by Dan Sofer
He looked through the tall lobby windows. Shira and their parents sat at the table. He couldn’t just leave.
Ben had made this mess; let Ben clean it up.
He dialed Ben’s number.
“You’ve reached Ben Green. Please leave a message.” Beep!
“Ben. Call me right away,” Dave said.
Nothing too specific; you never knew who was listening.
“It’s an emergency,” he added, trusting his desperate tone would convey the urgency of the situation.
He ended the call.
He waited.
Mandy. I am so sorry.
Dumping her was bad enough. Putting her in harm’s way was unforgivable.
While Ben was out swashbuckling, an innocent girl was picking up the bill.
It occurred to Dave that Ben had chased after Ornan’s van. He might have seen her or discovered where she was being held. The police would be able to take over from there.
Call the cops and your girl gets it, the man had said.
But what choice did he have?
He called Ben’s home line. It rang for a full two minutes.
He called Ben’s mobile and left another message.
“Ben, you bastard, wherever you are. Call me right away.”
***
Ben sat in a windowless room. The chair was not designed for comfort. Neither were the ropes that strapped his arms and legs to the steel frame. A single naked lightbulb hung from the ceiling.
So this is how it ends.
Ben had seen it before in film and on the evening news. Interrogation. Torture. Forced confession. Then, a large curved sword and game over.
His last moments might appear on YouTube for a few minutes before the moderators removed the clip.
Would his captors bother with demands?
Gilad Shalit had waited five years for a prisoner exchange. Nachshon Waxman died during the rescue mission. Which was worse?
Would he be able to send a farewell message to Yvette?
Yvette.
Yvette was all he’d ever wanted in life. But he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Ben, you idiot. When will you learn to stand down?
Behind him, a door opened.
He’d failed to get a good look at his captors. There were at least two guards with Kalashnikovs and they spoke among themselves in whispers.
Pay attention, Ben.
The details might mean the difference between escape and beheading.
Footsteps. A man stepped into view. He was short, dark-skinned, and sported an oily handlebar mustache.
Ornan!
Ben released a lungful of air.
He could strike a deal with Ornan. Ornan understood dollars and cents and the need for discretion. A pragmatic man, Ornan. And Ben had the stone. Ideal leverage for a negotiation.
Ornan studied him intensely. His brow crumpled with concern and determination. He looked almost scared. Then he spoke.
“I wouldn’t make any hasty assumptions,” he said.
Ben’s jaw dropped. Ornan had spoken in a flawless British accent.
“Where is it, Mr. Green?”
“What…?” Ben said, still reeling from the man’s perfect Oxford diction. “How…?”
“You took something from my property this morning. It’s not in your car. I must have it back immediately. You have no idea what you are dealing with.”
“The Stone?” He felt his bargaining position strengthen. The Foundation Stone must be Ornan’s star artifact.
“Yes,” Ornan said, pointedly. “The Stone.”
“I don’t have it. But I can help you get it. I can even arrange a sale.”
It was Ornan’s turn to react with surprise.
“What?”
“Museums will pay millions for the stone. Much more than you’d get on the black market.”
Ornan’s expression darkened. His face flushed. Surprise turned to disgust. Ben had hit a nerve. Time to crank up the charm.
“That means more money for your cause.”
“My cause?”
“You know. Freedom fighting. The Palestinian people.”
Ornan turned crab red. His body trembled. His fists clenched. Disgust graduated into full-blown rage.
“We are not Palestinians!” A globule of saliva shot from his mouth like a stray bullet. “We are not Arabs.”
Ben fumbled for a new theory.
MI5? Mossad?
That didn’t make sense.
Iranian Revolutionary Guards?
What about Erez and his fundamentalist Christians?
Then it dawned on him. Whatever Ornan’s affiliation, he had let down his guard. He was not even trying to hide his identity. This was no gesture of good faith designed to promote cooperation. Kidnappers always hide their identity unless they have nothing to lose, unless they have already decided to kill you.
If Ben was to die, at least he would die knowing the truth.
“Who are you?” he asked.
***
Mandy stood on the iron-framed bed with the squeaky mattress, but she could not reach the window. It wasn’t large enough for an adult to pass through but at least it would give her a peek at the outside world. Maybe tell her where she was.
She might even be able to help Dave.
He was on his way to rescue her.
That much she had learned from the telephone call.
She felt like jumping on the mattress. Not a good idea. She’d probably fall right through. The man called Jay wanted something that Dave had, and Dave was giving it up for her.
The scroll jar.
Mandy pieced the scraps of information together.
The jar must be very valuable. Maybe not just dollar value. Her cloak-wearing captors didn’t come across as a rational bunch.
She counted three men: Damian and the two Australians. Jay called the shots. Shortie seemed to fear him. But not Damian.
The keypad beeped six times and the door to her cell opened.
She jumped off the bed and sat down.
A gray cloak entered the room and closed the door. He lifted the hood. Damian.
“How are you, Bathsheba?”
Mandy let it slide. Damian was right, she needed friends.
“How does it work?” she said.
“What?”
“Damian and King David. Mandy and Bathsheba. Have we been wandering around the planet for centuries?”
