A Love and Beyond

by Dan Sofer

  No houses. No buildings. Only the inky black of a moonless night.

  Yellow lights blinked on a distant horizon like the dusty stars above.

  Then shapes emerged in the gloom. The rise and fall of sloping dunes. Patches of low scrub. A lunar wilderness.

  They were in the middle of the freaking desert!

  She stepped off the threshold. Loose stones crunched beneath her sandals. The dirt road climbed into darkness.

  Mandy ran blind. After a hundred yards, the voices started. The sounds reached her ears, clear and sharp in the still night air. Heavy feet on gravel. A car door opening and closing. An engine turning and spluttering to life.

  Did they have weapons? Mandy hadn’t seen any guns. She would make a difficult target in the dark.

  Just keep going.

  Her eyes adjusted to the night.

  Leave the path. Take your chances in the open.

  A bright light flickered ahead. It moved.

  A flashlight?

  Two lights now, two roving lights. And beyond, a dull yellow glow.

  A road?

  The lights grew larger. Closer.

  “Hey,” she called. “Over here!”

  Had Dave found her?

  She waved her arms. The headlights fell on her, blinding her. Wheels locked and skidded over the loose stones. The vehicle halted a few feet from her and kicked up a cloud of dust, the particles gleaming in the harsh beams of light.

  Mandy shielded her eyes with her hands.

  Then something hard and heavy hit her waist and knocked her to the ground. Wiry arms clamped around her and pinned her down.

  She tasted dust. Her body pressed against the rough terrain.

  A car door opened. A man stepped in front of the car and blocked the harsh light.

  Mandy raised her head and squinted.

  The man was not Dave. He wore a long white robe, translucent against the headlights. He raised his arms in a gesture of welcome or forgiveness.

  The Teacher spoke. “What the Devil is going on here?”

  Chapter 12

  Early Wednesday morning, Dave said his prayers in the cozy hotel synagogue and hurried to the breakfast buffet.

  He had taken his first bite of an omelet with mushroom, cheese, and onion when two girls sat down beside him at the large round table.

  He almost choked. “I told you to call me.”

  Shani swept her blond locks over her shoulder. She wore an orange tank top. Dave felt the glances from the other tables.

  “You got us up at the crack of dawn,” she said. “You didn’t expect us to wait at the bus stop, did you?”

  “It’s an oven outside,” Ruchama added. She eyed Dave’s plate.

  Dave glanced at the concierge podium that guarded the entrance to the dining hall. Neither Shira nor her parents had surfaced yet.

  “Do you have it?” Dave said.

  “What kind of an idiot keeps his spare key in the electricity box?” Shani said.

  “Where is it?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “In the lobby?”

  “Calm down, Dave. Nobody’s going to swipe your precious cooler bag.”

  Dave drew a deep breath.

  He had the Stone. Now he must wait for the call. And get rid of some dead weight.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “I told them we’re with you. Don’t look at me like that, Dave Schwarz. You owe us. Big time. Breakfast is the least you can do. Now, where is Mandy? And what grave danger is she in exactly?”

  Shani’s sarcastic tone could not conceal the concern in her eyes.

  Dave looked at the entrance again. Any minute Shira would walk in. Or worse: Dave’s mother.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said. “I can take it from here.”

  “Oh no you don’t. We’re not leaving without her.”

  “Or without breakfast,” Ruchama added.

  Shani waved over a waiter and he poured two cups of coffee.

  “It’s complicated. I’ll get Mandy to call you when it’s over.”

  Shani and Ruchama sipped their coffees.

  “That’s OK.” Shani leaned back on the chair. “We have all day.”

  Dave groaned.

  What the hell.

  The truth was unbelievable. Maybe they’d write him off as delusional and leave.

  “Mandy’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Shani lowered her coffee cup. “What do you mean kidnapped?”

  “You know my friend Ben Green?”

  Blank looks from the girls.

