, her hands twisting in her lap. “I’ve only set it aside to concentrate on my work. My father doesn’t understand how fragile the State of Israel is—and how important it is that we defend our country. He cannot see that the situation grows more desperate with each passing day. Without our military bases in the Golan Heights and the West Bank, Israel cannot defend itself with conventional weapons.”

  “Perhaps,” Michael spoke in as gentle a tone as he could manage, “your father expects someone else to defend the nation.”

  Her eyes flew open. “The Americans? We cannot count on you. Your Congress has always given too little, too late. They routinely condemn us for military strikes we are forced to make in order to insure our safety—”

  “Hold on, calm down.” Michael lowered his voice so the people around them wouldn’t hear. “I wasn’t talking
about the United States. I was talking about God.”

  Her eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed as she gave him a glare hot enough to sear his eyebrows. “Right. And the Messiah is scheduled to hold a press conference on the Mount of Olives next week. He will set all things in order—no more suffering, no more anti-Semitism, no more evil. I’ve got my front row seat reserved.” She flushed to the roots of her hair. “My father and people like him live on another plane, Michael. I’ve seen enough suffering to know all the prayers in the world aren’t going to change things.”

  Her eyes darkened like angry thunderclouds as her hands clenched in her lap. “When I was twenty-four and serving in the border police, my unit was called to Nablus, the largest Arab city in the West Bank. The Palestinians there had been throwing rocks and fire bombs at innocent people going about their business, and it was our job to stop the violence. I had been trained to fight against tanks and grenades, but I found myself opening fire on rabble-rousers who would not return to their homes.”

  Her voice fell to a rough whisper. “That wasn’t the worst of it. Not only were we killing children, but we were killing ourselves, our own souls. The first time I saw a man whose face was swollen after a beating, I was horrified. The second time, I felt numb. The third time, I felt nothing. I thought I would be a good soldier, that these things would not bother me, until the day I obeyed a command to open fire upon a group who were throwing fire bombs at an Israeli girls’ school. When the smoke cleared, I discovered that we had shot and injured three twelve-year-olds.”

  “You can’t beat yourself up for that.” Michael spoke with quiet firmness. “Your job is to protect your people, no matter who opposes you. It’s sad that your enemy chose to send children against you, but would you rather see innocent Israeli children die? War is never fair. We don’t have to like what we do; we just have to do it. Kill or be killed—it’s really that simple, Devorah.”

  She looked up at him, her mouth as pale as her cheeks. “That’s when I asked to be assigned to the counterterrorism unit. As part of the Sayeret, I knew I would be fighting evil . . . not children.”

  Michael remained silent, allowing the talk of the other passengers to wrap around them. He, too, knew the horrors of war, but he had never had to face the particular nightmare of shooting at a child. Understanding the difficult moral position in which IDF soldiers had found themselves, his heart welled with compassion.

  Silent still, he reached out and placed his hand over Devorah’s. For a moment her hand lay motionless beneath his, then she lowered her other hand over his.

  “Thank you.” The words were scarcely more than a breath, but gratitude shone from her wide, dark eyes.

  Michael squeezed her hand, hoping the yearning that showed in her face was not as apparent in his own. He lowered his gaze, not certain how to proceed, and the photograph of Adrian Romulus caught his eye.

  “Who knows?” He lightened his voice and removed his hand to pick up the magazine. “Perhaps Romulus and his cohorts will solve all the world’s problems next summer. You and I can give up our jobs—maybe move to the country and take up farming.”

  “I can’t imagine you on a farm.” A smile ruffled her mouth as she took the magazine and flipped through the glossy pages. “And I can’t believe mankind will find the answers to its problems in religion.”

  She found the Romulus profile and stopped to skim it. After a long moment, her brows drew together in an angry frown.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Romulus’s conference is to convene on Sunday, July 29.” She tossed the magazine into Michael’s lap, then paused to pick up her attaché case.

  “So?”

  She held up a finger, urging patience, then pulled a small calendar from her case and flipped through the pages. Her brow creased with worry when she found the page she was seeking. “That date is Tish-ah Be-Av.” She looked up and gave him a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “The ninth day of Av, a traditional day of Jewish mourning.”

  He stared at her, baffled. “Why is that significant?”

  “The Bible tells us that on the ninth of Av, in 587 before the Common Era, the Babylonians destroyed the first temple. Generations later, on the same date, the Romans destroyed the second temple. The ninth of Av is also the date when Spain expelled 400,000 Jews in 1492.”

  Michael shifted in his chair. “But those things don’t have anything to do with Romulus. And you’ve already said that Orthodox Jews won’t attend this convocation, so there’s no conflict—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She set her chin in a stubborn line. “The leading rabbis will see this event as an evil omen. Anything significant that occurs on the ninth of Av will be seen as a portent for destruction and sorrow for the Jewish people.”

