Promised Land

by Robert Whitlow

  She went from there to Ra’anana and a much lower-key meeting with a client who was already firmly in the Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella fold. Hana had interacted via phone, email, and Skype with everyone in the room, and the session included celebration for past successes as well as planning for the future. As she’d suspected, the leadership wanted her to join them for dinner. Transatlantic fatigue set in during the meal. When she finally arrived back at the hotel, she encountered a fresh-looking Daud coming out of the hotel restaurant.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Good,” she replied, finally able to yawn without trying to suppress it. “But I’m not going to be able to stay up and write a report for Mr. Collins. That will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Hana fell quickly asleep once back in their room and didn’t wake up in the middle of the night.

  * * *

  The following day Daud left the hotel room to go for an early morning run. Invigorated by the dry air, he ran faster and longer than normal. Afterward, he showered in the pool bathhouse and relaxed in the water with a fruit drink beside him on the sandstone deck. Returning to their room, he found Hana awake and blow-drying her hair.

  “Did you pick up the rental car yesterday?” she asked when she turned off the dryer.

  “Yes, and because we can write it off as a business expense, I went for the top of the line and selected a Porsche.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Hana answered. “I bet you got a white Skoda.”

  “They didn’t have white so I settled for light blue,” Daud replied. “Hearing you guess correctly makes me feel like we’ve been married for twenty years and don’t have any surprises left for each other.”

  Hana kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep surprising you.”

  Daud sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “The best since I started having morning sickness.”

  They ate a light breakfast and checked out of the hotel. The small engine in the Skoda, a compact car imported from the Czech Republic, whined in protest during the drive up to Jerusalem. Several times Daud pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard. Hana spent much of the time staring out the window.

  “What are you thinking?” Daud asked as they entered the western part of the city.

  “Mostly praying,” Hana answered. “I didn’t wake up in the night.”

  Daud’s phone vibrated. It was Avi.

  “Where are you?” the art dealer asked when Daud answered.

  “Fifteen minutes or so from your house,” Daud replied, placing the phone on speaker so Hana could listen.

  “I’m finishing up an early meeting and close to Abu Tor. Do you remember how to get to the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Meet me there.”

  “Will do.”

  The call ended as Daud stopped for a red light.

  “My heart started pounding as you talked to Avi,” Hana said when the light turned green.

  “Fear or excitement?” Daud asked, glancing sideways at her.

  “A combination of both.”

  They passed the old Jerusalem railway station, then entered Abu Tor via Hebron Road and turned onto a smaller street lined with large older homes, many with enclosed gardens.

  “How much do these houses cost?” she asked.

  “In the millions of dollars,” Daud answered. “You know how expensive it is to live in Jerusalem in an apartment. It’s even more in a detached home with a garden.”

  They turned onto another street, and Daud pulled to the curb in front of the house with an iron railing in front and a high stone wall along the rear.

  “Here we are,” he said. “You can’t really see the cottage from here, but it’s at the end of that short alley.”

  * * *

  Hana stared at the main house. It was as big as anything they’d passed so far in the neighborhood.

  “I wonder who built it,” she said.

  “I should have asked but didn’t,” Daud replied. “Now it’s divided into four apartments. Avi is probably waiting for us at the house.”

  Daud and Hana held hands as they walked down the narrow alley to an iron gate. Hana caught her first glimpse of the house and mentally clicked a photograph of the image to save in her memory.

  “It’s pretty,” she said.

  “And it’s bigger than it looks from this angle,” Daud said. “At first I thought it was the same size as where we live in Atlanta, but it’s not.”

  “Daud!” a male voice called out.

  A Jewish man in his sixties came up and introduced himself to Hana. Avi Labensky, with his colorful open-collar shirt and European-style pants and shoes, fit the image of an art dealer. He took a pressed white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

  “It’s a delight to meet you,” he said to Hana in Hebrew. “Has Daud told you how much I like him?”

  “It’s been obvious from your kindness,” Hana replied in the same language. “Thanks again for the beautiful painting you gave us. It greets me every morning.”

  “And there’s a perfect spot for it in this house,” Avi said. “I was enjoying the garden, but I’m ready to go inside and get out of the heat. It’s going to be a hot day.”

  Before entering, Avi showed them a section of stone that looked slightly different from the rest.

  “I’ve been told there was a row of holes left by machine-gun fire in 1948 that ran from here to the corner of the house.”

  Hana cringed at the reminder of deadly violence. The Jews called the conflict the War of Independence; the Arabs who had battled them called it the Nakba, or “Disaster.”

  “Any idea who fired the shots?” Hana asked.

  “No,” Avi answered. “Once a bullet leaves the barrel of a gun, it knows no owner.”

  Hana remained silent as Avi gave them a tour of the interior. Daud kept looking at her, clearly waiting for her to speak, but a strong inner restraint kept her mouth closed.

  “What do you think so far?” Daud finally asked after they’d passed through the remodeled kitchen into the addition that contained the two extra bedrooms.

