Lulurightintowrong

Right Into Wrong by

Chuck Fair

Other Literary works: Novels: White, Red, Black & Blue Hellpath 1859 The Percolators Deviants Damnation Days of the Duck Doctrine A Town of Plenty Steven Sockeye Salmon, a novella Retribution, a screenplay Outside Intervention, a stage play Contact author at [email protected]

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Copyright © 2008 by Chuck Fair. Online editions may purchased at www.chuckfairlcom Lulu Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved by the author. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers and/or authors. While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, Lulu Enterprises assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein. The appearance and contents of this book are the sole responsibility of the author. Chuck Fair 1939-Printed in the United States of America 1. Israel – Palestine – American Born Again Christians -Islam. 2. Thermonuclear Bomb – Crucifixion Nail – Middle East -- Fiction.

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*LEYB* “What is Mohammad’s monkey up to, scratching about that goyim high, holy site?” “In this moonlight, the rock does look like a skull.” “It is just another Roman crucifixion hill, soon to be this Arab’s place of death.” “Let’s kill him and get away from here. This place gives me the creeps.” “Relax. We are armed to the teeth.” The larger man points his automatic weapon, an American M-16, at the shadowy figure, obviously a Palestinian by the checked Kaffiyyah that adorns his head. “I feel uneasy. Stalking and assassinating on Passover eve!” The thin faced, young man, his red hair balding under his skull cap, grabs his friend’s arm. “I don’t think this is what the Rabbi had in mind.” He releases the larger man’s arm, his hand moving to turn up the lapels of his windbreaker, only to realize that he has already turned them up. “If the rabbi had not been murdered by Arab fanatics, he would tell us to kill this terrorist. They are all one in the same, you know. Blow themselves to pieces, at the drop of a hat, to kill a Jew. I have seen this monkey picking his fruit on the outskirts of Jerusalem, right next to our settlement, Kiryat Arba. Do I have to remind you that 4

Adonai commanded the Jews to rid this holy city of all nonJews? Now there will be one less terrorist living on our ancient land.” The big man, done with bolstering his cohort’s nerve, crosses the clearing to where the Palestinian digs in the ground, reluctantly followed by the smaller man. He speaks in perfect Arabic to the Palestinian: “You should have sold the land when we tried to buy it, pig meat.” The startled Palestinian pulls back from where he was digging in the ancient limestone, horrified by the sight of the two armed Israeli settlers. He is in his thirties, but his graying hair and beard makes him appear much older. He speaks in an awkward Hebrew: “I am doing nothing to disturb you. What do you want?” “Your checkered headdress disturbs me. Your presence in this land disturbs me,” the more aggressive settler answers. “No kill me. I mean no one harm.” The bigger man, known asLeyb, raises his weapon to take aim on the smaller Palestinian, who lunges at him with a knife. Leyb, standing three feet away, fires a round point blank at the Palestinian. The bullet hits a metal object the Palestinian carries in his robe’s pocket, throwing off a cascade of sparks that momentarily freezes the two attackers. The Palestinian, first to realize what has happened, takes the hot, damaged object from the pocket of his robe and studiesit. He smiles as he chants: “praise be to Allah.” Instead of fleeing, he slashes at the settlers with his knife, challenging them to kill him. The two settlers take their time so as not to miss, and then fire their weapons, spraying the Palestinian with bullets, until he drops into a bloody heap. He barely gasps, “I am shahidi. Allahu Akbar.” The more aggressive of the two settlers uses his boot to probe the Palestinian for a sign of life. When he finds none, he takes the metal object from the dead man’s hand. 5

“Put your flashlight on this thing. It feels rough and pitted,” he orders his cohort. “Let’s get out of here before we have the entire Palestinian population on our necks,” the nervous man says, backing away from the dead Arab. “You are nervous enough to unnerve the dead. Give me the light.” Leyb tucks his weapon under his arm and grabs the flashlight from the thinner settler and illuminates the piece of metal, examining the nine-inch long object. “It’s an old spike of some sort. See how the four sides taper down from the head. I bet there is a point under this clump of dried mud fixed to it. My rifle fire mangled it some, but you can still see the blacksmith’s hammer marks where he forged the head.” “We have to leave now. Our rifle fire must have alerted someone who is probably on the phone informing Fatah Security or worse yet, Hamas.” “This old spike could be worth a lot of money. That is why this dead monkey was digging in the old crucifixion hill, finding one and wanting more of the same. We’ll take it to the Colonel. Jonathanis an archaeologist who is always digging in the dirt for biblical artifacts. He will know how valuable this spike is.” He cuts a patch of cloth from the dead Palestinian’s robe; with it he carefully wraps the object. The flashlight goes dark, and the two settlers disappear into the night shadows. *MAHMOUD* In the shadow of a vegetable vender’s stall forty paces from the shooting, an eleven-year old boy grins to himself, speaking in an inaudible tone: “After tonight George will see what dedicated work I do. He pays me one Jew shekel for each Israeli I report in our section of town. Tonight, he will pay me much more, maybe even as much as fifty Jew shekels for what I report.” 6

He straddles the old bicycle with its small wheels and high handlebars that his brother built for him out of discarded parts, before the Israeli soldiers shot him for throwing rocks at their tank. He can hear the weapons of the two settlers slap against their bodies as they walk to where the Israelis occupy Jerusalem. He knows they are soldiers, part of the Israeli Defense Forces, because they are allowed to carry their weapons everywhere, even into the greatest of holy mosques if they choose to show such disrespect. He silently rides his bike in the same direction the two settlers walked. Ahead of him, he sees the brightly lit Israeli section of Jerusalem. His eyes scan the claustrophobic stone streets of the Arab section around him, no more than alleys, dark, dirty and drab, cluttered with rank smells and debris; deserted even in mid-evening by its inhabitants. That these invaders live so much better in their well-lighted, wide street section of Jerusalem than he and his people do in this section rankles him. The two murderers of the orchard farmer exchange greetings with the soldier guarding the street entrance from the sleepy Palestinian section to the lively Israeli one, and then walk to the place they call Zion Square. The boy removes his robe and carefully rolls it into a bundle, which he fixes to his handlebar. Underneath the garment, he wears the black suit jacket George gave him to wear if it becomes necessary for him to follow a suspected enemy back into the Israeli occupied part of the city. From the pocket of the jacket, he removes the black Hasidic hat with its two, stupid pigtails attached to the sides of the headliner. He smoothes the hat, places it on his head and rides as fast as he can toward the Israeli Defense Force soldier guarding the street. Without slowing his speed, he yells at the armed man in the flawless Hebrew that he has learned in order to survive under foreign occupation: 7

“Good evening, brave defender of Eretz Israel.” He speeds past the guard. George has told him that no soldier will shoot a Hasidic boy. “Stop! Where are you going? What are you doing in the Arab part of town?” the soldier shouts after him, but does not pursue. The boy enters Zion Square with young well dressed Israelis sitting on the stone benches in the center, chatting with each other. New infidel automobiles glide on the neatly paved streets around the benches. There are many, brightly lit shops open for milling pedestrians; above the shops’ decorated, flashing business signs are flower and plant covered balconies. Stacked high enough to touch the heavens, he thinks, where comfortable Israelis live behind glass doors. There is so much space in Zion Square that they even plants trees here. He grits his teeth, angry that on his side of town the automobiles are rusty and battered, the streets crumbling and potholed. He spots a soldier, his weapon slung muzzle down, kissing a pretty girl and knows the man is too busy making out with the girl to be a threat to him. In fact, no occupant of the square gives him the slightest notice. He is after all, only one of hundreds of Hasidic boys in Jerusalem. The two murderers head toward a Jewish deli. The boy reads the Hebrew sign above the entrance: ART’S DELI. EVERY SANDWICH IS A WORK OF ART. He takes a smooth stone from his pocket, the one he found in his brother’s pocket after he and his mother received the body from Hamas people, saving it for an opportunity like now. The boy hurls the rock at the bigger of the two murderers, hitting him in the head and knocking off his skull cap. Seeing the man’s hand fill with his blood, he jumps on his bike and rides as fast as he can toward the Arab section of Jerusalem, but not before hearing the man he hit with the rock scream, “you crazy Hasidic kid. I will find you and then you will pay for your mischief.” 8

The boy grins to himself, thinking: all us Hasidic kids look the same, but only one, like me, is not so crazy. *

