Promised Land

by Robert Whitlow

  “It’s good to see you,” Janet said with a big smile. “Hana isn’t back from a lunch meeting with an out-of-town client and wants you to wait in one of our conference rooms.”

  Daud followed Janet to a large conference room. It contained a long table with seating for at least thirty people.

  “This is where Hana and Mr. Lowenstein first met Jakob Brodsky,” Janet said when they entered. “Did she ever tell you about it?”

  “No,” Daud replied.

  “Oh, it was dramatic. And I’m not just talking about seeing the surveillance video of the attack in Jerusalem. That’s the day Hana’s heart went out to Sadie Neumann.”

  “Yes, they have a close relationship.”

  “The closest. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water, please.”

  Daud sat down and waited. He knew Hana talked to Janet about personal as well as business matters and wondered if she’d asked the assistant what she thought about the latest developments with Ben, Sadie, and Laura. When Janet returned, Jakob was with her.

  “Hana should be back shortly,” Janet said. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

  Jakob placed his leather bag and a cup of coffee on the table. The two men shook hands. Jakob sat beside Daud.

  “What did Hana tell you about Mr. Ivanov and the ancient artifacts owned by his great-grandfather?”

  Daud summarized what he remembered. While he talked, Jakob removed a laptop from the bag and turned it on. He showed Daud the old photographs and the information given by the Russian bank.

  “This time we’re not dealing with terrorists,” Jakob concluded. “If there are any bad guys, they’re probably wearing thick glasses and sitting behind the counter of an antiquities shop in Israel, Riyadh, or Doha. Do you think you can help?”

  “Maybe. There are people I can call who may know other people.”

  “Excellent. Since I last talked to Hana, I used the shell company I created for Vladimir to post inquiries on the Russian web about purchasing biblical artifacts with Bitcoins. If the stuff is still in Russia, that might generate a response. I also provided links to several of the news articles about the king’s head discovered in Metula and to websites and forums followed by people interested in that sort of thing. The oligarchs and billionaires created by Putin are looking for things to spend their money on.”

  “If one of them bought the queen’s head, how would you get it away from them?” Daud asked. “They’re not wearing thick glasses and sitting in an antiquities shop in Israel. This sort of person would not give up anything he wanted without a fight, and they don’t fight by any kind of civilized rules.”

  “I’ll figure that out later,” Jakob answered. “The first step is to see if we can locate anything on the list. Along with you making some personal contacts, I’d like your help in setting up a similar search program in Arabic and Hebrew. That way I can cast a much wider net. Hopefully, you and Hana would be willing to read and translate the responses that come in. Because I’m being so specific, it wouldn’t take a lot of time, and I think it would be interesting work.”

  Jakob placed his laptop on the table and took Daud on a tour of the Russian web. Daud was impressed by Jakob’s efforts. There were multiple responses to his inquiries. Daud could speak Russian fluently, but his reading wasn’t very good. Jakob translated.

  “None of these are good leads,” Daud said.

  “Yet.” Jakob raised his right index finger and continued. “But each interaction increases visibility. I’m not discouraged.”

  Daud thought about the two proposals he’d worked on earlier in the day. By turning down the CIA project, he certainly had time to help Jakob if he liked.

  “Could I work on this whenever I wanted to?” he asked.

  “Sure. Vladimir has been waiting for decades, but the discovery of the king’s head gives us a unique opportunity to act. You could identify yourself with a pseudonym as an employee of Vladimir’s corporation.”

  “Pseudonym?”

  “Fake name.”

  “At first I would only contact individuals I can trust to keep my involvement confidential.”

  “Sure. I know you were recently out of the country for a while. Are you still working on a project?”

  “Only business consulting jobs. It’s slow, but I get a few inquiries based on referrals from people I help.”

  Jakob lowered the laptop’s screen. “I don’t know when or if I’ll be paid by Mr. Ivanov,” he said. “I’ve taken the case on a contingency basis, but I can pay you out of my firm—”

  “No, no,” Daud said, holding up his hand. “You are a friend. I won’t charge you to talk on the phone and translate a few lines of text on the computer. If you want to put me on a plane, that’s a different matter.”

  “Understood,” Jakob said. “And Hana already warned me not to jeopardize your security. You’ll decide when or if you want to use your real name. I won’t mention you to Vladimir or anyone else. All he knows is that I have multilingual friends with Middle Eastern connections who may help.”

  “Okay.”

  Jakob checked his watch. “I guess we’re finished here,” he said. “Thanks much.”

  Chapter 15

  Rahal parked his charcoal-gray Bentley in the climate-controlled underground parking deck. When sandstorms swept in from the Arabian Desert and blanketed Doha with light brown dirt, Rahal’s fleet of seven cars remained pristine clean. He had a full-time chauffeur, but often drove himself, especially when he wanted to drive fast. High speeds accentuated the luxury car’s smooth ride. Rahal took his tablet from the passenger seat and tossed the keys to his chauffeur.

  “How was the car, sir?” the driver asked with a slight bow.

  “Perfect,” Rahal replied. “I could tell a difference with the new tires.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m glad you liked them.”