  “He’s an archeologist at the City of David. He discovered an ancient artifact called the Foundation Stone. It’s supposed to have mystical powers.”

  Shani raised an eyebrow. “The rock in the cooler bag?”

  “I told you not to open it. Whatever. Now the bad guys want the Stone and they’re holding Mandy until they get it.”

  Shani looked him square in the eye. “The Bad Guys? Are you high?”

  “What? No. I don’t know who they are or where. All I know is that they have Mandy and they want the Stone. The guy called from her phone. I heard her voice. He’s going to call any minute with instructions. He told me to come alone.”

  Shani sipped her coffee. “Remind me,” she said. “What does this have to do with Mandy?”

  “Nothing. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Shani chewed her lip and eyed Dave with mistrust. “Ruchama. Go get some food. We’re not going anywhere.”

  Ruchama didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw Steve and Beverly walk into the breakfast hall. Bev scanned the tables and waved at Dave.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  Shani followed his gaze. “What’s the matter, Dave? Afraid to introduce us to your parents?”

  “They’re not my parents.”

  Shani’s eyes narrowed. Then she smiled. “You. Little. Weasel. You’re here with your new girlfriend, aren’t you? And these are the in-laws. How sweet.”

  Dave’s stomach did a nauseating double flip.

  He should have seen that coming. The streets of Katamon have eyes and ears.

  “Shani,” he hissed. “Please! I’ll get Mandy to call you as soon as it’s over.”

  She leaned back and sipped her coffee.

  Bev placed her handbag on the chair opposite Dave. “Good morning, David.”

  Her eyes moved from Dave to Shani and her sleeveless shirt. Steve waited in line at the latte counter.

  “Hi, Mrs. Cohen. This is Shani. An old friend.”

  “Yeah, we go way back,” Shani said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Remind me, Dave. How did we meet? Oh, I remember. In rehab.”

  “She’s joking,” Dave said.

  Bev’s cheery expression froze. “I’ll dish up.” She strolled toward the buffet line.

  Dave turned to Shani.

  “You win,” he said. “But you’ll have to stay out of sight. Starting now.”

  Shani grinned.

  His phone rang. He showed the display to Shani. It read Mandy Rosenberg.

  He cleared his throat and answered. “This is Dave.”

  The cruel voice spoke. “Do you have it?”

  Dave glanced at Shani. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now do exactly as I say.”

  ***

  Ornan paced over the oriental carpet of his office.

  The building was old. Very old. Not as ancient as the City of David but old enough to have served twenty generations of his ancestors.

  Their portraits lined the walls of his office. Men with noble features and impenetrable gazes. They wore turbans and headdresses. Ornan’s grandfather sported a top hat, his father a bowler.

  Ornan felt the weight of their legacy. This was no mere tradition. He had inherited a critical mission and secret charge.

  His forebears
had maneuvered far greater threats in the past and yet the bald archaeologist had penetrated Ornan’s defenses deeper than any interloper had in decades.

  Small wonder.

  Resources had dwindled over the centuries. Weaponry. Bribes. Top-class education. Managing the present and preparing for the future carried a hefty price tag. Ornan had to do more with less. Invest in technology. Invent new revenue streams.

  The restaurant had been a mistake. A colossal mistake.

  Only once before had the Stone fallen into foreign hands. The recovery had cost much in blood and treasure.

  That morning, Ornan had panicked. The anonymous tip to the police had aimed to flush Green out. Put him on the defensive. Separate him from his loot.

  Ornan had not expected Ben to track his men to the second stronghold.

  Ben Green was tenacious. Determined. Foolhardy.

  For his trouble, he had spent the night strapped to a chair in the basement, the key to the Stone still sealed in his head.

  Could he be trusted?

  Ornan stopped pacing.

  He lifted a ceremonial dagger from the wall, the black leather sheath inlaid with rubies and emeralds.

  He withdrew the long silver blade. Letters of a covenant etched the surface in an old, forgotten tongue.