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“My name is Mahmoud Hasseissi. Tomorrow, I will join the great martyrs in heaven. My brother, who is already there, will greet me with pride. After today, my mother and sisters will have money to live like princesses. My picture will cover the buildings alongside the other martyrs,forever to be seen by my people.” The boy pauses, uncertain, and looks away from the camera to someone unseen,who whispers instructions. He continues: “I will have preformed the most honored of jihads and will spend an eternity entertained by the many, beautiful virgins who await my arrival. God is great. There is no God but God. Mohammad is His messenger. Praise be to him. Tomorrow,I will join the Messenger. Praise be his name.” He bends forward and kisses the Qur’an placed on a pedestal and reads: “Say not of those who die in the path of God are dead.” “Do you think this pre-pubescent pup can handle seventy horny virgins, Uncle George?” “Hold you tongue Haifa.” The young woman, standing, tall for a Palestinian, studies the boy wearing a waistband of explosives, appearing on the television screen. He looks too small for the AK-47 assault weapon and rapier he holds that form an X across his chest. The immature youth is dressed in a white, satin blouse cinched by a green sash over loose white, Arab pantaloons; a black scarf is wrapped around his head. She thinks the boy‘s eyes too innocent for the grownup image he tries to project, and he is, standing there as a shahidi, more sad than menacing. On the wall behind him hangs the forbidden green, red, black and white Palestinian flag. Next to it is the Hamas emblem, crossed swords under a 9

picture of al Aqsa Temple, designed after the Palestinian declaration of a second intifada due to an Israeli intrusion of Islam’s third holiest place. The image on the screen flickers and then turns to static. “That was yesterday. This is today,” the uncle informs his niece. The woman studies the source of the voice, a burly, fully bearded man, dressed in an Arab robe and sitting in one of those decadent, western-styled, overstuffed chairs. Behind him stand two shabeds--young Hamas soldiers-- both holding Russian assault rifles. They are also sporting full beards and wear tight, black shirts, revealing their muscular torsos. Her uncle, known as the pious of pious men, uses the remote control to restart the video tape. This leader of fanatics did not usedto be so pious, Haifa recalls, remembering the few short years after her parents’ death, when he took charge of her upbringing. At first, he was what uncles should be: avuncular, friendly and fun. Before his personality changed, there were trips to Beirut, lounging on the beach, shopping, and cabaret outings into the wee hours of the night. But the long string of setbacks by Israeli hands, his brother’s—her father’s death and George’s torture and subsequent imprisonment changed him from a secular grade school teacher to the stern, vindictive extremist standing before her. She reminds herself that all his frustration and suffering does not justify what he did to her. She studies a second video recording of the boy, now dressed as an IsraeliHasidic youth in a long black coat, pigtails bouncing under a black hat, riding his bike into the Israeli Zion Square. She is somehow titillated over what she suspects is about to take place, for she hates how the Israelis have changed Jerusalem. The boy casually stands his bike in a rack in front of a place named Art’s Deli, written in Hebrew over the door. He walks past the armed civilian guard at the entrance, without incident, greeting 10

him in a friendly way. Haifa can almost hear the boy say, Shalom. Her uncle stops the recording, as if anticipating her condemnation. “The boy was precocious, perfect for the mission.” “How old is he, Uncle George?” “Eleven. But, there was no one else who could so successfully slip into the Israeli section, let alone into a private party on the first night of their Passover, the Jews enjoying what they call a Seder.” He laughs in anticipation of what will follow on the video tape. “There was no time to prepare the boy. Then again, he did not need the usual week of indoctrination. Very brave and focused for his years. Born to be a martyr. I saw no reason to deny him a shahid glory because of age.” He restarts the video tape, which focuses on the guard standing before the deli’s glass entrance door. “Look closely, Haifa, and you will see the Jews bowed under their white scarves, eating their unleavened bread and fish cakes at the tables.” She can see the tables packed with celebrants looking up as the Hasidic boy, appearing no more than a silhouette, movestoward them. Then the explosion consumes the television screen. “Retaliation had to be swift, so the message is unmistakable. We made sure the two zealot freaks who murdered the fruit grower in our section of the city were inside the restaurantbefore the boy triggered the bomb.” He turns off the television. “Twenty-seven Israelis dead. Three times that wounded. Allah be praised.” “I am impressed that you were able to get a camera so close to capture the explosion. Perhaps, you should have been a movie tycoon, Uncle George. Hamas Studios. How do I fit in with this television production?” The educated woman studies the various suras of the Qur’an, referring to jihads against disbelievers, framed and hanging on the walls. She 11

wants no part of a religion where thought must recluse itself in favor of conformity. “My brother’s daughter, you and your women have done well attacking the enemy’s checkpoints. I think it is time a woman became a martyr. Of course Shariah will demand that each woman have a chaperone to accompany her to her final destination.” “All very proper according to a man’s version of the Qur’an. I am amazed at how you and your following have distorted the Prophet’s teachings. I am also curious, are you running out of Palestinian boys and now must recruit women?” “I think the enemy should know Hamas is one hundred percent united, that there are male and female martyrs who will sacrifice their lives for a Palestine that stretches from the Mediterranean sea to the Jordan River. God willing, we will not rest until all Muslim land is purged of these infidels. That is what the Qur‘an tells us to do.” “Do you think Hamas is capable of pushing the Israelis into the sea?” The woman breaks into a laughter that ridicules his words. She paces in front of her uncle, her laughter momentarily astonishing him. “If we women become shahida, how different would our lives be there than they have been here on this earth? In this heaven, with which you enticed the boy, would we stop being secondary citizens, a man’s demure chattel? Tell me Uncle George, where in your men’s Qur’an does it state there will be seventy virgin men for each of us, waiting to service my women and me. Their virgin pricks untouched, perennially stiff, following us throughout heaven--a gaggle of horny geese, ready to ejaculate upon our command?” Her uncle jumps to his feet, outraged. “Haifa, you go too far.” He motions to the two armed guards to leave the room. “I could have you stoned for such apostasy.” “Don’t look so shocked,” she replies, wanting to make her uncle even more uncomfortable than he appears, knowing 12

that between them she has the bigger ax to grind. “We both know men fashioned Islam, fashioned your heaven and certainly fashioned the lives of Palestinian women in this land.” “I was a fool to think time had mitigated your ungodly nature,” he counters. “Or the memory of the dirty mullah you brought to me from the primitive sands of Somalia.” “That was a long time ago. I think we best put that behind us.” He composes himself and drops into the chair. “The chairman is returning from Tunis, you know. He has promised the Israelis that Palestinians will not retaliate against their apartheid state.” “He sold you out, recognizing Israel‘s right to exist. Discarding our people’s right to return to the land stolen from them.” “Arafat betrayed all the Palestinian people, not just me. Hamas will not recognize the PLO agreement with the Israeli Prime Minister. We will continue to fight the occupiers for our land. Will you join me?” He studies his niece. The white embroidered robe and headdress she wears to fool Israeli spies, cannot obscure her tall, welldeveloped body. She has inherited her mother’s flawless complexion and dark penetrating eyes and his brothers, her dead father’s, classic hawk-like nose, a distinction that makes her appear more imperial than beautiful. She does not answer his question, instead remarks, “retaliation was predictable, using the boy bombagainst the settlers who murdered the fruit grower. An Israeli retaliation for the Passover bombing is also predictable, and that attack will not come until their Passover concludes. Then, they will bulldoze the boy’s house and leave his family abandoned in the rumble.” “I know. There is nothing Hamas can do to stop them, but someday, Allah willing, we will.” 13

“Maybe this time, Palestinian women will not stand by and watch while the Israelis displace another family.” “What do you intend to do?” The woman laughs again. “Stay tuned. Update on the late news.” * JONATHAN * A surge of nostalgia warms the Israeli officer as he turns off the main road running south through the Negev desert onto the dirt road of his father’s farm. Both of the soldiers guarding the entrance recognize him and wave him on with big smiles on their faces. As he tips his soft cap to them, he thinks, it is terrible that his father, the Minister of Defense and hero of the last war, the one the world calls the Yom Kippur War, does not have a bigger protection than just two soldiers, but he knows his father is too macho to request it. The green fields, alive with tomato and lettuce plants,soon to ripen, flank both sides of the road; olive trees show as a dark green mantle in the distance. He slows his auto to fully enjoy the strip of burgundy-leaf, plume trees his grandparents planted along the access road; many were gifts from supporters in America. His grandparents, Bobe and Zeybe, one of few pioneer families who immigrated from Poland long before Israel declared itself a nation of Jews, barely scratched out a living on the arid land until the 1967 war when the Sea of Galilee fell into Israeli hands, and Israeli ingenuity irrigated the arid land, so that it could be bountiful. Bobe and Zeybe are dead now, but he will forever remember their kindness to him. As a boy, he, his brother and father planted orange trees closer to the house, and they never fail to strengthen his resolve as an Israeli soldier, for, to him, the trees symbolize the strength of the allies who sent them--the Americans. As he reaches the top of the small knoll that obscures the farmhouse from the road, he spots his father, behind the 14

simple family dwelling, directing a tractor, pulling a load of pipes that he distributes along the length of a fallow field, later to install them for the drip-irrigation that has made his crops so healthy and plentiful. Jonathan stops the automobile, gets out and walks toward the cloud of dust left in the tractor’s wake. “Shalom, papa,” he shouts over the growl of the tractor as he nears his father. “No rest for the wicked I am told,” he comments in Hebrew. “Shalom, my son. I am glad you could come so soon.” His father kills the diesel engine and slides from the tractor’s seat to the ground, removing his ever present skull cap to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I view an invitation from the powerful Defense Minister as a command.” Jonathangrins, noting that his father has gained quite a bit of weight in the three months since he last saw him. “I see you have been eating well.” His father laughs and envelopes him in his still-strong arms. The son thinks the Lion of the Sinai is growing fat and old, but still possesses the tenacity of the man who turned the last war with the Egyptians and Syrians from sure defeat to victory for Israel. His column of tanks crossed the Suez Canal and flanked the Egyptian army, less than a hundred kilometers from their capital, Cairo. “Is that why you wear your uniform?” “Your invitation is about business rather than pleasure, is it not?” “Unfortunately at a time when your mother, you, your family and I should be celebrating Passover, it is.” His father steps back from his embrace and takes on a solemn look. “This bombing in Zion Square, the government cannot allow it to go unanswered. I spoke to the Prime Minister, and he has given me a free hand to retaliate as I see fit.” “I would be honored it you choose me to deliver the message.” 15

