by Ragen, Naomi
“Who do you think could have done it, Jack? Should we venture a wild guess? It wasn’t the IRA . . .” Sean guffawed.
“Take your pick, Julia: Tanzim, Hamas, Islamic Jihad . . .”Jack continued.
“Are they dead?” she asked calmly, taking out a cigarette and lighting it.
“Not exactly . . .”
Her eyes widened. “Injured?”
“Well, not exactly. It’s sort of a mystery.”
How many ways could this story go? She shrugged, thinking maybe he had started drinking a little too early. She took out her notebook and began to write. “What are the Israelis saying? Not that I believe them, of course.” She exhaled, taking in with delight the look of surprise on the faces of the men at her toughness.
“Hamas terrorists. Izzedine al-Qassam Brigade,” Jack murmured.
“I’ve really wanted to do an extensive interview with those people. You know, find out what makes them tick; get the rage and frustration from their angle. Talk to their mothers and sisters and wives. See their homes in the refugee camps, what the Israelis have done to them . . . Do you have any contacts I could use?” she asked.
The men stared. “Well, right now the story is about the attack.”
“But if no one was killed . . .?”
“I didn’t say that. I said it was a bit of a mystery. They found the car riddled with bullets last night, but they didn’t find any bodies.”
She sat back. How awful, she thought. The poor mother . . . She chewed on her pencil nub. “Can we go straight to the scene?”
“Don’t you want to ‘freshen up’ first, dear?” Sean grinned.
“No, but if you’re tired, perhaps we can drop you off and continue on without you, isn’t that right, Jack?”
“What did you say your name was, luv?” Jack asked.
Chapter Ten
Samaria (West Bank)
Tuesday, May 7 , 2002
7:30 A.M.
“WHERE ARE WE going now?” Julia asked as the car careened down back roads thickly lined with olive and carob trees, dotted with an occasional ramshackle stone house. The tan Honda Accord bumped along like a drunk on roller skates, and she found herself pressed uncomfortably close to the beefy thighs that pressed in on either side of her.
“Where do you think, dearie?” Sean Morrison said charmlessly.
“I haven’t a clue, dearie”, she retorted, holding down her car sickness. “I assume to where they found the car . . .”
“What would be the point of that?” Jack shrugged. “The information has just been released, but it happened last night.”
“Last night? So, that means the Israelis have probably cleared away anything newsworthy by now . . .”
“We’ve got our own sources of information, Julia.” Jack nodded with a cryptic smile.
She was stunned. “Do you mean . . . you know more than the Israelis? You’ve gotten inside information? How?”
“Well, let’s just say that we have a good working relationship with all the concerned parties in the area.” Jack grinned, patting Ismael on the shoulder. The driver looked into the rearview mirror and smiled tensely.
“Isn’t this dangerous? I mean, you are coordinating with the Israeli security forces, aren’t you?” Julia demanded. She watched all three men exchange amused glances.
”Right. The IDF, our old pals. Think we should call and let them know we’re coming, Ismael?” The driver shook his head, and the two men roared.
Jack Duggan caught himself. “Sorry. But you’ll get the hang of the way things work here, dear. We get exclusive information exactly because we aren’t pals with the IDF.”
“But your sources, are they Fatah, Hamas, Islamic Revolution, Al Aksa Martyr’s Brigade . . .? Who are we dealing with? And how do you know that once we get there we won’t be ambushed and shot?”
Sean made a serious face. “Gee, Jack. It’s such a good thing Julia here was transferred, just in the nick of time to save us from ourselves.”
She felt her face redden. “It’s so kind of you, Sean, to establish the ground rules so quickly and succinctly for me. Now, let me get this straight. You, are an asshole. Have I got that right? And any intelligent question I ask is going to be met with your charming male excess of testosterone? So far so good?” She turned to the bureau chief. “Help me out here, Mr. Duggan.”
The older man shifted uncomfortably. “Jack,” he corrected her.
“Jack,” she repeated stonily.
“No need to get your feathers ruffled, Ms. Goldberg,” he murmured, looking out the window. “Keep your sense of humor.”
