“What have you told her?” Daud asked before the archaeologist could answer.
“Not as much as she figured out on her own.”
Daniella reached into her purse and took out the photos of the Bar Kokhba coins Jakob had sent Avi.
“My expertise lies with the Bar Kokhba coins,” she said. “The number of specimens in this collection from the first year of the revolt caught my attention. Even from these old pictures it’s clear some of them were in outstanding condition. We’re talking about museum pieces, not badly worn slugs stuck in a collector’s drawer. The rebels used Roman silver and bronze coins as blanks and filed off the pagan Roman images so they could restamp them with Jewish symbols, even though doing so to Roman money was punishable by death. The new script inscribed on the coins was ancient Hebrew from the time of the Davidic dynasty, most likely a way to identify with the Jews’ glorious past.”
Daud glanced at the photos, none of which he’d seen. There was a surprising amount of variety. The symbols on the front or back included a lyre, a vine leaf, a palm tree, a cluster of grapes, two trumpets, the ark of the covenant, and a stylized impression of Herod’s magnificent temple destroyed during the first revolt in AD 70. He could make out the words “Freedom” and “Jerusalem.”
“The vast majority of coins from the revolt contain the name Shim’on, for Simon bar Kokhba,” Daniella continued, “but a few of the earliest coins in Year One are inscribed with the name of ‘Eleazar the Priest.’ There are three of those in this collection. One in particular caught my attention.”
She pointed to a photograph. Daud could barely make out the name Eleazar.
“I may have seen that coin,” Daniella said. “It’s owned by a private collector who asked me to confirm its authenticity before she bought it.”
Daud perked up. “Tell me more,” he said.
The archaeologist began turning the photo in different directions as she pointed out things Daud didn’t know were significant.
“The lyre is rare,” she said. “And the clarity of the impression is extremely sharp.”
The next few minutes were a crash course in Bar Kokhba coinage. When the archaeologist paused, Daud pointed to the photo of the coin featuring a lyre and the name Eleazar the Priest.
“Who owns the coin in that picture?”
“I’m not prepared to provide that information yet,” she answered. “The owner is a client, and I have an obligation to her. She paid a lot of money for her piece, and I’m aware of the possible consequences if it was stolen.”
“How much would it be worth?” Daud asked.
Daniella shook her head.
Avi spoke. “I recommended in my report that your American friend have the photos digitally enhanced,” Avi said. “That will make additional details easier to see.”
“I’m sure he’ll do it,” Daud replied.
Their steaks arrived. Avi hadn’t exaggerated. Beef served in the Middle East rarely met the standards for top-rated steak restaurants in the US, but Argentinian beef came close. The juicy steak restored Daud’s energy.
“What about the other items on the list?” he asked Daniella. “Did any of them catch your attention?”
“As soon as I saw the reference to the ceramic head, I suspected what was going on,” she answered. “Everyone knows about the recent discovery of the ceramic king’s head at Metula, and it makes sense that anyone who believes they have a comparable piece might see this as a good time to come forward and test the market. The government would certainly be in on the bidding.”
“I told you she was smart,” Avi said, pointing his fork at Daniella. “She has that investigative gene, just like you.”
“Do you believe a piece similar to the king’s head might exist?” Daud asked the archaeologist.
“Asked that way, I’d say yes. But the quality of the piece found at Metula was so exceptional that it’s unlikely a twin is out there. Even one of lesser quality would still be a very important discovery, though.”
“How do you suggest we find it?”
Daniella carefully cut another piece of steak before looking up at Daud. “The best way is for it to find you.”
Chapter 20
While they ate the warmed-up spaghetti, Hana scrolled through the photos of the house. Janet peppered her with questions about the residence, which was originally built in 1949 and had been updated within the past five years.
“That’s an amazing kitchen,” Janet said. “I love the way light comes in from the backyard and illuminates the little island. The white cabinets and light gray countertops really go well together. Are the countertops granite?”