“It is yours to deliver. Eleven years old, that was the age of the terrorist bomber. These so-called Palestinians never cease to amaze me--a boy no older than my grandson, your oldest son, blew himself up to kill Israelis.” He guides his son away from the house. “Walk this way, out of sight of the house before your mother spots you in uniform. There will no end of it for me, if she finds me discussing I.D.F. business with you at ourhome.” Jonathanfollows his father as he walks toward the orange orchards. “Two of the Rabbi Kook’s oldest followers were killed in the Passover explosion. Coincidently, one was a tank driver, the other a tank gunner in my battalion,” the son informs his father.” “I am sorry. I didn’t know.” “Good men. I am sorry to lose them. But there is more to it than that. They brought me this on the day of their deaths.” He takes the long spike from the patch of cloth belonging to the dead Palestinian’s robe and hands it to his father. “It looks ancient. What do you make of it?” the father asks. “And what is this chipping?” He touches the part where the settler’s bullet hit the spike. “No idea what the mark is. But the object could be an old spike, maybe even a crucifixion nail. My initial Carbon 14 test on some weed in the soil encrusted on its end indicates the period around Herod Antipas’sreign. Could be later, A.D. 70 on the Christian calendar--the time of our temple’s destruction, when Vespasian and his son, Titus crucified thousands of rebellious Israelites after Romansoldiers sacked the city. But I need to go to the university and run an advanced analysis on it for absolute verification.” “Amazing.” The older man turns the old object in his hand, examining it like he would a holy relic. “If this nail is what you first thought it to be, then it has tremendous value in the United States.” 16

“I would think its greater value would be here in Israel. You should know that I suspect the two, dead NCOs,who gave that object to me, took it off a Palestinian after they executed him. You may recall the dead Arab, riddled with M-16 bullets, found in the Arab section of Jerusalem. I believe the bombing in Zion Square was in retaliation for killing that Arab who originally possessed this nail, since the same two men who gave it to me were celebrating Passover at the bombed restaurant in Zion Square.” “Nevertheless, I want you to take as many tanks as you deem necessary and destroy this terrorist boy’s house and ten houses in every direction around it. Raze the neighborhood if you have to. I want the Israeli government’s message to be loud and clear: We will not tolerate our citizens being senselessly murdered.” “God willing, it shall be done as you wish, papa.” “God willing. Do not attack until the sun falls on the last day of Passover. Between now and then, run your extensive dating tests. If this nail comes from anywhere near the terrible period you say it might, the American religious community will, as they say, pay a pretty penny for it.” “Papa, no known dating test exists to exactly match this object to the crucifixion time of their so called son of god. Even if it did, how could a scientist separate the nail from hundreds used in that particular period? That is the reality. It is best Israel hang on to it.” “My son, did you forget how the Shroud of Turin hypnotized the Christians into believing their son of god was buried in it; that even when the shroud was proved to be a phony, the more devoted Christians hung on to the belief it was authentic? Any ancient pottery cup, one of thousands that must have been made in that same period, turning up in the holy land, these Christians are anxious to believe it is the Holy Grail, the cup their deified Jesus drank from. At the beginning of this century in Fatima, 17

Portugal, three children and no one else could see the Christian Virgin Mary appearing as an apparition; this was enough for faithful gathers to see a glowing light and Rose petals floating to the ground. Sighting of a cross on a coconut tree, portraits of deities opening and closing their eyes, the list goes on and on. Devout Christians do not doubt the reality of those miracles. No my son, where the Born Again Christians are concerned, we are not dealing with reality. We are dealing with blind faith. And they have more than enough to overcome any archeological doubt pertaining to this old nail. This time I will request something even more valuable than money. Something they will gladly pay.” He hands the nail back to Jonathan. “Keep it on your person until we next meet. Now go with God.” *

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The Defense Minister’s son feels the power of the behemoth Merkva 3 Baz tank underneath him as it creeps toward Aide, the Palestinian refugee camp south of Jerusalem. Beneath him in the armor-protected compartment sit Yodye, the shell loader, Tzviel the gunner and Migdana, the driver. He is proud of his tank team; they are veteran reservists, having served their two years of active duty like all Israeli citizens must do, and now are called up from the reserves for this mission. Yodye, the dark hair, blue eyed man, so boyish that he still giggles when given an order he does not understand, is the grandson of German Jewswho lost their lives at the Nazi camp, Auschwitz. Tzviel, which means gazelle of god, is the son of Best Israel immigrants from Ethiopia, whose parents Jonathan’s father almost single handedly brought from Africa, along with thousands of other black Jews. Although separated from Jewish culture in Africa, they had kept their faith for a millennium. He is most proud of 18

Migdana, his female driver, the tall, statuesque woman, whose name means gift. She has proven herself to be just that, turning out to be not only as macho as his toughest tank soldier, but as patriotic as anyone in the Israeli Defense Force. The crew is young, not one over thirty, the generation that follows his one, so loose and likeable that they do not address him as sir, but as Jonathan. Two other Merkvas tanks follow his lead in the pre-dawn hour. At his signal, two huge armored bulldozers, American-made Caterpillars, will begin smashing a path for the tanksthrough the Palestinian camp, toward the suicide bomber, Mahmoud Hassiessi’s house. A platoon of soldiers, twenty-four in all, are in the process of evacuating the Palestinians from their dwellings; they will be given fifteen minutes to grab their children and possessions before the bulldozers plow over the houses. Small loss to society, as the structures are more hovels than houses, he tells himself. The minister’s son marvels at how those people live: almost a half century since the War of Independence when they fled their homes and property, finding shelter in this refugee camp, and they havenot improved their conditions one iota. He thinks these Palestinians are an inferior people, not even remotely close to the Jewish people’s lifestyles in the surrounding settlements. The defense minister’s son grits his teeth over the frustration he feels, having to constantly police the troublemakers from completely getting out of control, they are all mad with this second intifada of theirs, the one his father allegedly triggered by visiting al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem, one of the many holy places of Islam. They should be in Jordan, not here in the West Bank, Israel’sancient land ceded by God. Here in the Jewish peoples’ holy land, this surly bunch isobsessed with regaining what they believe to be their land. No matter how pious they profess themselves to be, no matter how 19

many times they prostrate themselves in prayer, facing their holy city five times a day, they are still heathens to him. He cannot accept a people or a religion that sanctions a mere boy, a pre-pubescent, or anyone for that matter, blowing himself up to kill innocent people. A cold chill runs through his body when he imagines one of his own sons, trading places with the dead Palestinian boy. The mere thought of sacrificisng his sonin such a horrible way, even for Israel‘s need to survive its many enemies, causes his stomach to turn sour. The proud father conjures up the images of his two sons, Shaul and Shlamo sitting so maturely at his parents’ Passover dinner, their hair thick and eyes brightunder skull caps. The boys staringin awe at their hero grandfather, hoping he will share one of his many war adventures with them. His parents sitting at each end of the table, doting on their grandchildren, as loving to his sons as he remembers his own grandparents, Bobe and Zeybe being loving to his him. His parents, married almost fifty years, are still devoted to each other; his father, not only Israel’s foremost warrior, but a man respected for his stern religious devotion and high family values. His beautiful, still-youthful mother, a teacher with a Ph.D. in Middle East History, recently retired from the prestigious Tel Aviv University. She, unlike his father, has maintained her youthful figure. In his mind’s eye, he recreates the six of them sitting at the table during the last day of Passover, a seventh place set for his older brother, Joshua, who died when a Egyptian missile hit his tank during the push across the Sinai Desert in the Yom Kippur War. He recounts how his father said the ancient saying that always ends Passover: NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM. He smiles, thinking the Jewish people are in Jerusalem, and they will hold onto it until the end of time. His fingers find the ancient nail he carries in a fanny pack strapped to his waist, because it has turned out to be very valuable, remembering how pleased his father seemed after 20

learning that the ancient find is authentic. Advanced dating technology placed it close to the time of Roman occupation during Herod Antipas’ reign, about the time of when the Sadduceans controlled the temple and Pontius Pilate reigned in Judea, when the alleged son of the Christian god was crucified. A tinge of light breaks behind himas he stands with his upper torso above the tank’s open hatch. He checks his watch; four thirty in the morning, and it is time to move. Jonathan says, “cut the bushes back,” a code in Hebrew, into the short-wave radio, the signal for the bulldozers to move. Within seconds, he hears the first rumble of the giant earthmovers, one thousand meters ahead of his position, moving along the dirt street to the boy’s house, awaking the refugee camp. He cannot resist whispering out loud, “kiffers, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet, wait until me and my gang roll into town.” Jonathan pats the tank’s machine gun, confident of his power. Yesterday, he had reconnoitered the camp by helicopter, believing the retaliation for the Passover bombing to be a simple exercise, one he had preformed many times before; the bulldozers would clear the street leading to the little terrorist’s home of all vehicles, steps and overlapping porches; if a house is built too close to the street, it will be crushed by the scooping blades of the bulldozers. His tanks have to have rapid access to the area in case there is resistance to the mission. He did not expect resistance, so did not request helicopter gunship support. Passover was over at sundown yesterday and these Palestinians knew an attack would be imminent after the seventh day of observance of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, but what resistance could they put up against the toughest armed forces in the Middle East? The bulldozers alone were force enough to overcome poorly trained Fatah resistance fighters and the inept police force. When facing three ultramodern Israeli-built tanks, eachcarrying a four men crew, 21

