Chapter 21
The former servants’ quarters had been built with meleke limestone, the same material used to construct the Western Wall and other famous Jerusalem structures. The stones sparkled when illuminated by the rays of the sun. Avi unlocked the door. Cool air from the stone pavers on the floor and the surprisingly high ceiling welcomed them as they entered a small foyer with openings to the right and left. There was a silk Persian rug on the floor.
“The servants were paid well,” Daud observed, pointing at the rug.
“That’s a modern addition,” Avi said with a smile. “I sold it to the owner along with a painting that you’ll see in the salon.”
The salon, or living room, was to the left of the foyer. The smooth stone floor continued into the salon, which featured a rarity in Jerusalem houses: a fireplace positioned between the two windows.
“Does the fireplace work?” Daud asked.
“Yes, and there are three in the main house. Both buildings were designed by a British architect who was thinking more about English winters than Middle Eastern heat. The fireplace is great for the one or two days of snow we have a year in Jerusalem.”
“It makes the room seem—” He stopped.
“Cozy?” Avi suggested.
“Or welcoming.”
The furniture was comfortable and didn’t detract from the basic beauty of the room. There were three different paintings on the walls.
“Which painting did you sell the owner?” Daud asked.
“The landscape from the Negev.”
The artist had skillfully captured the desert terrain where Daud grew up. The starkness of the brown and reddish rocks, scraggly plants clinging to the soil, and sharp-edged wadis invited the human eye to examine detail. Daud stepped closer. When he did, he saw a tiny white flower tucked away in the corner. It was a Negev lily.
“The lily is out of place,” he said. “If there’s one lily there should be many more. They store up water in their bulbs and blossom all at once in the fall.”
“That’s intentional,” Avi replied. “The artist told me he included it to remind the viewer that beauty can emerge at any time in the harshest environment.”
“Even out of season?”
“Especially out of season. The longer I live, the more I understand what he meant.”
Daud followed Avi into a small dining room that connected to a kitchen at the rear of the house. The rectangular kitchen was surprisingly large. Several windows offered a nice view of the garden. There was ample space for an eating area at one end of the room. The stone floors were softened by area rugs.
“The kitchen was updated five years ago,” Avi said.
Daud could see himself fixing coffee in the morning and helping Hana cut up the ingredients for supper in the evening. He smiled at the thought of a baby in a high chair with Leon curled up nearby on the cool stone floor.
“What about the bedrooms?”
“That’s why the house is bigger than it looks,” Avi said. “The original bedroom was incorporated into the kitchen. Let’s see the addition.”
Daud followed Avi into a hallway. To the right was a spacious master bedroom with an expansive view of the garden through large plate-glass windows. The bathroom had both a freestanding tub and a shower. The fixtures were top-quality.
“This is very fancy,” Daud observed. “Maybe too fancy.”
“For you, but not for your wife. Every woman likes to think there’s a place in the world where she can be pampered.”
To balance the master suite, there was a smaller bedroom with its own tiny bath. At the end of the hall was a room currently set up as an office. It also had a nice view of the garden and the wall surrounding it.
“Okay,” Daud said to Avi. “I’m impressed, but with the location and all the upgrades, this is going to be out of our price range.”
“We’ve not seen everything. Come outside.”
“Let me take some photos first,” he replied. “I should have been doing that earlier.”
Daud quickly retraced their steps with his phone in his hand. He included a short video of the kitchen. They exited through a rear door and stepped into a garden lined with shrubs and flower beds. Cascading over the walls in two corners were large bougainvillea bushes covered in red blossoms. Avi led the way to the side of the house closest to the boundary wall. Set into the wall near the chimney were iron steps ascending to the flat roof. Daud followed the art dealer up fourteen stairs. A waist-high wall surrounded the rooftop patio. The owners had turned the large area into a place for social gatherings. There were comfortable all-weather chairs, couches, and several glass-topped tables.
“A lot of people can fit up here,” Avi said. “I’ve been to parties with forty or more.”
Daud wasn’t interested in throwing large parties in Jerusalem. What caught his attention was that the increased elevation on the rooftop opened a vista beyond the garden wall. Daud snapped more photos and then took in the view. Avi pointed with his right hand in the direction Daud was looking.
“That’s the demarcation line that existed between the two areas in 1949,” Avi said. “In fact, it zigzagged around this house, which was in the Jordanian section until 1967.”
Standing in a place that once marked the physical division in the land between the groups who’d fought to possess and control it, Daud felt a seriousness come over him. He was astride history, in a place with past, present, and future significance. He didn’t normally think in these terms, but the impression was as vivid as the colors of the flowers in the garden below. He glanced at Avi. The art dealer seemed casual and relaxed.
“What’s the asking price?” Daud asked.
“It’s not officially on the market,” Avi answered, “but the owner is interested in selling. I can pass along the range he mentioned to me.”
Avi gave a bracket of figures that caused Daud to inhale sharply.