“No, the real estate agent said they were made from something called engineered stone.”
“Oh, that’s better than granite in my book. Not as finicky as granite.”
“Finicky?”
“Hard to take care of. Show me the sunroom. Is it next to the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
The bright, airy room contained a wicker sofa, two wicker chairs, a low table, and a wide array of plants.
“You should try to get them to include the furniture in the sale. It goes perfectly in that room.”
“The agent said that was an option. I didn’t ask how much it would increase the price.”
“I bet not a lot,” Janet said. “Specialty items like those don’t have big value on the used furniture market.”
The virtual tour of the house continued upstairs to the bedrooms.
“The master bedroom isn’t very big,” Hana said. “It’s fine by our standards, but I know Americans like larger bedrooms.”
Janet agreed. “Yeah, and the bathroom is tiny. They didn’t build big walk-in bathrooms in 1949. Where does that door lead?”
“Another bedroom.”
Hana pulled up the next photo. It was a small bedroom painted pale yellow with a dormer window.
“Perfect for a nursery,” Janet said. “The twins can share a bedroom until they’re ready for middle school.”
“Twins?” Hana asked.
“I’m kidding. But any woman as focused on a new nest as you are is getting ready for something.”
Hana ate a bite of spaghetti to conceal the expression on her face. They finished with photos of the well-manicured backyard.
“Will you want to maintain all those plants and weed the grass?” Janet asked skeptically. “You already have a full-time job.”
“I’m not sure. Daud grew up in the desert with nothing to look after except potted plants. There were only a few flowering bushes at my parents’ home with nothing as fancy as this house.”
“What’s next?” Janet asked when Hana put down her phone.
“I wait for Daud to return from his business trip so I can show him.”
“Like I said earlier, you probably need to act fast.”
“I know,” Hana said, trying to suppress her anxiety. “Another woman arrived to look at the house when I was leaving.”
“That could signal a bidding war. But don’t worry. You just bought Daud the car of his dreams, which means a lot of credit stored up in the marital influence account. This may be the time to cash it in.”
* * *
Rahal was eating dinner with his wife in a small dining room with large windows on two sides. The sunset over the desert was an explosion of red and orange. There were three cooks on their staff, and it wasn’t unusual for the couple to eat something different. She preferred chicken; he liked lamb. But they both ate fish, and tonight the chef had prepared a delicately seasoned white fish with a creamy sauce and a dash of spicy heat. The chief steward placed the main course on the table with a flourish. He returned less than a minute later. Averting his eyes from Rahal’s wife, who had lowered her veil to eat, the servant bowed before Rahal.
“Please forgive me, sir, but Mr. Khalil wants to speak to you. He says it’s urgent.”
Rahal eyed the fish that would be flavorful for only a few more minutes before it cooled. Ignoring th
e conversation, Rahal’s wife continued to eat.
“Send him in,” Rahal grunted.
“He needs to speak to you privately.”
Rahal turned to his wife. “Leave,” he said.
Without a word of protest, she raised her veil and left the room. Rahal knew his wife wouldn’t hesitate to voice her displeasure later, though.
Khalil entered. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “But while I was in Beirut we received a response to our posting of the hotel surveillance videos and restaurant photos from Sharm el-Sheikh. A man who looks similar to Sayeed/Abadi was involved in the arrest of a group of Sunni jihadists last year in Jerusalem. The leaders of the group were Chechens, including a man named Anzor Varayev, who is currently in an Israeli prison. The remaining members of the group placed a bounty on the man who betrayed them. This is the man.”
Khalil pressed a button on his tablet and a picture of an Arab man in his early thirties came into view. Taken from the side, the image wasn’t much better than the ones from the Sharm el-Sheikh restaurant.
“I can’t tell if it is the same person,” Rahal said.
“I’m having it analyzed,” Khalil replied. “If this is the man, then his name isn’t Ibrahim Abadi or Rasheed Sayyid.”
“What is it?” Rahal asked.