7.62 millimeter machine guns, 120 mm high penetrating shells, 60 mm mortar shells, any Palestinian resistance against the retaliation attack becomes unimaginable. He knew the Merkvas, powered by a 1200 horsepower diesel engine could smash through anything as crudely built as the motley collection of mud and brick huts these refugees exist in, but losing a bulldozer was a lot less expensive than losing a tank should some renegade camp dweller get lucky with a rocket propelled grenade and take out a tank track. Ahead of him in the early dawn’s light he sights the camp, its small, flat-roofed hovels sprawling across the land like unchecked weeds, some early morning lights visible. Somewhere toward the northern center of the camp, a great cloud of dust rises from the bulldozers clearing a path to the terrorist boy’s house. He feels Migdana tug on his trouser leg to alert him of a radio communication and then hears: “Colonel, this is Lieutenant Dekel,” sound from the tank’s short wave radio. “Go ahead,” he says to the leader of the evacuation team in the camp ahead. “All the Palestinian houses are deserted. We foundmore than thirty so far. The bulldozers are beginning to raze the terrorist’s house, but it is very suspicious that no residents are here, although lanterns burn inside the homes as if they are occupied.” “It is more than suspicious, Lieutenant. Someone has alerted them to withdraw. Pullyour men back until I can get the Merkavas into position.” Before Jonathan finishes his order, he hears the cracks of machine gun fire over the radio. “Colonel, we are taking small arms fire from all around us.” Before he can reply, the tank patrol leader hears numerous loud explosions. “They got the bulldozers. They took them out with two anti-tank missiles. Two more missiles have hit our troop 22

carrier. It’s burning.” Jonathan can sense hysteria in the young lieutenant’s voice. “Take cover. We will be there in less than ten minutes,” he instructs the junior officer. He could shell the boy’s house now; he has the coordinates and it is easily within range, but indiscriminate shelling could hit IDF troops * HAIFA * In the pre-dawn light, the Palestinian woman observes the Israeli armored troop carrier slowlymoving to within ten meters of the martyred boy’s house. The dark-green clad soldiers, wearing their distinctive round helmets, quickly disembark, loaded down with sophisticated equipment. She counts twenty-four Galil Assault weapons pointed at the houses, as an officer knocks on the martyred boy’s door. Haifa smiles as she hears the Israeli bulldozers in the distance clearing a path for the tanks to get in and out of the camp, thinking the IDF is so confident, so predictable. Her twelve women have taken positions in a few lightless, evacuated houses around her, almost all of them college educated and seeking autonomy from men. Each volunteer wants no part of a Palestinian woman’s subservient life, even if it means death opposing the occupiers. All these women sought to join her after she shot two settlers as they drove on their private road to their well-guarded settlement--an act unprecedented by a woman. Since that first successful attack, she and her followers have regularly attacked the occupiers’ checkpoints that continuously delayscores of Palestinians trying to get in and out of Jerusalem. She and her women wore traditional Arab robes called a jellab, a Bedouin covering, carrying Kalashnikov rifles underneath; always catching the cocksure Israeli troops off guard when they emerged from the queues, firing their weapons rapidly and escaping before enemy reinforcements arrived. 23

She calculates the refugee village she gazes upon would be called a slum by any description, graffiti everywhere, scribbles defaming Israelis and ragged posters glorifying past Palestinian martyrs, crumbling buildings, some no more than corrugated tin sheets nailed together with small openings to catch a breeze, small relief from the relentless heat. Across from the boy’s house is an empty field, onehundred and fifty by fifty meters, where the weeds are trampled and the martyred boy probably played soccer with his playmates, as boys do after school. She hopes the boy will be martyred as the nonsense fed into young men’s heads tells them they will be, but thinks his premature death foolhardy. During the day, venders sell their merchandize from moveable carts occupying the field, bringing their unsold wares home after each day’s commerce. When the first tinge of light hits the field, she can see the abandoned appliances, useless furniture and other rubble scattered about, a mosaic of disrespect, motivated by the refugee camp dwellers’ miserable existence. They hate their existence, so why pay respect to it by clearing away the debris, she surmises. In the field, during the last five nights of the enemy’s Passover celebration, she and her women took advantage of the sky’s pitch-black cover to bury five one hundred pound charges of volatile explosives that can be remotely detonated. This she plans to do when the Israeli tanks, the metal monsters they think Palestinians are helpless against, take up position in the field, which they surely will as it is the most tactical spot. She continues to observe the soldiers with some amusement while they go about knocking on doors of illuminated houses where no one answers, then kicking the doors down, using their military tactics to ferret out the enemy, although in this case, non-existent residents. Haifa waits until the bulldozers enter the area and begin to level the martyred boy’s house, one using a long extended 24

shovel resembling an inverted praying mantis’ arm, smashing the roof inward; the other bulldozer crushing the front wall of the house until the sides collapse. She levels the barrel of her semi-automatic rifle at the two soldiers approaching her position and fires the weapon at them, wounding them both. Her women followers immediately open fire on the other soldiers, killingtheir rear guard. The Israeli soldiersbolt for the open doorways of the deserted houses, frantically seeking shelter. She signals for two women to fire their hand-held Iranian-made Katyusha rockets at the bulldozers. Both firings are direct hits, taking out the near sides of the caterpillar tracks, rendering the machines helpless atop the rubble of the Hassiessi house. Her attention goes to the heavy machine gun fire coming from the troop carrier, directed at one of the women’s positions. She taps the shoulder of the young woman beside her and watches another Katusha rocket explode at the front of the vehicle, killing the gunner and causing the vehicle to explode into flames. The Israeli soldiers, so confident a few minutes ago,are in disarray and have only returned light arms fire at the women hidden about them. She orders all three of the Katyusha rocket launchers to fire upon the positions the Israelis have taken in the deserted houses. All four houses burst into flames, the soldiers fleeing into the open square where her rifle fire cuts them down, others escape through the back doors into the Aide refugee camp where Fatah or Hamas gangs, now alerted to the Israeli assault, will surely finish them. The first part of her plan executed, she orders everyone to withdraw, except for the four women operating the antitank weapons. Within a few minutes, the first Israeli tank appears in a cloud of dust, so predictable attacking with the morning’s sun behind it, its projecting cannon immediately firing at the non-burning houses. She is momentarily unnerved by the size of the behemoth machines, the monsters’armor spreading eight meters across, massive 25

turrets swinging about, searching for a first target, the tanks overall height close to five meters. The bruising tanks exit the path cleared by the bulldozers and move onto the field, firing thunderous canon shells into the refugees’ houses, leaving heapsof dust and rubble. Haifa had passed the word to the occupants of the nearest twenty-five houses in all directions to evacuate in the dead of night; this they managed to do without alerting the Israelis or their paid informers. She now signals the remaining women to execute the last part of her plan by firing a flare into the air, and immediately retreats from her position before the lead tank fires a shell in her direction. The tanks begin to maneuver into position in the field, spreading out into atriangle formation, the lead tank in the middle, the other two flanking it. While the tanks show their profiles to the positions of the old Chinese Anza MkI anti-tank missile launchers, the females fire missiles at them. Fiery rocket fuel shoots out behind the weapons, shells hitting the tanks, but unable to penetrate the thick armor. Haifa expected the black market anti-tank missiles to be harmless, hoping the tank commander, bolstered by the shells ineffectiveness, would not realize the firings are a ploy to hold his position in the field and continue to destroy every refugee house in sight. The two women continue to shell the tanks as they retreat behind the rubble of destroyed huts, with the tanks’ cannon fire destroying everything in their vicinity. The Merkvas tanks finally zeroing in on the rocket firers’ positions, release a barrage of the 120 mm high penetrating shells. Haifa realizes that if the women are still alive, then they are trapped under a ton of rubble. The female leader, the last woman to remain, sets off all five charges of TNT; the explosions are monumental, rocking the wall she hides behind and sending dirt and debris over her head. When the smoke and dust clear enough for her to access the damage, she is overjoyed; two Israeli tanks on the flanks are literally blown apart, pieces 26