He smiled. “It’s more of a soul thing.”
“Reincarnation?”
“Yeah. That. We just need to rediscover our true selves.”
“Great.” Mandy smiled expectantly.
Damian took the bait.
“We’re at a critical point in history. The Sons of Light are the world’s only hope.”
The Sons of Light. What is this dude smoking?
Aloud, she said, “What critical point in history?”
It sounded like a phrase he had heard and repeated.
“You see the news. Tsunamis. Earthquakes. Tornados. Bombings. Mass murders. The world is falling apart. An energy is ripping through the Earth, driving nature wild. A critical point.”
“And you’re here to save the world?”
“Heal the world. To usher in the End of Days. To spread the Light. Teach The Way.”
“And then you’ll be king again?”
“Yeah. Well, not at first. The Teacher is our leader now. The Teacher of Righteousness. He has shown us The Way. When the world is ready, the Teacher will reveal my true identity.”
Mandy held her smile. The End of Days. The gray robes. These Sons of Light are walking clichés. “Sounds great. Good luck with that.”
He beamed at her. “Good luck to us both.”
He placed a wad of folded gray cloth beside her on the bed. It was a cloak.
“Put it on,” he said. “Time to meet the others.”
***
Dave shifted down to second gear and accelerated up the steep hill. The sun had
dipped below the Judean Mountains ahead and the light was fading fast over the open road.
He’d be home and back in an hour and a quarter, in time for the display of Nigerian acrobats in the hotel lobby and the sing-along of Israeli folk songs in honor of Independence Day.
Shira and their parents had split up to shower and primp for the performance. Dave’s absence might not even be noticed.
He redialed Ben’s number. Straight to voice mail. Was Ben’s phone out of service? He was beginning to worry.
A signpost that marked sea level sped by.
Soon Independence Day celebrations would begin all over the country. Mandy had wanted to celebrate with Dave. Instead she’d spend the night in captivity.
Where was she?
How were they treating her?
There was only one way Dave could help her and by God he would do it.
Sorry, Ben. History and heritage or not, the Stone has to go.
Dave slowed as he approached the floodlit army checkpoint. Then he came to a complete stop.
A large concrete barrier blocked the road.
A bottomless pit opened in Dave’s stomach.
What the hell…?
A soldier in a helmet and flak jacket approached Dave’s car. A machine gun hung across his torso.
Dave rolled down his window.
“Hi there,” he said in English. The Confused Tourist routine had gotten him out of a speeding fine once. It was worth a shot.
The soldier grinned. “Dave?”
Dave tried to place the smudged eyeglasses, dimpled cheeks, and two-day stubble. He drew a blank.
“Moshe,” the soldier said. “Moshe Menkes. From the Gush.”
Click.
The gangly American-Israeli with blond hair and Woody Allen glasses had sat two rows ahead of Dave in the yeshiva study hall during Dave’s gap-year in Israel.
“Moshe,” Dave said. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you. How you doing?”
“Bored. But OK.”
“You’re still in the army?”
“No. I work at a law firm in Tel Aviv. Got stuck with reserve duty over the long weekend. Major bummer.”
“Sorry to hear it. Any chance I can get through?”
“Not unless you have a bulldozer in the trunk. The road is closed over Yom Ha’azma’ut.”
Dave indicated the stream of cars traveling in the opposite direction. “What about them?”
“Cars can leave Israel for the Territories. But they can’t go back. Not until tomorrow night.”
Cement barriers blocked the road shoulder as well. He could make a U-turn through a break in the lane dividers, drive a few meters into oncoming traffic, and then return to his lane.
“Moshe,” Dave said. “Maybe you can help me out. It’s an emergency.”
“I’d like to.” Moshe pointed a thumb at the other soldiers. “But orders are orders. Unless you’ve got a beating heart in a bucket of ice, there’s nothing much I can do.”
“Got it. I’ll head back. Thanks.”
He maneuvered the car between the dividers. A bullet in his tires would not help Mandy. Neither would a bullet in his head.
He entered the opposite lane and drove away from Jerusalem. He pulled over and idled in the emergency lane.
He punched the wheel. “Dammit!”
The air-conditioning blew cool despair in his face.
He didn’t have a day to spare. He could climb the hill on foot. There were no cars in that direction, let alone cabs, and Dave had not thought to bring a bottle of water. A long night march was not wise in the rough West Bank outskirts of Jerusalem. Local Bedouin were bound to take an unhealthy interest in a lone, unarmed Jewish hiker.
He tried Ben’s number again.
No luck.
“The road is blocked,” he said, after the beep. “I’m turning back.” His voice messages were a diary of complaints and demands. Soon Ben’s voice mail would reach capacity.
He searched for Mandy’s number on his phone. Would the man with the cruel voice agree to another delay?
Best not to upset him. He had a short fuse.
Dave needed help.
He scrolled through his list of contacts.
Nat!
Nat cared for Mandy. She could keep a secret. Dave hit Call. He braced for the angry berating he thoroughly deserved.
“This is Nat. I’m abroad for the week, so text me or I’ll hear your message when I get back.”