“There’s no way I could come close to the lower end of—” Daud started.
“Don’t let that discourage you. If you’re interested, I can act on your behalf. Remember, people have been haggling over prices around here since the first time a man took a clay pot to the center of a village to sell it.”
* * *
Hana drank an entire glass of water in a few gulps. Drinking multiple glasses of water throughout the day forced frequent trips to the restroom. Shortly before noon, she was returning to her office from her fourth break of the day when Janet, who was on the phone, raised her finger to slow her down. Her assistant placed one hand over the receiver.
“It’s Jakob Brodsky. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Yes.”
Hana shut her door and accepted the call.
“How are you doing?” Jakob asked.
“What do you mean?” Hana asked sharply.
“I didn’t mean anything. It’s just an expression of speech. You know, another way to say hello.”
“Sorry,” Hana replied. “I’ve had a rough morning.”
“Would it help if I bought your lunch? I don’t mind paying, and I know it’s a good way to avoid breaking the rules laid down by Mr. Lowenstein.”
“This is about Mr. Ivanov’s case?”
“Yes.”
Hana had brought a light lunch from home, but getting away from the office for an hour would be a welcome break. “Okay, but nothing heavy or spicy.”
“I thought you were on a sauerkraut, pickle, and salami diet.”
“Not today.”
“That cuts out Indian or Italian, but I was thinking about Mediterranean. What about that Lebanese deli near your office? I know you like it.”
It had been a while since Hana had seen Mr. Akbar, the owner, but the deli was small and didn’t have a lot of seating. She often stood and ate at a counter.
“They only have a few tables. Will Mr. Ivanov be joining us?”
“No, and I bet the owner will save us a spot if we call ahead. Would you like me to do that?”
&n
bsp; “Okay.”
“I’m on my way. Wait about fifteen minutes before leaving.”
When it was time to leave for lunch, Hana decided to walk the five blocks to the restaurant. Halfway there, she regretted her decision. It was hot outside. Fortunately, Mr. Akbar had the air conditioner running on high, and a blast of cold air greeted her when she entered the restaurant. The owner saw her and pointed to the back corner, where Jakob was sitting at a small table for two. Hana grabbed a paper napkin from a container and wiped her forehead.
“Did you walk?” Jakob asked. “It’s over ninety degrees outside.”
“Which sounds hotter than thirty-two degrees Celsius but isn’t,” Hana answered as she sat down.
“I’ll drive you back to the office. Are you ready to order?”
“Yes.”
They went to the counter.
“I’ll have the sfiha,” Hana said to the young man taking orders.
“Me too,” Jakob said, then added, “even though I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a pie made with spicy lamb, onions, and tomatoes,” Hana said. “The spices vary, but usually include chili pepper, pomegranate concentrate, and cumin.”
“I thought you didn’t want spicy,” Jakob said, perplexed.
“That was thirty minutes ago.”
Hana realized she needed another restroom break. By the time she returned, the food was on the table.
“Daud likes sfiha a lot,” she said when she sat down. “I bet he ate some while he was in Beirut.”
“Is it also popular in Jerusalem?”
“Yes, but not always easy to find.”
They each took a couple of bites.
“This is good,” Hana said. “If you ever eat sfiha again, compare it to this.”
Jakob took a long drink of water. “Avi Labensky sent me an email this morning about the conversation he and Daud had with Daniella Rubin, the archaeologist. As an expert in Bar Kokhba coins, she told them that some of the ones in the collection are so unique that—”
Hana had been eating while she listened. She was about to take another bite but stopped as her heart seemed to skip a beat.
“What conversation?” she demanded.
“In Jerusalem. I guess it was yesterday, although I may be off because of the time difference. Rubin wants the enhanced photos of the items in the collection, especially the coins, before agreeing to do anything else, so I’m glad I have that in process. The fact that a legitimate archaeologist is willing to get involved is huge. I didn’t know about the differences between the coins minted during the three years of the revolt, but apparently that is a big deal.”
“Yes, yes, but Daud isn’t in Jerusalem,” Hana said. “He had to spend an extra day in Beirut. They must have talked on the phone.”
“That’s not the impression I got,” Jakob replied, taking a drink of water. “Anyway, whether in person or not, I’m encouraged.”
Jakob continued tossing out ideas about how to recover the Ivanov collection. Hana only half listened. She took her phone from her purse and checked to see if she’d missed a text or email from Daud announcing a change in plans.
Jakob paused. “Is there something you need to take care of?” he asked.
“Not right now,” Hana said, returning her phone to her purse. “I just know Daud wouldn’t take a spontaneous trip to Jerusalem. The risk for him in Israel, especially Jerusalem, is still too great.”
“Has anything happened recently?”
“No,” Hana replied and then quickly amended, “At least, I don’t think so.”
Jakob was silent for a moment before he spoke. “Are you sure Daud would tell you?” he asked.
Instead of quickly saying yes, Hana paused.