  Rahal paused. “Your son, Yanis, is he doing well?”

  “Excellent. He’s been studying hard and looks forward to his next meeting with you.”

  While he waited for an elevator in the marble-floored lobby of the building, Rahal checked his tablet. There was a message from one of his managers requesting a phone call. Rahal called the young man before entering the ornate front door for the floor that contained the family’s living quarters. Inside the residential area a servant pointed toward a salon where Khalil was sitting. Rahal raised his finger to signal the need to wait and called the manager.

  “Is there still a problem with the steel shipments?” Rahal asked the supervisor.

  There had been a frustrating delay in importing steel beams one of his subsidiaries sold to construction companies that were building the skyscrapers popping up all across Doha.

  “No, sir. The Korean cargo ship docked earlier this morning, and x-ray examination of the sample beams is complete. They meet our standards and cost forty percent less than what we have paid for German or American steel.”

  This would have a significant impact on Rahal’s profit margin and provide another example of Allah’s blessing.

  “Good,” he said. “Place an order for more so we can have more on hand.”

  Rahal ended the call and Khalil stood. “May we speak in private?” the younger man asked.

  Rahal led the way to his private office that overlooked the water. Khalil began to speak as soon as he closed the door. “We have more information about the man who killed Mustafa. He entered Egypt using the name Rasheed Sayyid; however, he left the country with a Jordanian passport identifying him as Ibrahim Abadi. That’s the name he used when he entered Israel at the Taba crossing. I doubt either one of these is his real name.”

  “Israel?” Rahal interjected. “So he was Mossad.”

  “Maybe,” Khalil replied. “The Egyptian authorities let the killer slip through their fingers at the border. After he reached Israel, they lost his trail.”

  “The Egyptians are lazy dogs.”

  “Not too lazy,” Khalil said. “In addition
to the images from the cell phone videos taken at the restaurant in Sharm el-Sheikh, the Egyptians found surveillance recordings of Sayyid/Abadi taken at a local hotel where he stayed for several days, along with video from the exit office at the Taba crossing.”

  Khalil pressed a button on his tablet and handed it to Rahal. There were six video clips, each no more than thirty seconds in length. In two of them a muscular Arab man walked through the hotel lobby, then entered the hotel restaurant. In the others he continued across the lobby, past the registration desk, and through sliding glass front doors. The quality was much clearer than the cell phone images taken in the dark restaurant. The images from the border clearly showed the same man wearing dark sunglasses. Rahal watched the sequence twice and then returned the tablet to Khalil.

  “What is the value of these?” he asked. “I can see his face better, but he’s not doing anything.”

  “It’s his face that may help us. With your permission, I would like to circulate these images and find out if anyone sympathetic to the cause of jihad can identify him. Whether he works for Mossad or the Americans or both, someone knows his name.”

  Rahal hesitated. Thus far, they had kept such a low profile that risk of their own identification was minimal. It had been a great relief that the Egyptians were unable to identify Mustafa and trace him back to Khalil and Rahal.

  “I have great concern for your anonymity,” Khalil continued.

  Rahal nodded. “You know my thoughts. Let me see the videos again.”

  This time Rahal noticed something else. On every occasion Sayyid/Abadi carried himself with an arrogant confidence that caused righteous rage to rise up in Rahal’s heart.

  “This man does not deserve to live,” he said, returning the tablet to Khalil. “He killed Mustafa and sabotaged our revenge against Kolisnyk.”

  “May I try to track him down?”

  Rahal stared out the window for several seconds. Over the years he’d learned to trust his instincts in making difficult decisions.

  “Yes,” he answered. “And perhaps he can lead us to Kolisnyk as well. The key to triumph in jihad is perseverance.”

  “Until death.” Khalil rose to his feet.

  * * *

  Hana rushed into the conference room. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Where’s Jakob?”

  “Already left,” Daud answered. “He told me what he’s doing and asked for my help. I agreed.”

  “I’m sure that made him happy.” Hana sat in the chair Jakob had recently vacated. “He was concerned I wouldn’t be enthusiastic enough in convincing you to get involved.”

  Daud gave Hana a summary of the conversation.

  “You can do a better job of controlling Jakob’s demands on your time than I can,” she said when he finished. “But explain again how your identity is going to remain hidden when you’re communicating with someone you don’t trust.”

  Daud held his finger along his upper lip to mimic a mustache. “I have many disguises even you don’t know about.”

  Hana rolled her eyes. “Can you entertain yourself in here until it’s time for us to meet with Mr. Lowenstein?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Daud took out his phone. “I’m going to start working on my list of contacts for Jakob. The first person I thought about is an art dealer who hired me several years ago to find out which of his employees was stealing from him. He’s someone I trust completely.”

  “Did you find the thief?”

  “Yes, it turned out to be his son.”

  Hana left the conference room to tie up several loose ends that remained from the luncheon with the client. The time passed quickly, and she looked up in surprise when Janet tapped on her door before opening it.

  “You have an appointment with Daud and Mr. Lowenstein on your calendar in two minutes,” the assistant said.

  Hana walked rapidly to the conference room, but Daud wasn’t there. Not wanting to keep Mr. Lowenstein waiting, she continued to his office, where she found Daud and the senior partner sitting across from each other and laughing.