“Greenberg. I know all Orientals with the slanty eyes look exactly the same, and all black people, and all kikes, but there are differences.”
“What . . .!?” Duggan gasped.
“Greenberg. Not Goldberg.”
“Oh. Sorry. But as far as helping you out, dear, it doesn’t look to me as if you need any.” He tried a tentative smile.
“Look, Jack.” Her tongue pressed the inside of her cheek for control. “I was in Sarajevo. I went through those Croatian roadblocks, and those Bosnian-Serb roadblocks . . . All I want is some kind of understanding of where we are headed right now, okay?”
“Look, Julia. This isn’t Sarajevo. I know it looks like Israelis against Palestinians, but it’s not that simple. We’re here to understand the Palestinian side, and that is complicated. Our informants are a mixture of all those groups. Of course, that means we take chances, but so far we have been able to get to the scene of every important demonstration, flashpoint and attack way ahead of the competition,” he said haughtily.
The words sunk in slowly. “Do you mean to say that you have advance notice of terrorist activity from the terrorists groups themselves?”
Jack Duggan didn’t smile. “If you ever intimate such a thing, Ms. Greenberg or Blackberg or Redberg, you’ll be on the next plane back to the UK,” Jack said curtly. “Are we clear on that? Good.” He nodded. “Now, to answer your question: our network has no such advance notice,” he said, suddenly extremely formal. “We simply have an excellent news team that is on extremely good terms with the local Palestinian population. Whenever an incident begins, chances are excellent that someone will be on the scene and call it in to us immediately. It is not our fault or our responsibility if our competition, or the Israeli government, has a less friendly relationship and less reliable sources.”
“So these informants are stringers? Reporters? Fixers? What?”
He turned to her, his eyes cool. “Your point being . . .?”
“Well, if I have no idea who they are, how can I judge the reliability of the information they are passing on to us? Do they or don’t they work for us?”
“Look, Julia, I don’t mean to be rude. And I know you’ve had a long trip, but why don’t you just tag along this time and watch? Perhaps you’ll see that some of your questions get answered in the field. And if not, I think we can save this discussion for a more congenial and discreet location back at the office, don’t you?”
Checkmate, she thought, nodding deferentially. “I appreciate what you are saying, Jack. But if you will just indulge my ignorance for another moment or two. Where in hell, exactly, are we? And are these windows bulletproof?”
“We are in Palestinian Authority territory, controlled by Arafat’s security forces, about four kilometers from Kalkilyah and a few kilometers from Israel’s coastal cities, Herzliya and Netanya . . .”
“I had no idea the distances were so small between Israel and the West Bank. It’s tiny . . .”
“Yes . . . well.” He paused, bored. “That’s what the Oslo Accords were all about. The Israelis taking a chance on living in peace, not worrying about the closeness to Palestinian townships. To answer your questions, the windows on the car are shatterproof, but not bulletproof, but I’m wearing a chest protector, so I’m all right. You’ve got one too, Sean, don’t you?”
”Oh, never go into this part of the world without one.�
� He nodded soberly.
Her heart began to drum, and she felt her cheeks flush with heat. Then she saw the two men slap their knees and howl.
“All right, all right.” Jack patted her knee. “We are just teasing. Everyone knows who we are in these parts, and they are always happy to see us. Believe me, you are perfectly safe.”
“And what happens if we broadcast something that our good friends here don’t like? Will we still be perfectly safe the next time we come back?” she whispered, suddenly aware of Ismael’s steady, expressionless eyes watching her through the rearview mirror.
“I don’t think you really want us to answer that, do you, Julia?”
She tore her eyes away from the driver’s, gripping her hands tightly in her lap and staring out the window. “No,” she said.
The scattered olive trees turned suddenly into a grove of tall evergreens that blocked out the harsh Middle Eastern sun. She could just see the headlines now: BCN REPORTER AMBUSHED ON WEST BANK. AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST FINDS DEATH ON FIRST DAY OF NEW ASSIGNMENT. COLLEAGUES MOURN. THE BRITISH JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION CREATES SCHOLARSHIP IN HER NAME . . .