“I don’t know,” she answered, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “He might keep information secret as a way to protect me. That’s the way he’s lived his life for years. His family never knew much about his work. But for something this important . . .”
Jakob continued to eat. Hana abandoned her food as she wrestled with her thoughts and emotions.
“Shouldn’t you eat?” Jakob asked softly. “You said it was good.”
“It is,” Hana sighed. “And I should eat.”
She took another bite of sfiha. The flavorful dish no longer held her interest. Anxiety rose up within her. She glanced around the busy restaurant.
“I’m sure everything is okay,” Jakob said. “Daud is one of the most capable people I’ve ever met.”
“He wasn’t very capable the night we were held hostage at his apartment in Beit Hanina.”
Hana had forgiven Daud for putting her in mortal danger before she married him, but there was still a corner of her heart that didn’t completely trust his judgment.
“True,” Jakob said. “I’ve just tried to focus on the fact that we survived.”
They finished the meal in uneasy silence.
“Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?” Hana asked as Jakob finished his meal.
“I like sfiha,” he said and paused. “And I was excited about the recent developments in the Ivanov case and wanted to bounce my ideas off you. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It’s hard for me to believe that when I see the look in your eyes.”
“I guess it’s getting harder for me to hide my feelings,” Hana said with a sigh.
“I’ll give you a ride back to your office.”
Chapter 22
Khalil handed Rahal a report about Daud Hasan. They were meeting in a cozy study where Rahal liked to read and pray.
“Daud Hasan is the man who was in Sharm el-Sheikh,” Khalil said, not trying to hide his excitement. “Photo analysis confirms it one hundred percent!”
Rahal maintained a calm exterior. He motioned for his assistant to sit down. Khalil sat on the edge of a small straight-backed chair while Rahal read the report.
“He’s a Christian,” Rahal said. “Which probably explains some of his actions. Find out more about his family and religious connections.”
“Yes, sir,” Khalil replied, making a note on his tablet.
Rahal was impressed with the details Khalil had been able to pull together in such a short time. It included dates for Hasan’s military service in the IDF and information about his work as a private investigator. There were photos from his website and testimonials from representative clients.
“So the private investigator job was a front for his government work on behalf of the Jews,” he said, glancing up.
“Only in part. He ran a business from his base in the Beit Hanina district of Al-Quds,” Khalil replied, using the Arabic name for Jerusalem. “But he shut it down after the Chechen operation and went underground. Someone else rents the apartment in Beit Hanina where he lived.”
There were multiple photos of Daud. In one taken near the Sea of Galilee, he was carrying a backpack.
“Where did you find these photos?” Rahal asked.
“Mostly from the website of his previous business, and by searching the accounts of his friends on social media. He worked for American and EU companies doing background checks on potential employees in Palestine as well as investigations for lawsuits.”
“And played football.”
“Correct.”
Rahal turned the page. There was a photo of a young Arab woman wearing Western clothes with a little boy sitting in her lap.
“Who is this?” Rahal asked, holding up the report.
“A Christian Arab woman named Fabia Yamout who lives in Reineh, a town near Nazareth. Last year she posted a photo on social media of Hasan with another woman who may be his girlfriend or wife. That post is on the next page.”
A smiling Daud Hasan stood next to an attractive Arab woman in a white dress. They were standing beneath an arbor covered in bright flowers. The decadent images made Rahal sick to his stomach.
“This is part of a wedding celebration,” he said.
“Probably, but we need to confirm it,” Khalil said.
“Great work!” Rahal exclaimed, returning the tablet.
“Do you want me to initiate communication with the Chechens?” Khalil asked. “At least one of the members of their cell was killed at Hasan’s apartment and almost a dozen were arrested by the Israelis. That’s why they placed a bounty on Hasan. I’m sure they possess addition information, but they are also well-known to both the Jews and the Americans. It’s likely the Mossad and CIA monitor their communications.”
Rahal hesitated. “Look into the connections between Hasan and the town you mentioned near Nazareth.”
“Reineh.”
“Yes, and hire a private investigator of our own. Pull a page from Hasan’s protocol and tell the investigator it has to do with a background check for a potential employer in the US.”
* * *
Daud and Avi reached the bottom of the steps.
“You saw the quality of the modification to the kitchen and the addition of the two bedrooms to the house,” Avi said. “It increased the value of the property by at least thirty percent. And I forgot to tell you that it’s fee simple land.”
Over ninety percent of the real estate in Israel was owned by the government or quasi-government entities that leased the property to residents for a ninety-nine-year term. The Israelis believed this reflected the ultimate reality that only God could “own” land in perpetuity. The remaining ten percent of the land, mostly in urban areas and often the property of orthodox or Catholic churches or well-established Arab families, was outside the system. The land could therefore be transferred and sold without restrictions or time limits, just as real estate in the US and Britain. In an older Arab area like Abu Tor, it made sense that there would be property available for outright purchase.
Promised Land Page 18