  “Come in,” Mr. Lowenstein said, motioning with his hand. “I saw your husband sitting in the conference room. He’s been entertaining me with stories from his boyhood growing up in the desert.”

  “Did he mention removing the stingers from scorpions and letting them crawl all over his body?” Hana asked.

  “No,” Daud answered. “I was telling him about the time a friend and I tried to tame a wild donkey so we could sell it to a Bedouin family. We ended up with bruises instead of shekels.”

  “Daud agreed to help with security for the interfaith forum,” Mr. Lowenstein added. “He says waving a metal-detecting wand over people on their way into the room will not be sufficient. I also remembered that you worked in security at the Tel Aviv airport, so it would be good to hear from both of you at once.”

  “This will be Daud’s area of expertise,” Hana deferred.

  Daud pressed his hands together in a gesture that had become familiar to Hana. It meant her husband was about to express a strong opinion.

  “I think we should handle the event as if the prime minister of Israel was going to be there,” he said. “That means thoroughly checking every person, sending them through a sensitive metal detector, and conducting interviews with select individuals.”

  “Interviews?” Mr. Lowenstein raised his eyebrows.

  “We would profile people: young males without other companions, certain ethnic groups, individuals with Middle Eastern names on their ID. Things like that.”

  “Americans won’t go along with that,” Hana interjected. “They’ll be offended and say it’s too much.”

  Mr. Lowenstein spoke before Daud could respond. “I hope they do complain,” he said. “An experience is often more powerful than a lecture.”

  Hana gave the senior partner a puzzled look.

  He continued. “If people are shown what’s necessary to protect those attending public gatherings in Israel, it will underline the words spoken during the forum about the threats the Israeli public faces every day in such a deeply divided society.”

  Many times Hana had heard Mr. Lowenstein offer a point of view that wasn’t on her radar.

  “If I’m allowed to implement the level of security I’m recommending, it will make me feel a lot better about Hana participating,” Daud said.

  “That settles it then,” Mr. Lowenstein said, rising from his chair. “Daud, you will be in charge of security for the event. As part of your written proposal, include an explanation that the attendees will experience a level of security that people in Israel, both Jews and Arabs, would encounter if the forum were held in Jerusalem.”

  “One other thing,” Daud said. “Profiling can involve Jews as well as Arabs. Security personnel in Israel don’t ignore any source of a threat. That applies to certain segments of Jewish society. Remember, it was a Jewish extremist who assassinated Yitzhak Rabin.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “I’d better run that past the other members of the planning committee.”

  After Daud left, Hana left her office door cracked open. She could hear Daud talking to Janet, but she couldn’t make out what either of them said. A few minutes later there was a soft knock on her door, and Janet entered. She had a few sheets of paper in her hands and placed them on Hana’s desk.

  “Daud is a dreamboat,” the assistant said.

  “That needs an explanation,” she replied.

  “Sorry. He’s so obviously head over heels in love with you that any woman on the planet would want to be in your shoes.”

  “What makes you think that?” she asked.

  “The look in his eyes when he talks about you speaks volumes. And his dreamy accent makes me think of the old movies I watched as a kid, the ones in which a handsome, dark-haired man on a camel rides up and the young heroine instantly falls in love with him.”

  Hana laughed. “Daud’s grandfather was a camel broker. Camels are marvelous creatures for crossing a desert,
but there’s nothing romantic about them. If we’d met on a camel ride, I’m not sure it would have gone any further.”

  “Yes, it would have,” Janet replied. “Your stars were meant to cross. Oh, how was the meeting with Mr. Lowenstein?”

  Hana hadn’t yet told her assistant about the interfaith forum.

  “I’d come if it’s not too expensive,” Janet said. “Some of those things can be pricey.”

  “I’ll ask Mr. Lowenstein for some free passes. I’m sure he’ll give me a few. I want at least one friendly face in the crowd.”

  “And it would give me an excuse to buy a new dress. What sort of things would you say?”

  “I thought I would begin with my family’s story. My ancestors moved to Nazareth from Lebanon around four hundred years ago and endured centuries of second-class status and discrimination as Christians in the Ottoman Empire.”

  “Oh, I like making it personal. What kind of discrimination are you talking about?”

  “It always included paying extra taxes. Sometimes the taxes were so high that it kept the Christian people in perpetual poverty. And there were rules that restricted Christians and Jews from certain occupations. They could never openly practice their faith, and there were strict mandates against sharing their beliefs with others. They even had to wear special clothes or sew identification patches on their garments.”

  Janet’s eyes widened. “Like the yellow stars the Nazis forced the Jews to wear?”

  “That’s where the Nazis got the idea.”

  “This is going to be dramatic,” Janet said, nodding. “I know there will be tons more for you to tell, and I can’t wait.”

  She handed Hana the papers in her hand. “Here’s the agreement you dictated before lunch. You said you wanted to review a hard copy.”

  Hana took the papers. Especially with English, she preferred to hold a sheet of paper in her hand and jot notes before making changes on the electronic version. Shortly after she finished, there was another knock on her door.