The car came to a halt, the doors flinging open. Jack and Sean jumped out. Dark shadows lined the road, their faces half covered in kaffiyehs, automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.
“It’s all right, Ms. Greenberg. You can go out. You are in no danger, I assure you,” a voice said politely in charmingly accented English. She looked up, realizing it was simply Ismael who stood at her right, his head made strange and unfamiliar by a red-and-white kaffiyeh. “Here. Just cover your hair, and don’t tell anyone your name.”
She took the scarf from his outstretched hand. Neither piece of advice required an explanation. She didn’t ask for one. Sean and Jack were already way ahead of her on the road, surrounded by a group of armed men. Her heart beat wildly as she reached for her pen, notebook, and tape recorder, hurrying to catch up.
“No recorder,” Ismael snapped, keeping pace with her. She raised her eyebrows, but slipped the recorder back into her bag. Neither he, she, Jack nor Sean were in control of this situation, she realized. Or of the quality or quantity of information they would be allowed to glean.
The thought rankled her. If they had any illusions she was going to do PR work for the PALS (as the Palestinian Authority was called), they were highly mistaken. It was true that she had come with the intention of showing the Palestinian side, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be manipulated by anyone.
With Ismael’s help, she pushed her way through the tight little group that had formed around the bureau chief and Sean.
“What are they saying, Ismael?” Jack shouted to him above the high-pitched and rancorous discussion.
“They are asking if you brought money.”
“Tell them no money yet. Tell them to give me what they’ve got first.”
“Money?” Julia repeated, staring at Jack Duggan.
“Just shut up, will you, dear? Let me handle this.”
She felt her face grow hot, as if she had just been slapped.
“Tell them that unless they can tell us something about the doctor, the little girl, we’re out of here.”
Ismael spoke to the group in rapid low tones to the backdrop of bullets falling into empty chambers, as automatic weapons clicked into readiness. Julia realized her feet had gone suddenly weak. She put one heel back to brace herself, hoping no one would notice.
Ismael finally looked up. He turned to Jack. “They say they have a videotape. They want it broadcast.”
“Video? Of what? The doctor? The child?”
Ismael interrogated the men again and nodded. “They say they want ten thousand dollars.”
Jack shrugged. “Tell them we want to speak to their leader and see the tape, otherwise we are getting back into the car and leaving.”
“Jack . . .” Sean implored. “Take it easy.”
“No, we don’t pay for news. Never.”
Julia exhaled, partially in relief, and partially in preparation for being unable to exhale again until she understood what was going to happen next.
More rapid exchanges took place. Voices were suddenly raised. A weapon discharged.
“That’s it. We are leaving,” Jack said furiously.
“No, don’t go yet,” Ismael cautioned. “They are prepared to negotiate. They say we should wait here.”
“Here? In this back alley, surrounded by a bunch of loonies with submachine guns?” she murmured incredulously. “Not bloody likely.”
“Why don’t you wait in the car,Julia dear?” Sean whispered. “We’ll tell you when it’s time to go.”
She looked at him, her lips stretching tight and thin over her teeth. “Tell them I’ll go with them, Ismael,” she said impulsively. “Tell them, I’ll go alone, unarmed. That I’ll explain this to their leader. I can guarantee that their tape will be aired on prime time. That the whole world will see and hear what their video has to say. Millions of people. Tell them that.”
“I can’t allow that.” Jack waved dismissively.
“Stupid bitch, you’ll get us all killed,” Sean spit out.
“Tell them, Ismael,” she insisted.
She saw the men confer, and then beckon to her. Her heart in her mouth, her ears ringing with fear, she moved forward, falling into rank behind the men. She pulled the scarf close around her head, tucking in all the stray hairs.
“Wait here in the car for me,” she called back to Jack and Sean. “I’ll be back.”
The group piled into two black cars, late-model Mercedes with cream leather upholstery. She looked at the cars in surprise. She had expected the kind of trucks the Che Guevarra guerillas had used in South America, smelling of straw and pig droppings. This was certainly a revolution deluxe. Someone, she thought, has money.