of metal scattered about the field are blazing under black smoke. The lead tank was spared the direct hit of the other two, but the force of the blasts has knocked it on its side; it too has burst into flames. She tries not to be selfcongratulatory, wanting to focus on what lies ahead of her, but telling herself that never before has an insurgency destroyed one of these monster machines, and she and her women demolished three. From the many separate, fires that send an eerie flickering onto the dawn, she watches an Israeli soldier, his legs burning, pull another soldier on fire from the fiery lead tank. Two other Israelis from the overturned tank roll in the dirt, trying to extinguish the petrol fire attacking their flesh. Their agonized screams assault the momentary stillness hanging over the devastation. The Israeli with his legs on fire manages to put out the flames, but Haifa can see he is in pain. She waits a few minutes to make sure none of the Israeli soldiers she earlier ambushed have returned to resume the fight and creeps forward, watching the one Israeli not on fire trying to extinguish the flames engulfing the man he pulled from the tank. The pieces of burning metal snap and crack mischievously around her as she stands less than ten feet from the burning soldiers. She knows she has only a few minutes before the Israeli helicopter gun-ships fly overhead. One Israeli, a women Haifa thinks, but cannot be certain because the head and hair are inflamed, looks to her for help, then the suffering woman sees the Kalashnikov rifle she holds. The burning creature stands and tries to run. Haifa sends a burst of bullets from her weapon into the back of the burning figures’ legs, and it collapses to the ground, no longer able to roll in the dirt, just writhing from pain. The non-burning Israeli turns toward the sound of gun fire, and, for a second, she sees the whites of eyes peering at her from a blacken face. Before he can react, she slams the heavy wooden butt of her AK-47 into his temple, and he too collapses. 27

With the muzzle of the Kalashnikov touching the unconscious man’s forehead, she decides not to shoot his three burning comrades preferring to watch them burn to death, prolonging their misery. The faces of her grandparents on her father’s side materialize in her mind’s eyes, remembering that the Israelis executed them when the terrorist unit, Irgun, captured the Palestinian village, Deir Yassin, during The Catastrophe of 1948. Her own mother and father were brutally murdered at Shatila in Lebanon when the invading Israeli Army, led by the man she most wants to kill, allowed the Christian Phalangists to enter the refugee camp and slaughter the defenseless Palestinian inhabitants, but not before raping the women, her mother included, killing their children as the naked mothers looked on horrified. So three Israelis burning to death before her eyes is small recompense for the destruction of her family. She watches until the three burning creatures’ screams subside to mere whimpers, telling her they are in their last stages of life and then focuses on the unconscious man, his uniform still smoking. She pokes his nose with the muzzle of her rifle. He stirs and his eyes open, searching his surroundings to evaluate the situation; she pins his head to the ground with the rifle’s bore and studies him. He has short-cropped hair, a well-proportioned face now turning soft as is his one-time, well-conditioned body; upon closer examination, she sees the officer’s insignia on his shirt’s epaulets. Kneeling down with the rifle bore pressing against his temple, she searches his pockets for Israeli intelligence. An identification card in his shirt pocket informs her he is Jonathan Mattath, who, she surmises, is most certainly the son of the infamous Israeli general who ordered her parent’s death at Shatila and later triggered the second intifada by an unwelcomed visit to a sacred mosque. This half conscious man she gazes upon belongs to the family who named themselves after Israelite warriors from a thousand years ago. Those early Jews all died violently 28

for being intransigent, and so will this Mattath, leaving just the father alive, and she has plans for him. “Son of my enemy, you shall die slowly,” the victor vows, her face so close to his that she can feel his gasping breath on her lips. Pulling a combat knife from its sleeve attached to her boot, she plunges it into his stomach, careful to only slit a couple inches of small intestines. The Israeli cries out in pain, and then gaining control of his wits, says, “if you heathens believe in a Hell, then I hope you burn for eternity in yours.” He rolls away from her, drawing himself into a fetal position. Haifa observes his body writhe spasmodically. She stands and uses her boot to roll him into a supine position in order to give him a second sticking and becomes curious when she sees his hands do not clasp his bleeding stomach, but grasp a small packet fixed around his waist. Her first thought is that he must be carrying important military papers, as she slices the packet’s canvas belt with the knife, and then pulls the packet free from his weak grip. Opening the still smoldering pouch, she examines a paper too burnt to reveal anything wrapped around an old spike. “What is this object, Jew?” “Burn in hell, harpy.” Haifa hears the distant beating of helicopter blades. She plunges her knife a second time, slitting him from breast bone to groin in such a way as to let him linger before death. Her surviving women now surroundher and look to her for orders. Not one member of the attack team mentions the women, dead or alive, buried under the rubble, for as Haifa did, they all undertook the mission prepared to die. One young woman, an ambulance driver before joining her group and who was wounded by an Israeli sniper as she rushed to pick up a wounded protester in Ramallah, stands over the Israeli, shock appearing on her face at what Haifa has done. 29

She pulls the young woman away from the dying man. “Do not waste your feelings on him. He is, this day, only a small atonement for what his father has done to the Palestinian people.” * HARLAN * “’The coward dies many deaths, the brave but one,’” the wheelchair bound man mumbles to himself as the handicap transport enters the boundless parking lot, packed with cars without end for this Sunday service. The non-biblical quote is a favorite of his; he thinks it is by Shakespeare, having embraced it after being cured of alcoholism and an addiction to methamphetamines by the preacher who will give today’s sermon. He has no fear of being caught by the authorities, as he has decided to die rather than go to prison and a subsequent long-drawn out execution by lethal injection. He feels the nine millimeter automatic piston, cold steel againsthis stomach and knows he will go down shooting if the FBI discovers him. His eyes find the beautiful pale pink, stucco exterior, trimmed in stained glass and polished steel, of the 12,000 seat church. The surrounding, rich rolling lawns and impressive buildings of God’s University in the distance were created by the preacher. He is careful not to move his head for a better view from the slow-moving transport, one of ten handicap transport vehicles the church provides to bring physically and mentally challenged people to Sunday service, careful because he is supposed to be paralyzed from the neck down, stretched out in a wheelchair on extended leg supports, his head unnaturally craned to one side. The pseudo cripple wears large, very dark sunglasses with side shields, the kind the aged wear to block out bright light on a cheerful Sunday morning like today. He is aged, at least that is what his disguise indicates, wearing a scraggly white-haired wig, pasty white makeup, unsightly 30

pockmarks dottinghis makeup. His makeup may not be prefect, but he does not worry, as experience has shown him that even these God fearing people find it hard to look closely at such a sad creature as he has made himself up to be. It is time for his transit to unload passengers at the church’s main entrance; even though it hinders the entrance of the many ambulatory church goers, the preacherinsists the handicapped enter as proudly as any member of his flock. The driver unlocks his wheelchair from the floor mounts and pushes it upon the hydraulic lift that lowers the handicapped manto the ground. He can see as many as twenty-five wheelchairs being pushed by church volunteers; other volunteers follow the electric operated ones. Once on the ground, an attendant grabs the handles of the manual one he sits upon and asks, “where would you like to view today’s services, my friend?” “The balcony,”he says in a low, guttural voice. “Please adjust my blanket. I am paralyzed from the neck down.” The attendant does as asked, smiling patiently. He is satisfied his disguise works as the neatly dressed manavoids looking directly at his face. “Brother, once you situate me, there is an envelope for the preacher’s secretary in the breast pocket of my jacket. Be so kind to see that he gets it immediately. It is important and one that he would besorry not to receive.” The church volunteer is too polite to inquire about the content and nods his agreement. The attendant wheels the man over the lobby’s thick carpeting, past the rich, dark wood trim and past the humming human activity that is everywhere he can glimpse. He is proud to belong to a faith offering so many services: a store selling books that praise the Lord, a signup booth for church league baseball, another for soccer, Sunday school service for the youth and toddler care for new parents. He allows his lips to form a smile, approving of the coffee shop that serves pastries and croissants to 31

early arrivals. He and the attendant enter one of four elevators and ascend to the second floor. From there, he is pushed to a flat viewing area, above the congregation and directly below the projection booth. “This viewing area is perfect,” he says to the man, noting that there is only one other wheelchair there, and it is twenty feet from him.” “Is there anything else that I can do to make your time in God’s house more enjoyable?” “The note for the secretary.” “Of course.” The attendant removes the note from his jacket pocket and leaves. Harlan scans the ultra-modern, mega church, and sees it is gigantic,column-less and so spacious, not one hindered view for the 12,000 spectators. Four gold inlaid crosses cover the white plaster of the dome ceiling, each end of the cross beams touching another; the walls are plain and humble, broken only by a series of four tall, slender windows conforming to the church’s contour with transparent renderings of the Lord Jesus’s most triumphant moments--walking on the Sea of Galilee waters, the Sermon on the Mount, Raising Lasuras from the dead, entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. He can see that every seat in the balcony, except for a small section around him,is taken and senses the lower auditorium is equally full. A youthful rock group, made up of two electric guitar players, drummer, bass player, sax player and lead singer occupy center stage, performing a tempestuous rendition of Give Me That Old Time Religion. Everyone of God’s faithful that he can see, except for the handicapped, stand and sway to the music, their hands elevated and grasping the closest hand to them, as they sing in jubilation. Give me that old time religion, It was good enough for mother, And it is good enough for me. Tis the old time religion. . . . 32