  Michael scratched his chin and looked away, not knowing how to reply. What had happened to the levelheaded young woman he had come to know? One moment she was telling him about the necessity of defending Israel through military strength, in the next she was wide-eyed with apprehension about a date on a religious calendar.

  Michael smiled, ruefully accepting the truth: Her father the rabbi cast a longer shadow than Devorah Cohen realized.

  At least, Michael thought when they walked through the gate, they wouldn’t have to guess which of the people waiting in the lounge were Devorah’s cousins. Amid the flurry of embraces, exuberant greetings, and waving welcome signs, two men and a woman stood like somber statues. The woman wore a shoulder-length brunette wig, attractively styled but obviously false, and both men wore beards, black hats, and the distinctive black coats of Orthodox Jews. The fringes of gray prayer shawls extended beneath the hems of their coats.

  Like the unerring needle on a compass, Devorah turned toward the trio.

  “Your cousins?” Michael asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Gavriel and Lila,” she said, nodding slightly as she caught the woman’s eye. “I do not recognize the man with them.”

  A moment later the two women were embracing. Michael introduced himself and shook Gavriel’s hand, then stepped back as the young man introduced the stranger. “Captain Reed,” he said, his voice formal and restrained, “this is Rabbi Yacov Witzun. He contacted us and expressed an interest in meeting you.”

  Michael glanced at Devorah as a warning spasm of alarm rippled through him. “You knew we were coming?” he asked, uncertainly extending his hand toward the aged rabbi.

  “It is my very great pleasure to meet you.” The rabbi took Michael’s hand in both his own and nodded slightly. “We have a mutual friend.”

  Michael withdrew his hand and shrugged to hide his confusion. “I wasn’t aware that anyone knew about our trip.”

  Kindness shone from the rabbi’s dark eyes. “My friend is called Daniel. He told me how to reach the Greenbergs and how to contact you.”

  Michael grinned as the light of understanding dawned. Apparently Daniel had contacts everywhere. “Are you—” He paused, casting about for words that would not reveal too much in a public place. “Are you going to help us in this business?”

  Laugh lines radiated from the corners of Witzun’s eyes as he smiled. “Indeed I am. I am going to pray. And I will be available to answer any questions you might have.”

  Lila linked her arm through Devorah’s. “We should be going, Husband,”

  she said, her dark gaze flying to her husband’s face. “We can talk in the car.”

  “Yes.” Gavriel nodded in what looked like relief, then gestured toward the corridor where a mob of passengers streamed to and from various gates. “After you, Rabbi.”

  Twenty minutes later, all five of them had crowded into Gavriel’s black BMW. Lila rode up front beside her husband, while Michael, Devorah, and the rabbi shoehorned themselves into the backseat. The rabbi, Michael noticed, allowed Devorah to enter first, then slid to the center of the seat, effectively acting as a barrier between them. Did he do it on purpose?

  “I didn’t know Daniel knew anyone in Belgium,” M
ichael began as soon as the car moved into the traffic outside the international airport. “But by now I shouldn’t be surprised by anything Daniel does.”

  The rabbi looked at Michael with a smile hidden in his eyes. “I met Daniel last year, when he was in Brussels working with Adrian Romulus and the Council of Ministers. He came to my apartment, and we exchanged a few words. Daniel was not a believer then.”

  Michael stared at the rabbi in a paralysis of astonishment. Daniel had become a believer in Christ in the months since his work for Adrian Romulus, but surely this was not what the rabbi meant.

  “Daniel,” Michael lifted a brow, “was not a believer . . . in what, exactly?”

  “In Romulus, may his name be blotted out. I tried to tell him that Romulus is the next Hitler, but Daniel would not listen. Now, however, he believes.”

  Michael turned away, carefully cloaking his confusion. He wanted to see Devorah’s reaction to the rabbi’s comment, but Witzun sat between them, an impassable barrier.

  For some moments they rode in silence through the suburb of Zaventem, then Gavriel exited the freeway and slanted the car onto another road. “Devorah has spoken to me and outlined your plan,” Gavriel said, catching Michael’s eye in the rearview mirror. “And though we do not necessarily approve of subterfuge, we understand that such things are sometimes necessary. The arrangements have all been made. We have procured a synthetic stone of two hundred carats, and the Russian buyer is scheduled to appear tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. He has spoken to Lila on the phone, but he has never seen her.”

  The rabbi lifted his hand. “Let the matter rest, Gavriel. We will talk tonight after dinner, but for now, let us consider how the Master of the universe will bring his will to pass. Who knows but that these things may be the final sufferings before the arrival of our Moshiach? The Messiah is coming, and he will possess advantages, superiority, and honor to a greater degree than all the kings that have ever existed, as was prophesied by all the prophets, from Moses, peace be upon him, till Malachi, may he rest in peace. The Messiah, the Prince of Peace, will establish his kingdom, and of it there shall be no end . . .”