  Ornan knew what he must do. In a way, he had made his decision yesterday the moment he had confronted his prisoner.

  The blade gleamed in the morning light.

  Ornan had no other option.

  ***

  In an IDF tank base along the Jordanian valley, the surveillance operator rested her feet on the desk and waited for her toenails to dry. She closed the bottle of luminous pink polish. The desk chair eased back at a comfortable angle and allowed easy access to the keyboard and joystick.

  She had transferred to Intelligence expecting a desk job and flexible hours. She was not disappointed. Usually.

  That morning she was supposed to be recovering from an Independence Day hangover with her boyfriend. But high alert for Nakba Day had moved her observation balloon and control caravan to the small tank base near Jericho.

  Nakba Day, the Day of the Catastrophe, was the Palestinian answer to Israel’s Independence Day. The dubious festival followed the Gregorian calendar, not the Hebrew, and so the disturbances rarely managed to mar the Israeli celebrations.

  The operator scanned the monitor for suspicious gatherings or signs of violence.

  So far she had tracked three herds of sheep and a broken-down car on the 90.

  8 AM. Her boyfriend had promised to visit that morning. He had called at 2 AM, the clink of beer bottles audible over the background beat of trance music. So far, no boyfriend.

  Two hours until the end of her shift.

  At least she had air-conditioning. The flow of cool air filled the caravan with the scent of nail polish.

  She nudged the joystick.

  Zoom out.

  Road 90 cut along the valley in shades of gray.

  Three vehicles moved along the line like ants. No sign of her boyfriend’s little white car.

  Pan right.

  Palm groves. Square houses. A dark patch caught her eye next to the perimeter fence of Jericho.

  Zoom in.

  A hatchback.

  Zoom in.

  Israeli license plates.

  In Area C.

  She moved her feet off the desk and onto her socks and black sneakers and sat up.

  She typed the numbers into the computer. After a few seconds the details displayed.

  She picked up the green phone.

  “This is Osprey,” she said. “We have a situation.”

  ***

  Dave’s Ford Focus sped along the 90. The road snaked along the valley between the Judean Mountains and the Dead Sea.

  Head north, the man had said. I’ll call in twenty minutes.

  Dave rounded a bend in the snakelike road notorious for high-speed collisions.

  Where are you taking us?

  “You need gas,” Shani said from the passenger seat. Ruchama sat in the back with the orange cooler.

  Dave had half a tank but Shani was right. Who knew where the man would lead them.

  “We can fill up along the way if we need to,” he said.

  The car engine groaned as it negotiated a hill.

  Shani fished his old map book from the passenger door pocket and turned the pages. Ruchama munched the pastries she had snatched from the buffet.

  “This is a bad idea,” he said. “He told me to come alone. We’re putting Mandy at risk.”

  Shani emitted a scoffing laugh. “As if you care.”

  “I do care.”

  He did care about Mandy. He’d sort out the dissonance later, but at that moment it was true.

  “Right,” Shani said. “But now she’s made you leave your cushy hotel and future in-laws.”

  “Or saved me from them.”

  Ruchama chuckled. Dave had an ally on the back seat.

  “Please,” Shani said with a double dose of scorn. “You’re just saving your own ass.”

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want to hurt Mandy.”

  “Too late for that.”

  Right again.

  Dave had hurt Mandy. He had rejected her out of the blue. How was she supposed to make sense of that? And yet, that morning, speeding along the one-lane motorway through semi-wilderness, Dave had no desire to be back at the hotel with his parents. With Shira.

  Only one thing really mattered.

  Oh, God. What have I done?

  A factory for Dead Sea beauty products came into view.

  Dave’s phone rang on its cradle.

  “It’s him,” Dave said to his passengers. “Keep quiet.” He answered. “I just passed the Ahava factory.”

  “Take the next left. There’s a parking lot at the end.”

  The man hung up.

  Dave turned at the next left.

  The sign read Qumran.