“Daud Hasan.”
* * *
Avi insisted that Daud spend the night as a guest at his home in the Yemin Moshe neighborhood just outside the walls of the Old City. As he lay in bed, Daud listened to the night sounds from the open second-story window. Unlike Tel Aviv, which never slept, even on Shabbat, Jerusalem grew quiet after sunset and individual sounds were recognizable. He could hear violin music playing softly from the courtyard of an adjacent house where a group of people had gathered for a party. Laughter rose to the window along with greetings to late arrivals. Eventually Daud figured out they were celebrating the news that a young couple was expecting their first child. He missed Hana and wondered where and how they could celebrate their good news with family and friends. He turned away from the window and closed his eyes.
Daud awoke early in the morning, took a shower, and went downstairs. Avi’s wife, Rachel, was a friendly woman who’d immigrated to Israel as a teenager from France. Fresh coffee and a selection of five pastries were laid out on the dining room table. Rachel was sipping coffee and reading a popular Israeli newspaper. She greeted Daud in French-accented Hebrew.
“You must try every one of the pastries before Avi gets here,” she said. “Otherwise he’ll grab them like a big bear.”
“Did you make them?” Daud asked as he poured a cup of coffee.
“Only the one topped with orange marmalade. The others come from a shop in the neighborhood.”
Daud sampled the tart treat topped with marmalade and immediately placed a second one on his plate.
“I wish I could take some of these back in my luggage to America,” he said. “My wife would love this because it’s not too sweet.”
They sat at the table and chatted for several minutes. Rachel was an amateur artist who specialized in still-life paintings. Several pieces of her artwork hung on the walls of the dining room. Daud asked about them.
“And they’re not for sale,” Avi announced when he entered the room. “After we’re dead and gone, they’re going to be recognized as masterpieces.”
Rachel shook her head.
“I see you discovered the marmalade tarts,” Avi continued. “Next time you’re in Jerusalem, you need to visit when she makes date bars worthy of a reception at the prime minister’s office.”
Daud smiled. “I’ll look forward to that. When I was a teenager I worked several summers harvesting dates.”
During the leisurely breakfast conversation, Daud avoided revealing too much personal information. He wanted Avi and Rachel to believe that he and Hana were living in the US solely because of her job opportunity.
“But of course you want to return to Jerusalem,” Rachel said.
“We’ll see,” Daud replied noncommittally.
Avi popped a final bite of pastry into his mouth and checked his watch. “We’d better get going for our appointment to see the bungalow,” he said. “The owner sent me a key, but I want to get there as early as possible so that we’re not rushed.”
Avi drove a French car. It wasn’t far to the Abu Tor neighborhood. From his years living in Jerusalem, Daud was familiar with the area, which included a combination of larger homes built in the late 1800s by prosperous Christian and Muslim Arab families and smaller apartment buildings constructed for Jewish immigrants. Hebron Road was the main thoroughfare. They turned onto a side street with mostly large Arab homes, some converted into multifamily dwellings. Several of the houses had enclosed gardens and courtyards.
“If the people who built these houses had known at the time what they would be worth today, they wouldn’t believe it,” Avi said when they passed a meticulously restored villa. “That one has been owned by the same family for over a hundred years.”
They turned onto another road and began to climb higher.
“The 1949 armistice line went along this street,” Avi continued. “Some of these homes still have bullet holes in them from those battles or the ones fought in 1967.”
They passed under the shade of a row of trees. Avi pulled to the curb in front of a spacious home. An iron railing ran along the sidewalk.
“Here we are,” he said. “The main house is divided into four apartments, none of which are on the market. The place I want to show you is in the rear.”
It was a warm morning. Daud followed Avi down a narrow alleyway between the main house and another residence next to it. The shaded walkway was cooler than the street.
“Only a motorcycle or bicycle can navigate the alley,” Avi said.
“Are there parking privileges on the street?” Daud asked.