  Hana shrugged and remained mute. She could read the disappointment on Daud’s face. They went outside and climbed the steps to the rooftop. One corner of the wall around the Old City was visible in the distance. Avi pointed out where the armistice line fell following the battles in 1948 and an area of the main house damaged and repaired during the 1967 war. Hana felt tears well up in her eyes. The tears quickly spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She, Daud, and Avi were standing next to one another. Neither of the men noticed. Avi was the first to turn toward Hana and see her tears.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in a kind voice. “Did I say something that hurt you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hana said as she fought back the desire to sob.

  Daud faced her with a look of deep concern. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  Hana simply shook her head. As the two men continued to stare at her, she turned away and walked alone to the corner of the roof that overlooked the garden. Bullet holes in buildings could be repaired so succeeding generations weren’t confronted with the violence that caused them. But that was a superficial act. The forces of war leave scars in the bodies and hearts of people and the land itself. Hana’s tears flowed until she couldn’t see clearly what was in front of her. The garden, the large house, the city walls in the distance—all of them disappeared behind a veil of sorrow. She felt Daud’s hand lightly touch her back but didn’t respond. Finally, the reservoir ran dry. She took a wad of tissues from her purse and wiped her eyes and face.

  “I’m ready to leave now,” she said to Daud.

  “Avi is waiting on the street. Is there anything you want to tell me while we’re here?”

  “No,” Hana managed and paused for a few seconds. “Except that I felt the pain of the land and the people in a way I didn’t know possible.”

  “
In what way?”

  “Not now,” Hana answered. “That’s more than I thought I could say.”

  Making sure her vision was now clear, Hana descended the steps to the ground. She again took Daud’s hand in hers to reassure him as they retraced their steps down the alley to the street. Avi was standing by his car and didn’t try to make eye contact with her as they approached. Hana felt herself returning to a place of normalcy.

  “Thanks for showing us the house,” she said.

  “I’m sorry it upset you,” Avi began. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have suggested you come here.”

  “Don’t apologize. I had no idea it would affect me so deeply. And it wasn’t because I’m pregnant,” Hana said with a slight smile. “Something else was going on that I’ll need to talk to Daud about as soon as I understand it better myself.”

  “Should I contact Louis?” Avi asked Daud.

  “Not yet,” Daud replied. “Like Hana said, we need to talk first.”

  “Okay. Are we still on for the meeting with Mrs. Zarkawi in the morning?”

  “Yes,” Hana answered. “And I’ll be fine by then.”

  “Are you going to be there?” Daud asked Avi. “It’s already going to be crowded with Mrs. Zarkawi’s son, their lawyer, the archaeologist, and us.”

  “Daniella wants me present. Most likely to safeguard her professional reputation regarding her interaction with Mrs. Zarkawi and the Bar Kokhba coins.”

  “That makes sense,” Hana said.

  “Would you like me to pick you up at your hotel?” Avi asked.

  “Yes,” Hana answered. “We’ll be watching for you at the entrance.”

  Once Daud and Hana were in their rental car, she felt the same sense of silence descend on her that she’d felt inside the house. She knew it was unfair to Daud to clam up, especially since she’d promised to talk to him, but no suitable words formed in her mind, and she was incapable of small talk. They rode in silence to the boutique hotel in the German Colony where Hana and Jakob had stayed when they came to Jerusalem to investigate the Neumann case.

  Chapter 31

  Daud woke in the middle of the night. A sliver of light that made its way between a crack in the curtain revealed Hana sitting in a chair with her legs propped up so she could rest her chin on her knees. She was facing away from him toward the window. While he watched, she lifted her hands into the air and held them over her head with her palms open for over a minute before lowering them.

  Before going to sleep, Hana had tried to explain to him what she’d felt standing on the rooftop of the house in Abu Tor. To Daud, it seemed his wife experienced something similar to his response when visiting the property, only deeper and more powerful. Listening to Hana, his own sense of the spiritual responsibility attached to the house increased. But what that meant for them individually and as a couple remained indistinct and unformed. They’d ended the conversation by agreeing on one thing: they needed to talk to Hana’s uncle Anwar.

  In the morning they enjoyed coffee and a traditional Israeli breakfast buffet of fruit, cheese, pastries, yogurt, and fish. Hana’s appetite was good.

  “Don’t remind me that I ate a few bites of pickled herring the next time I’m nauseous,” she said.

  “Deal,” Daud replied as he drank a cup of dark, strong coffee.

  Daud’s phone gave an alert. He furrowed his brow as he read a text message.

  “What is it?” Hana asked. “Is there a problem with Avi or Mrs. Zarkawi?”

  “No, Hosni Chatti, the client from the UAE, wants to meet with me today, not tomorrow. He arrived in Amman last night and doesn’t want to stay over for an extra day.”

  “Can’t you tell him you have a prior commitment?”

  “He already knows my schedule. I provided it to him to avoid this type of problem.”

  Hana ate a piece of goat cheese. “I’d like to have you with me for the meeting with Mrs. Zarkawi, but if you can take care of your business today, then we’ll have more time to drive up to Reineh, surprise my family, and hopefully see Uncle Anwar.”