It will take us all to heaven. . . . Tears of gratification well up in his eyes as he thinks, such happiness, such openness, such devotion. We owe it all to the preacher. “‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,’” he quotes aloud a verse from the Christian bible. “Harlan, you should not be here. My message informed you that someone would find you and deliver your instructions.” The wheelchair bound man looks up at the very fit and extremely well groomed secretary in an expensive dark blue, finely woven linen suit. He examines Harlan’s disguise, not approving or disapproving of it. He has dark, meticulously combed hair, a strong chiseled face. They are the same age and size, but for Harlan the similarity ends there, as the preacher’s secretary possesses a refined manner and cultivated speech, having attended the preacher’s divinity school for ministers and then went on to get a Ph. D. in religion from Yale. In comparison, his limited high school education has molded his manner to that of a worker, a plain man that does not always fully define the ins and outs of life. He has read numerous newspaper articles stating the secretary runs the preacher’s vast ministry on a daily basis; the preacher preferring to stay in the background, only hosting his weekly televisedholy hour. Even though the incumbent president in Washington DC has proven sympathetic to the preacher’s born again religion, there have been rumors that the great man of God will make a run against him for the presidency in the next election. “I couldn’t wait. I must leave the country immediately.” “At least we agree on something. What if you are discovered? If the FBI even got a hint of you attending this service, your presence here could destroy everything--the television and radio stations, the college, the missionaries, our investments in Africa, everything the preacherhas worked his entire life to give to God’s glory. May I remind 33

you that you are listed at the top of the FBI’s wanted people.” “You disapprove of me, don’t you?” “You are a loose canon, but my opinion is irrelevant, for I serve the preacher, and he loves you.” “As I love him. Like you, my only wish is to serve him.” “Be that as it may, you should not be here.” The secretary retrieves a folding chair and sits close to Harlan. “I am here to receive my instructions.” Harlan looks away from the secretary at the large screen above the main stage where the words of I walk with Jesus are projected for the congregation to follow in song. He remembers all too well the first time he met the preacherin his hometown of Hazzard in Eastern Kentucky near the Virginia border. The preacherhad just finished divinity school after resigning from the Marine Corps, giving up his rank of captain after six years service. At the time, Harlan did not know the man was wealthy, having inherited a fortune from his father, a one time member ofthe U.S. Senate. His service as the minister of a small church on Smoot Creek proved his commitment to the Lord Jesus’s example of tending the poor, as the young minister could have started a more affluent church in his home state of Virginia. Twenty years ago, when Harlan was twenty-five years of age, he had heard of the preacher, his loving ways and his insistence on following the fundamentals of the Bible to the letter, but at the time Harlancould not entertain any thought but his own misery. Thinking back, he thought if a man ever hit bottom, I did: he had been drunk for three weeks, having lost his job at the coal mine during that particular binge. Only getting fired was not the real reason for his drunken debauchery. The fiery death of his wife and infant daughter, while he was drinking and whoring around at a nearby roadhouse, was the real reason. Even now, after all the years, the memory resurrects its ugly head: on a Friday night, at the end of his evening shift at the mine, he did not 34

go home, choosing to drink at a roadhouse and seeking to pick up a local woman for fornication in the backseat of his car. He drank long and deep, he fornicated fast and furious, while the short in an electrical wiring his wife had asked him numerous times to fix did not blow a fuse this time. It started a fire that consumed his two loved ones while they slept in their wooden bungalow. For six months following their deaths, he drank heavily, ingested what narcotics he could buy on the small town streets, unable to remove from his sodden head the memory of his lost love ones and his culpability for their deaths. As he reclines in the wheel chair in the preacher’s splendid church, the time of his earlier salvation lives in his head. On that fateful day, he leaned against an oak tree in a meadow behind his destroyed house. He had decided to end his life, sitting with his shotgun resting between his legs, dead drunk, his bare foot ready to push the trigger of the weapon he positioned to where the bore was on his forehead. He remembered thinking that there was time to finish the quart of whiskey; it would be his last indulgenceon earth. The preacher had heard of his tragedy and subsequent selfdebasement and asked Harlan’s neighbor to notify him when the widower returnedhome. Harlan sat in the meadow so drunk and distraught that he did not notice the preacher kneeling beside him, praying for his salvation, until the saintly man took the shotgun from his lap. “There is a much better way to solve your problems than the way you have chosen.” Harlan grabbed onto the barrel of the shotgun to regain possession. “And what would that be, preacher?” The preacher jerked the rifle, only Harlanrefused to release the weapon. “The Lord Jesus’s way.” “I am going to Hell, preacher, and there ain’t you or anyone else who can stop me.” 35

“The Lord is at this moment stopping you, HarlanStegal. That is why Hehas sent me.” Neither man will release his grip on the shotgun. “If ever a man deserves to die, I do. I killed my wife and daughter.” “So I heard. Will killing yourself bring your wife and child back? We both know it will not. The coward’s way is to take the course you have chosen. The brave way is to stand up to what you have done and make amends to your love ones in heaven,watching you as we speak. The choice is yours.” “To do what? Live in torment, never to rid myself from visualizing their fiery deaths. No good to myself or anyone else. Give me the shotgun and let justice be done.” “Suicide may be your justice. It is certainly not mine or the Lord’s and certainly not the justice of your innocent wife and daughter watching you from Heaven above. Take the shotgun, use it if you must and burn in hell for all eternity. Your wife and child sit at the feet of God, and you will never, never be united with them.” “Well, they can’t do much worse than me, can they? Maybe your Lord Jesus will find them a proper husband and father to be with in eternity.” Harlanstood and placed the barrel of the shotgun in front of his mouth. “You mean well, preacher, but for sinners like me, Hell is the proper place.” He bends his torso so he can reach the trigger. Before he can find the trigger, the preacher slams his fist into the drunken man’s jaw, sending himand the shotgun sprawling across the grass. “Suicide is a crime against God,” the smaller, more compact man says as he walks to Harlan, who pulls himself to his knees. The preacherswings the butt of the shotgun upwards, catching the kneeling man full in the temple. Harlan collapses onto the ground. The preacherturns him over with the toe of his shoe, places the rifle’s muzzle on the backside on the prone man‘s hand. “You want to suffer 36

for what you have done, let me blow off your hands; one for your wife, one for your daughter.” The fallen man looks up at his assaulter, the thought of living without hands sobering him. “I think two fingers will satiate your pain, and satisfy your sense of justice.” The holy man steps on Harlan’s left hand so that it flattens palm down on the grass, placing the weapon’s muzzle on the inebriated man’s small and ring fingers, he squeezes the trigger, destroying two fingers. The wounded man is too shocked by the blast to do anything more than pull his bleeding hand to his stomach, curling into a ball at the other man’s feet. The preacher throws the shotgun as far into the distance as he can, kneels and takes the wounded man’s head in his hands. “Harlan, it will not be this mortal wound, but your spiritual wound that will destroyyou. The Lord Jesus is here to save you. Through me, He will cure you and give you the will to pass through your dark days, setting you on a well lit path to redeem yourself to your family.” “I don’t have the will to do that.” “Take your self-loathing, and direct it toward those who deserve it. Join me in the fight against the killers of the Lord Jesus’s helpless babies, against the homosexual defilers of marriage, against the secularists who scheme to destroy the Lord‘s world that we His flock live in.” The holy man, wrath reddening his face, spittle spilling from his lips, has pulled Harlan to a sitting position, taking him by the shoulders. Harlan feels himself to be sober, in full control, yet the power of the preacher’s words intimidates him. He forgets the pain emanating from his bleeding hand, mesmerized by the passionate message. “Do you think my wife and daughter grieve in Heaven, when they think of the way I betrayed them?” The preacher wraps Harlan‘s bloody left hand in his handkerchief. “As serene as their life in Heaven may be, it 37

cannot be total until they know you have found the Lord, and are once again whole and functioning with His power living within you. A Born Again Christian sworn to service in the Lord’s army.” “How do I serve the Lord?” “Get down on your knees and say with all the power of your being, forgive me Lord Jesus.” Harlan, who feels his head will explode from the desperation packing it, mutters: “forgive me Lord Jesus.” “No. No. You must scream it to the heavens, scream it until you can scream no more.” “Forgive me Lord Jesus!” “Again. Louder. ‘Repent thee for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.’” “Forgive me Lord Jesus! Forgive me Lord Jesus! Forgive me Lord Jesus!” For what seemed hours, Harlanscreamed, “forgive me Lord Jesus,” until the holy man put his hand on his shoulder, and said, “that is enough. Now ask the Lord Jesus for direction. Tell Him you will stop drinking, doping and follow the path He has lain down, and He will give you everlasting guidance for He loves you more than you can know. For the first time in his life, Harlan’s emotions flowed freeof inhibitions. He felt light with a child’s innocence, as he repeatedly asked the Lord Jesus for the divine path. Tears flowing from his eyes, he thought with the help of this exceptional man of God, he might find peace and the will to live. “Harlan, I am talking to you,” the secretary pleads, lightly shaking the pseudo paraplegic man’s shoulder. “Why do you not answer me? I am prepared to give you your instructions. First, you must promise to leave immediately thereafter and never enter this holy church again,” the secretary speaks, urgency lacing his words. Before the man in the wheelchair can answer the secretary, the singing comes to an end, and the preacher leaves his 38