“Yes. Each unit receives one spot.”
The alley ended, and Avi opened an iron gate. To the right was an extensive garden surrounded by a two-meter-high stone wall. Directly in front of them was a small, one-story building that looked about the same size as the miniature house where Daud and Hana lived in Atlanta. Daud was immediately disappointed.
“This was the servants’ quarters,” Avi said. “It’s bigger on the inside than it looks.”
Daud wondered if he had wasted a trip. “I hope so.”
* * *
Hana bought a nice frame and hung the painting from Avi Labensky on the wall in the living room. To clear a space, she took down a faded old English landscape that belonged to her landlord. The Jerusalem street scene of the woman with the two babies didn’t fit with the Early American decor of the living room, but Hana remembered a spot in the new house that would be perfect—the upstairs bedroom with the dormer. Light from the dormer window would illuminate the woman and two babies, causing the figures to come to life. Hana imagined hanging the painting in the bright room.
She continued her routine of tea and crackers, then loaded Leon into the car for the ride to the dog day care center. Hana laid her hand lightly on her abdomen as she waited for a stoplight to turn from red to green. Even though it was too early for any visible evidence of changes to her body, she knew she was pouring life energy into the tiny baby hidden inside. She lovingly patted her belly.
“Good morning,” she said.
As soon as she arrived at the office, Hana’s stomach suddenly rose up in open rebellion. Janet glanced up wide-eyed from her computer screen when Hana put her hand to her mouth and rushed down the hall toward the restroom. It was several minutes before she returned.
“What’s wrong?” Janet asked.
“Upset stomach,” Hana replied.
“Do you need some medicine? I keep something in my desk in case a bad burrito gets ahold of me.”
“No, thanks, I don’t want to take anything. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
Janet’s eyes narrowed. “Why won’t you take something? And how do you know y
ou’ll be okay in a few minutes? And why did you stop drinking coffee?”
Hana felt trapped.
Janet put her hand in front of her stomach and extended it outward. “Are you?” she asked.
Hana came closer to the assistant’s desk and glanced around to make sure no one was approaching.
“Please, I haven’t even told my mother,” she pleaded. “Daud and I are going to wait a few weeks until I’m further along.”
Janet raised both hands in the air as if signaling a touchdown in a football game.
“That is wonderful news!” she exclaimed and then quickly lowered her hands and spoke in a soft voice. “But I will forget this conversation ever took place until after you talk to your family.”
Grateful for Janet’s sensitivity, Hana glanced at the green pea that still rested in front of her computer screen. She knew the baby was doubling in size weekly and would soon reach the walnut stage. There were no walnuts in her small pantry at home, but she could buy two, one for her and one for Daud to carry around in his pocket.
Once her nausea was gone, Hana turned on her computer. Toward the top of her in-box was a group email from Mr. Lowenstein. In it, he provided additional details about the forum where she would speak. The event now had a name—Greater Atlanta Interfaith Convocation on the Israel/Palestine Issue. Hana was not familiar with the term “convocation” and looked it up in the dictionary. The British definition stated that a convocation was often an important gathering of church officials. That immediately caught her attention.
There were sixteen other recipients of the email. Hana didn’t recognize any of them but looked for clues. At least half the people were likely Jewish patrons of the event, but there were a couple of men with Arab surnames. Hana checked out the background of a man named Muhammed Tahan. Born in the ancient city of Hebron, he had been educated at Cambridge in the UK and the University of California at Berkeley. Tahan currently worked as a history and philosophy teacher at an exclusive prep school in Massachusetts.
A man like Tahan would have heard every argument on the Israel/Palestinian issue and have a response prepared for each one. But Hana knew her personal story would speak louder than an argument. She could then add her belief as a Christian that the promises of God in the Bible, not human-centered agendas, were the keys to a correct understanding of the region and its people. Before working on a file for Mr. Collins, she spent thirty minutes jotting down notes and thoughts about what she might want to say.
Promised Land Page 17