  “But I really wanted to learn more about the Bar Kokhba coins and any leads to the other items Jakob is looking for. That would be much more interesting than driving through an industrial zone in the West Bank scouting out the location for a plastics factory.”

  “Don’t criticize plastic,” Hana said with a smile. “Plastic irrigation pipe paid for everything from my baby shoes to my law degree.”

  Daud laughed. “Hopefully I’ll be finished in time to meet you for an early dinner.”

  “Should I invite Avi to join us?” Hana asked.

  “Sure. And you can include Daniella Rubin if you like.”

  Hana shook her head. “No,” she answered. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing legal strategy around her.”

  Hana went upstairs to their hotel room to finish getting ready. Daud stayed behind to text back and forth with Hosni Chatti. Since the Arab businessman was coming from Amman, Daud suggested they meet at the industrial park near Jericho since it was just across the Jordan River. Chatti replied that he’d let him know where they could connect around 11:00 a.m. Daud sighed. The time for the meeting was later than he preferred and lessened the chance he would be able to make it back for an early dinner with Hana.

  Chapter 32

  Hana waited in the hotel lobby for Avi Labensky to pick her up. In a leather pouch were the digitally enhanced photos of the Bar Kokhba coins. Daud had been gone for over an hour and had probably already made his way through one of the checkpoints that existed at every significant point of entry between Israel and the West Bank. Hana didn’t expect to hear from him until he’d finished his work and was on his way back to Jerusalem. The art dealer pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  “Good morning,” he said when she opened the front door of the vehicle. “I’m sorry Daud can’t join us, but maybe it’s better that he’s not there to intimidate everyone in the room.”

  “He doesn’t intimidate me.” Hana smiled.

  “Nor me,” Avi said. “But only because he doesn’t let his inner tiger loose. I’ve always been able to sense the beast within him.”

  The art dealer had no idea how fierce Daud could be. They merged into the late-morning traffic. It was a short drive to their destination.

  “What does your insight into people tell you about me?” Hana asked.

  Avi glanced sideways at her. “Your soul is a deep, deep well, and I can’t see the bottom. Daud told me you were a special person.”

  Hana looked out the window. The appearance of large houses influenced by Renaissance or Moorish architecture signaled they’d entered Talbiya, which was slightly west of Abu Tor.

  “What’s it like to live here?” Hana asked as they passed a striking white villa originally owned by Constantin Salameh, a native of Beirut who first developed the area.

  “Expensive in every way.”

  Avi turned off the street into the driveway of a home built in a Renaissance style with three date palms in the front yard. He parked behind a large older Mercedes. A stone walkway with bits of grass peeking through the cracks led to the front door that featured a brass knocker in the shape of a palm tree.

  “They like palm trees,” Hana observed.

  “Probably because they own a lot of them.”

  “Daud did some research and says the family has commercial property in Israel and Marseilles.”

  “And probably a lot more.”

  The door opened, and an older Arab man wearing a white shirt and a thin black tie ushered them into a high-ceilinged foyer. The floor was covered by a very old silk rug. Avi introduced himself and Hana.

  “I’ll let Mrs. Zarkawi know you’re here,” the servant said in Arabic.

  After the servant left, Avi turned over a corner of the rug and knelt down to inspect it. “This carpet is the real deal,” he said in Hebrew. “Most people would hang this rug on the wall, not walk on it every day. It’s not Persian. I’d say it’s from t
he Ottoman era because whoever made it used a Turkish knot.”

  “You’re correct,” a male voice said in Hebrew.

  An Arab man who looked about the same age and height as Avi entered the room. He was dressed casually in Western clothes.

  “I’m Hakim Zarkawi,” the man continued, extending his hand. “Welcome to my family’s home.”

  They shook hands and made introductions. Mr. Zarkawi wore a thick gold ring on one of his fingers.

  “My mother’s Hebrew isn’t very good, so I’ll serve as translator,” he said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Avi responded in Arabic.

  “Excellent,” Hakim answered with a smile that revealed perfectly formed white teeth. “Follow me.”

  They stepped into a salon filled with antiques and ancient relics. Decorative metal latticework overlaid all the windows. The house likely had a formidable security system.

  “Do you live in Jerusalem?” Avi asked Hakim.

  “Not for many years. I spend most of my time in France and the UK. I flew in for this meeting.”

  Avi and Hana were walking slightly behind Hakim. Avi looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

  “Has Mr. Barakat arrived?” Hana asked, referring to the Zarkawis’ lawyer. “I met him a couple of times when I worked in Tel Aviv.”

  “No, once I decided to come I told him it wasn’t necessary. But Ms. Rubin came early because she and my mother had other business to discuss. We’ll be in the sunroom.”

  They entered a long hallway that led to the rear of the home.

  The sunroom stretched the entire length of the back of the house. It was large enough to host a gathering of at least seventy-five people. Outside was a shady garden with a small greenhouse. Hana could see rows of flowering plants on shelves.

  Mrs. Zarkawi was sitting in a wrought-iron chair covered with thick burgundy cushions. She was a small woman in her eighties with thin arms, lively eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a bun. There was a walker next to her chair.