seat next to his wife in the front row of the auditorium and takes a position behind the dais on the stage. “Turn me so that I can see the great man,” Harlanwhispers to the man seated next to him. The secretary does as requested, but again pleads, “it is too dangerous here. You must leave now.” Harlan ignores the man, his attention riveted on the preacher as he begins his sermon. The holy man has aged, his hair now solid white, but his physique is still trim and muscular; he wears thick glasses, although the voice remains passionately strong. The devoted follower thinks, he is the best man God has produced for these difficult times; many Christians want him to run for the presidency of the United States and make God’s rule the law of the land. Harlan, his attention riveted upon the preacher as he speaks, knows the great man’s words will invigorate him: “most of you seated before me this Sunday morning know me as a tolerant man, a man of God who believes in live and let live. A man, who under most circumstances, would turn the other cheek to an assailant. Only now, new types of assailants are upon us, and the evil circumstances they create are what I want to address this bright Sunday morning. The assailants I speak of are products of the devil and can no longer beleft to their own devices. This recent demonic bombing at the World Trade Center basement in New York City by Muslim thugs has made me face the facts and view the world as it really exists, not how I or any peaceful person would have it. Throughout Africa, the Middle East, even throughout this great country of ours, in fact, throughout the entireworld, evil has emerged, its tentacles creeping forward from murky medieval madness. As I speak, battles rage in Somalia, Algeria, throughout Africa, throughout the Middle East, to eradicate Christianity. The evil perpetrators seek control, which is an absolute obedience to their religion. And that religion is 39

called Islam. It strives for control in every facet of life, strives for control in every facet of government, plots for control in every millimeter of Arab land and for control of every foot ofnon-Arab land. This evil wants to take over this country that you and I dwell in, end a standard of living unsurpassed in the history of mankind. They call this control of theirs, Shariah, a law they manufactured in the name of their Qur’an to be obeyed absolutely. The false men representing this evil call themselves sheikhs, imams, mullahs and ayatollahs. They believe that only Islam has the right to control governments, to control every citizen, five times a day, from morning to evening prayer to control what they eat, how they sleep. These pretenders of righteousness, professing a mandate from their god, in reality spew a dark-age mentality and morality over the earth.” “Harlan, you are to meet a military man, a man of God, born again after serving in the Vietnam War,” the secretary whispers impatiently. “Do not interrupt me while the preacher speaks,” he growls at the urbane man. Once again he focuses on his benefactor’s words: “these heathens have no tolerance for anyone who does not pledge their souls to the warmongering babble that their prophet put down in the Qur’an, be that person Christian, Jew or Buddhist. Their so called prophet, this Messenger of God, was a warrior, a man who slaughtered thousands in the name of his god, Allah. His own tribe threw him out of Mecca, the place they call their holiest of holy cities. He fled north with his followers and conquered Yathrib, now called Medina, later, in the role of a bandit, he ambushed Mecca caravans as they travelled their ancient routes. He did not convert people by word and deed as did our Lord Jesus Christ; in both Medina and Mecca, he brought the people to their knees, forced them to worship his god—swear faith to Islam or lose their heads. In the ancient village of Kheibar, 40

he slaughtered the Jews--men, women and children--when they would not covert to his new born religion and worship his declared god. The victims were the ancestors of our devoted friends in Israel.” “Harlan, the man you are to meet is a graduate of West Point, a general in the army,” the secretary adds. Even though, the man in the wheelchair realizes it is extremely dangerous to do so, he grips the secretary’s wrist and forcibly squeezes it, demonstrating his irritation at the continual interruption of the preacher’s sermon. The secretary grimaces, but endures the pain to deliver his message: “this military man will give you a formulawith a package that you are to deliver to a high-ranking official in Israel. “Harlanreleases the secretary’s wrist, his curiosity aroused. “Why would a general risk his career to hand a fugitive like me a formula?” “He risks everything, because he knows the mission that you are about to undertake may be the most glorious since our Lord sent forth his disciples to deliver his holy message. In exchange for the formula, the Israeli will give you a. . . .” the secretary abruptly stops when he notices the preacher’s eyes are locked on him, sending him a warning from the stage not to talk during his sermon. The preacher returns to his sermon: “the Israelis, the modern-day Israelites, are our friends. From their bible, they call the Torah and subsequent histories of the Jewish people, our Old Testament was derived. Their prophets are our prophets. Today, in Israel and in the territory called Palestine, Jews are being slaughtered by Muslim terrorists. In fact, throughout the Middle East and Africa, Muslims torture, stone victims, amputate and behead in the name of their god, Allah.” “What is in this formula that you want delivered to the Israelis?” Harlan inquires. “It is a scientific one, too complicated to discuss in 41

detail and of small importance compared to the miraculous object you will receive in return,” the secretary answers as he moves his seat behind Harlan, obscuring himself from the preacher’s sight. “If I am to expose myself to the authorities by trusting an Israeli who I don’t know, then I must know what is in this formula.” “It is a thermonuclear bomb as powerful as twohundred megatons. The Hiroshima one was merely thirteen megatons. This one has a pure fusion reactor fitting into a space the size of a bowling ball that could be hand carried to anywhere with the force to obliterate modern cities, as far apart as Mecca and Medina. Normally a weapon this powerful would be as large as a coffin, not size of the small package you are asked to deliver. Besides being hand carried, this small package can be mounted on the simplest of guided missiles” “Since you know the Israelis only stay our allies as long as it serves their purposes, you would give them a ‘small package’ like that?” He emphasizes, ‘small package’ to illustrate the secretary’s choice of words for such a destructive bomb. The secretary does not answer, instead indicates for Harlan to listen to the preacher: “Islam is an erroneous faith, because it denies our Lord Jesus is the son of God. These Muslims believe our Lord to be only a prophet, a lesser one than their so-called Messenger of God--Mohammed. “An alleged majority of Muslims who say their religion is a peaceful and benevolent one, claim this with a wink, because they believe that Muslim terrorists are only following the dictates of the Qur’an, a violent jihad or cause set down 1300 years ago by thisso-called prophet. This Qur’an orders Muslims to convert the infidels. Brothers and sisters, in their eyes, infidels are you and me. If they cannot convert us infidels, then they must wipe us from the face of this earth. For them, there is no moving 42

from that murderous purpose, because they know we will never be converted to a corrupt religion, because they realize that you and I will never abandon our Lord God and his Son, our Savior. They entice their young men to eliminate us by becoming human bombs. The proponents of this terrorism have set up one of the most far-fetched afterlives one can imagine. These brainwashed killers believe they will become martyrs after blowing up innocent people, sitting at the side of their Allah in a supposed Garden of Eden, each murderer with seventy captivating virgins serving their base demands. “I often have informed you of our many enemies: the baby killers, women who lie with women, men who sodomize men, liberals who tear God’s words from our schools, secularists who plot to unweave the moral fiber of this nation by establishing their lawover God’s. Put them all in a bag--feminists, baby-killers, homosexuals, liberal politicians--and shake them up, and you cannot tell one from another, for they all are sinners in the eyes of the Lord. Repeat after me: “SINNERS.” The roof literally trembles before the tumultuous, “SINNERS,” the congregation shouts in unison. “We must continue to combat these evil doers and at the same time, combat the latest evil, perhaps the greatest of all--Islam. Mosques are within ten minutes drive from this holy church we are attending today, where Muslims are plotting to harm us and the country we live in. It is tempting to take up arms against these evil doers, beat them back with our fists, but we must fight them in a non-violent way. But fight them we must. If you suspect your Muslim neighbor, be he or she the proprietor of your laundry, the proprietor of your gas fill up, the mother of your child’s playmate, any suspicious evil doer in one of a hundred casual meetings duringyour workweek, then it is your duty to God, to your country, to report those suspects to the FBI or local authorities, but report them you must. From this 43

day forth, let us become watchful, non-violent soldiers in the army of the Lord and the service of our nation. Let us pray to God for the strength and fortitude to see this mission through to its holy conclusion.” The preacher’s church services ends with the song Bless Us All. Both the secretary and Harlan join the congregation in singing the full version. “Carry a bowling ball. Wear a mustache and an orange plaid shirt, the type that are sold at outdoor stores. The general, dressed similarly, will find you at Kennedy Airport before you board the flight to Israel.” Harlan had no way to know if the preacher knew of his presence in the balcony, although he sensed the great man gave him some thought today. Since he felt the preacher has sanctioned his mission to Israel, he would devote every fiber of his being to its success. * FAWN * “You look so pretty in your new dress, Fawn.” The man takes the small girl’s hand, thinking how young and delicate it is, as he kneels beside her wheelchair. “My mother made it for me. It is purple velvet like princesses would wear.” The girl smiles at the man, and he is unnerved by how her eyes seem to search his as if to determine if he has the same unwavering faith in God that she owns. He looks away to her mother whose lips have formed a sad smile, yet the face reflects the same determination he sees in her daughter. “And it is a beautiful creation that she had made.” He continues to gaze at the mother, trying not to think how much she has aged since the Lord took her husband in the Green Mountain Mine explosion, and now, a year later, seeing her daughter, Fawn, struck down with such a terrible disease. 44