A small stirring of fear and excitement curdled her stomach juices. She felt the adrenaline pumping through her veins as the cars raced forward over bumpy, unpaved country roads through small villages. Outside, it was almost deserted, she thought, watching the long stretches of dusty road with no sign of human habitation. The landscape was all scrub and rocky earth with a scattering of trees. And it looked as if there was plenty of it to go around.
What about this unremarkable place stirred such remarkable passions? she wondered, as she had traveling over the ice-slick dirt trail through the Dabarsko Polje mountains toward the borders that separated Bosnian-Serbs from Croats. There too, the anemic soil produced nothing but poverty and heartbreak. Yet men were willing to commit any atrocity not to share it, to claim it for themselves.
What a moronic species human beings were, she thought, depressed.
Inside the car, no one spoke. Once again, she felt pressed on all sides by insistent male muscles. She tried, unsuccessfully, to contract. But the more she tried to shrink, the more their flesh expanded to fill the void. Inside her pocket, she fingered a small pocketknife and a can of pepper spray. In her imagination, she could already see herself bloody and undressed in compromising positions.
Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. She shrugged, feeling her excitement mount. As her parents had always warned her, this was not a job for a nice Jewish girl. Which is why she loved it so much.
The cars stopped, and the men jumped out, screaming. Someone pulled at her sleeve, but Ismael slapped away his hand and shouted at him. After that, she was allowed to make her own way out of the car. She had no clue in the world where she was. Amman or Damascus or a suburb of Jerusalem, all were equally plausible. The house in front of her was a mansion built in the Arab style with glowing pink stone and multicolored marble floor tiles surrounded by an intricate pattern of hand-painted tiles. Formal gardens with charming fountains sprayed cooling water into the air, and the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle mingled in the vine-covered portico leading to the front doors.
Terrorism was obviously quite an upscale career choice in this part of the world, she thought, looking around with
a mixture of grudging respect and utter contempt. She was led inside and asked to wait. The living room was tiled with black, white-veined marble; low, built-in couches covered with red Persian carpeting and large, hand-embroidered pillows lined the walls. Enormous bronze trays held pistachio nuts, dates, figs and almonds. A woman covered from neck to ankle in the traditional dark outer coat, her hair completely swallowed by a tightly wound head scarf, brought out a tray with a bronze tea kettle, porcelain cups and gluey semolina flour cakes, thick with honey. The woman poured with silent graciousness, indicating a chair and table. Julia nodded her thanks, sitting down and taking a polite bite and sip. Her role completed, the woman withdrew as silently as she had appeared, but not before favoring Julia with a lovely smile.
Charming, Julia thought, charmed, as she smiled back. Yet somehow, unbidden, the name Tony Soprano popped into her head. She tried to get rid of it. After all, it wasn’t right to make up her mind yet. She still didn’t know anything about these people, except that they lived well, had uneven taste, and a good sense of hospitality. Well, and the fact that they had some connection to armed men and the kidnapping (or worse) of doctors and their small daughters. And one could probably take a wild guess that they didn’t feel much affection for the Chosen People.
She hadn’t changed her name. She wasn’t ashamed of who she was. But she also didn’t feel like she had to take responsibility for the actions and thoughts of every other Goldberg, Greenberg, Levy and Cohen in the world either. I am who I am, and they are who they are. As for being a “people,” part of a clan . . . it meant nothing to her. She was born in Britain; that was her people, her clan. That her grandparents had emigrated from Eastern Europe was neither here nor there. Theirs was an accident of birth, as was hers. She rejected its claim on her, refusing to kow-tow to the middle-class idea that one’s distant ancestry deserved any special loyalty.
She was a human being, part of mankind. That connection had her loyalty, her fealty. Her country of birth and education too deserved some sentimental connection that she fostered without too much difficulty. She was proud of being British; the achievement of that fair, small, green isle in culture and history and literature was worth being proud of, feeling connectedness to.