“No!”
Dave drummed the wheel like a raging King Kong. He folded his arms over the steering wheel and hid his face. Tears wet his forearms.
Why Mandy?
Damn you, Ben.
Darkness descended on the road.
How could he return to the hotel and pretend all was well. How could he sit through the hotel entertainment and talk of his future with Shira when Mandy sat, for all he knew, in chains?
He had failed her. He had failed himself.
He scrolled down his call history.
An unfamiliar number came into view. The number, technically, should never have been on his phone. He had never dreamed of using it. But now a world of hope squeezed into ten precious digits.
Call it Fate. Call it Cosmic Irony.
Dave selected the number.
He pressed the button.
The number rang.
It answered.
As fast as he could, he said, “Please don’t hang up.”
***
Mandy followed Damian down a stone corridor.
No windows.
No sign of the outside world.
His biblical sandals kicked up the hem of the gray cloak.
She had tossed the cloak’s hood over her head and she was heating up. Did the others also wear clothes underneath? She hoped never to find out.
The corridor opened into a broad, bare-walled chamber. Three gray cloaks sat around a large wooden table: Jay, the brown man, and a blond balloon of a man with three chins.
The table was set with simple glass tumblers, a glass water pitcher, a tin pot on a trivet, and earthenware bowls. The men slurped soup with plastic spoons.
Jay looked up and swore.
“Brothers,” Damian announced with a flourish. “I present to you, Bathsheba. You’ve met Jay and John. This is Sol.”
Sol looked concerned.
“It’s OK, Sol,” Damian said. “You can speak to her. It’s for the holy purpose of welcoming a new member to our clan.”
Mandy swallowed. Her appeasement tactic had worked better than she had intended.
Sol smiled broadly. “Pleased to meet you.” He had a Texan drawl. Mandy shook his meaty hand.
“I have gold,” he said and winked at her. “Lots of gold.”
“And many wives,” Damian said. He waved a finger at Sol. He pulled out the chair next to Sol for Mandy, opposite the other two men.
She sat. “King Solomon, right?” she said to Sol.
Sol inclined his head. “At your service, ma’am.”
Two kings, two jacks, and a queen. No sign of this Teacher of Righteousness.
Jay glared at Damian.
“Are you insane? You can’t just hand out invitations to the Yachad.”
Damian seated himself at the end of the table between Mandy and Jay.
“Why not?”
Jay gaped like an incredulous fish.
“First off, we’re the Sons of Light.”
“Children of Light,” Damian corrected. “Bnei can mean either sons or children. We are boys and girls.”
Damian dished up two bowls of hot soup. He placed one in front of Mandy.
“Strictly vegetarian,” he said. “John here is a wizard in the kitchen.”
John bowed his head.
“Second of all,” Jay said, “rule number four is celibacy. How do you expect us to be celibate with a girl in our ranks?”
Damian blew on a spoonful of soup.
“Use your imagination, Jay. We’re doing you a favor. The Teache
r won’t be overjoyed that you kidnapped her. Lucky for you, God put your stupidity to good use.”
“She was supposed to be out of here tomorrow morning,” Jay said. “The Teacher didn’t have to know.”
Supposed to be out of here.
Mandy didn’t like the sound of that.
She tasted the soup. A bit heavy on the salt but not bad. The way the conversation was going, she would need her strength.
“Whatever,” Damian said. “Let’s just make her comfy and be on our best behavior.”
Slurping sounds filled the air.
“Maybe you’re right,” Jay said. “Destiny brought her to us. But you’re wrong about one thing.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“She’s not Bathsheba. She’s Mary.”
Mandy almost sprayed soup out her mouth and over the table.
Jay did not look like he was joking.
“Dream on, Jay,” Damian said.
“M is for Mary.”
Mandy put two and two together. “You’re Jesus?”
“See,” Jay said. “She gets me already.”
Damian winked at Mandy. “Ask him to walk on water. I’d like to see that.”
“You will,” Jay said. “Right after you learn to play that bloody harp.”
King David shot Jesus a venomous glance. “The End of Days is close,” he said, meaningfully.
Jesus smoldered, violence simmering beneath the surface. “Judgment Day. The Sons of Darkness will perish.”
Silence stretched over the table like a bowstring ready to snap. The Sons of Light teetered on civil war and Mandy sat in the middle.
Then King Solomon spoke. “What’s for dessert?”
Jay leaned toward John. “Bring the fruit.”
John collected the empty soup bowls.
Here’s your chance, Mands.
She lifted the pot off the trivet. None of the men objected. She followed John through a door. The kitchen smelled of kerosene and fried onion. Long stained counters, tired wooden closets, shutters closed. And a back door.
Slip outside. Disappear down the street. This is no place for a sane girl.
She placed the pot on the old gas stove. John lifted a platter of sliced fruit from a counter and Mandy lined up behind him as if to return to the dining room. Then she ran.
The back door opened easily. Hot air hit her face. The frenetic rattle of a generator rang in her ears. Spotlights lighted the skirts of the house. A white van. A dirt road. And beyond the circle of artificial light, darkness.