  A shiver ran down Dave’s spine. A circle was closing. Again, Dave felt like a pawn in a game, the full scope of which was beyond his grasp.

  “Qumran,” Ruchama said. “That’s where they found the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  The paved road climbed up a sandy slope, then leveled out and emptied into a circular parking lot filled with tour buses and cars.

  “At least it’s a public place,” Shani said. “We’ll be able to blend in.”

  “Blend in?” he said. “You stay in the car. I trade the Stone for Mandy. We leave. Got it?”

  “You expect us to just sit here?”

  “He told me to come alone. Don’t screw this up.”

  Dave reversed the car into a spot between an Egged Tours bus and an old station wagon.

  Time to set things right.

  He left the keys in the ignition and the air-conditioning on. He got out, opened the back door, and got in beside Ruchama. He removed the white lid of the cooler bag and slid out the metallic box.

  He drew a deep breath. “I’ll be right back.”

  He tucked the tin under his arm and walked toward the clump of low buildings. A sign in three languages pointed arrows in the direction of a sound-and-light show, an excursion, a tourist shop, and restrooms.

  He paused at a corridor filled with men and women, mostly gray of hair and wearing walking clothes, cameras, and sunhats. Many had necklaces with crucifix pendants. Tour guides bellowed explanations in heavy Israeli accents. None of them gave Dave a second look.

  No sign of Mandy.

  He called her number.

  Voice mail.

  OK. Let’s play hide and seek.

  Dave entered the souvenir store. Posters and carvings covered the walls. Jesus on a cross. Jesus with arms extended. Jesus with a halo. Baby Jesus in his mother’s arms.

  Stacks of glossy books covered the low display tables. Secrets of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Dead Sea Scroll Conspiracy. Jesus in the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  “Jesus,” Dave
said, under his breath.

  The magnetic pull of the scrolls reached further than he’d imagined.

  He stepped deeper into the store. Merchandise filled the shelves. Scroll jars, large and small, of pottery and even plastic.

  He picked one up with his free hand. Tapered body. Pointed cap. Pockmarked surface. An exact replica of the jar in his car. Except for the three letters.

  From the corner of his eye, Dave saw a head of auburn curls. A woman in the crowd. She walked past the shop, beyond the checkout tills, and disappeared behind the wall.

  Dave’s heart galloped.

  He flanked the line of shoppers.

  “Hey,” a middle-aged American woman said. “Can’t you see there’s a line?” She eyed the box under Dave’s arm.

  “I’m not buying anything,” he said.

  Dave squeezed past and rushed out the door.

  Tourists choked the cobbled street. Some waited below a WC sign. Dave rose to the tips of his toes and peered over their heads. Far ahead, the auburn girl turned a corner. A man walked at her side, an arm wrapped around her waist.

  “Excuse me,” Dave said. “Sorry. Coming through.” He parted the crowd, jostled a few elderly tourists, and rounded the corner.

  A quiet alley between the buildings, off the designated path. Beyond it lay desert dunes and wadis carved by long forgotten rain and the whispering wilderness breeze below clear azure skies.

  A door slammed.

  He continued along the walkway, staying close to the brick wall. His shoes scraped over the sandy floor. The dry air smelled of dust.

  Another short alley to his right ended in a rough paved opening.

  Along the side of the building, wooden packing crates warped in the sun on raised platforms beside service entrances. The rectangular air-conditioning units on the walls rattled loudly.

  The delivery yard contained a single vehicle: an old white van. Dave stepped past the crates toward the van. The windows were tinted black.

  He tried the handle.

  The door opened. The interior had two low benches, a spare tire, and a pile of auburn hair.

  A swish of movement behind Dave.

  He turned. Something hard connected with the side of his face and floored him. The metal tin clanged to the ground and he watched it roll away, spinning on its rim.

  A voice swore. A cruel voice.

  The shadow of a man stood over Dave. The sun sparkled around the long hair of his head like a halo. Another, shorter man stepped up beside him.