“Is this what you truly want to do, Fawn?” he asks, turning toward the Virginia Superior Court building sitting regally on the rolling, landscaped lawn, its dome reflecting the early morning sun, Richmond’s skyline in thedistance. Its monumental steps just like the big court ones in DC—the federal court that legalized baby killing. The steps lead up to a portico that is held aloft by ten, six-feet in diameter by forty-nine feet highlimestone columns. “Fawn, see those columns, the tour books say together they weigh as much as fifteen African elephants.” The little girl smiles at the image of so many pachyderms, as she and her mother follow his gaze to the building where the most important issues in Virginia are argued before the highest court. For the moment, their joint purpose takes precedent over the compassion he feels for the small girl suffering from diabetes, whose right leg less than a year ago had been amputated above the knee. “The liberals must know they cannot continue to attack our Lord, Jesus. I must strike a blow for Him. Blessed be His name,” Fawn strongly replies without hesitation, then repeats the words her Lord spoke two millenniums ago: “’. . . those who drink the water I give them will never thirst.’” “And you, Molly, is this what you want?” Harlan asks, his attention going to the mother. “Those high and mighty justices had no right to remove our lord’s hands depicting Him in prayer from the courthouse. This land was built with God’s will, now they throw His Son’s hands out like they would the day’s trash.” He still holds the small girl’s hand, as he takes the mother’s hand with his other one, satisfied that the three of them are joined by common purpose. “What the superior court had done is a terrible thing, citing separation of church and state when the country was built by god-fearing men. I must know if you believe the purpose your daughter is about to 45

undertake is important enough to sacrifice her life for the Lord?” “The Lord took Johnny, my husband and your friend. Now this.” The woman, tears flooding her eyes, releases the man’s hand, and strokes her daughter’s long, dark hair, as she gives her reasons: “my daughterhas had her one leg cut off. Now, the doctors say the other one must go. When I ask them, will that be the end of it, they don’t answer me, but I can see the look of no hope in their eyes. I cannot watch Fawnbeing chopped up like they would do a fryin’ chicken. I don’t think the Lord has seen fit to take her in such a way as that. As precious as she is to me, I know she is equally precious to Him. I will help her meet her Maker as a soldier in the service of Christ.” “You are determined to go with her?” “Harlan, we in Letcher County are mighty proud to know a man like you who has struck so many blows for the Lord. Your brave attacks on the unfaithful, the murderers of Christ’s babies have sent out a call for all of the faithful to follow your example. Fawn and I can do no less, especially when our purpose is so plainly sent from Heaven above.” “Very well.” He moves directly in front of Fawn, his eyes cannot avoid seeing the stump projecting from under her loose-fitting, purple dress. He takes the small girl by her youthful shoulders, looks into the innocent, luminescent eyes, and instructs, “it is unlikely that any deputy sheriff will search you, but in the event they do, you must pull the cord to the explosives as I have shown you. If you are able to get inside the courtroom, get as close to the men in the black robes as you can. The rest is up to you, my sweet child. Bless you.” He kisses her forehead, placing a thick lens pair of eye glasses on her. She begins to sing: “My sweet Lord/I really want to see you/ I really want to be with you/ but it takes so long, my Lord.”

46

“Not long now, beautiful child,” he adds, rising and embracingher mother. “Go now and do this wonderful thing.” “No one will be able to trace the explosion to you, Harlan. Or to the preacher.” “Hush.” He releases his dead friend’s wife, and watches the mother push the little girl onto the walkway leading to the courthouse, hearing Fawn and Molly sing, “My sweet lord. Halleluiah.” *HARLAN * Getting an international flight to New York from Baltimore undetected had been easier than he thought. Baltimore has a large Jewish population, so getting a booking to Jerusalem went unnoticed after he identified himself as being Jewish. The religious man is nervous over exposing himself to the public, knowing he has bombed abortion factories in three northern cities, executed two baby-killers in their homes, one in New Jersey, the other in Pennsylvania, forcing him to hide from the FBI in his native Kentucky hills. He puts his uncertainty aside for the moment, wanting to get to what is really capturing his thoughts: The Richmond Times he had bought at the airport newsstand before boarding the flight to New York. He reads the front page story with happiness, verifying that the little girl and her mother have so successfully carried out their mission and would surely at this moment be sitting by the side of the Lord. The mother had used the handicap walkway to push Fawn past the giant limestone columns into the marble rotunda where the praying hands of the Lord once held a prominent place under the Virginia Supreme Court and past the deputy sheriff’s security station. The law officers had not searched Fawn, allowing that the metal in her wheelchair would trigger the alarm. As instructed, her mother, instead of taking the small girl to 47

the visitors’ gallery elevated above the courtroom on the third floor, waited until court was in session. When the deputy sheriff guarding the entrance door to the second floor courtroom relaxed his watch, the motherpushed the wheelchair past him through the unlocked doors into the round, marble courtroom. The deputy immediately restrained the woman from pushing the wheelchair farther, disturbing the court proceedings, enough to cause one fatherly jurist to rise from behind the curved bench where the justices sit and inquire of the little girl what she wanted. As instructed, Fawn replied that she could not properly see from the visitors’ gallery, and since the issue of the state reducing social assistance to the less fortunate was now being considered by the court, she hoped she might sit on the main floorso that she could see and hear the proceedings. The judge, who had inquired about her purpose, took note of her amputated leg and thick eye glasses, obviously moved by her beautiful long, dark hair and appealing features enhanced by her new velvet dress, left the bench and approached mother and daughter. The newspaper accounting quoted him as saying, “I think today, this court can set aside its restrictions and find your daughter a better place to observe this court’s proceedings.” He then escorted the mother and daughter to a place off to the right of the attorneys seated at their circular tables, pleading their cases. The little girl did not hesitate: as soon as the man in the black robe seated himself in front of her and ordered the hearing to proceed, she pulled the cord as instructed. The ten pounds of military C-2 explosives wrapped around her torso demolished the courtroom, severely cracking the great dome, blowing out the windows and doors, exciting a fire on the second floor that gutted the upper two stories. All nine supreme court justices who previously ruled the Lord‘s hands should be removed from the rotunda, stating religion had no business in state affairs, were blown to 48

Kingdom Come for their offense, at least that was the way he interpreted the newspaper report. Along with Fawn, her mother and the justices, six attorneys, four bailiffs and fifteen interested parties had been destroyed. Thirty-seven spectators and court employees had been seriously injured or suffered third-degree burns. As Harlan folds the newspaper, he feels a mixed joy over the success of the little girl’s mission, for she had made the ultimate sacrifice, giving her life before her time. He also feels a reaffirmation of his purpose in life, and that is fighting the Lord’s battle against the unbelievers. He pushes his face into the window, muffling his voice as he quotes: “‘Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey Him!’" *

*

It is always dangerous for me to expose myself in public, Harlanthought as he stepped from the shuttle bus, transferring him from his Baltimore flight to the Tel Aviv one. Especially now after the sweet, innocent Fawn destroyed the devil’s workers in Virginia and the broadcast media were devoting countless hours to replaying the scene of damage and debating why the senseless deaths took place and who was behind the bomber. “Born Again Christians, God’s true children, that’s who,” he said silently to himself, stepping into the international terminal and immediately seeing the El Al clerks checking in passengers for the flights to Israel. He fingers his phony mustache, knowing that most fugitives are apprehended, because they allow their nerves to get the best of them, and that is the biggest tip off to the law enforcers; edgy nerves do not apply to him, because getting caught holds no fear for him, as it will take him, after the trial and execution, to the arms of the Lord. 49

There are other international carriers in the terminal, such as Air France, Air Italia, British Airlines, but his interest stays locked on El Al agents interrogating boarding passengers in the queues before the ticket counter. Jews wearing skullcaps and Anglo tourists seem to get less attention from the interrogators; the swarthy ones receive a lot more scrutiny before they reached the ticket counter; some are removed for further interrogation behind closed doors. In addition to his mustache, he trimmed his hair back to get a clean-cut look, wore the orange plaid, overpriced shirt and jeans cut off above the knees and now carries a bowling ball in its red, white and blue Spalding carrying case. His dress is so outlandish, yet so typical of the character he means to emulate that he might just get pass the federal, airport watchdogs, who he suspects are more interested in arriving passengers than departing ones. Preferring to avoid standing in the long queue, he walks to the newsstand, fronting a lounge, buys a Big Gulp cola and a long cellophane tube of peanuts and watches the local news report on television, until the national news goes immediately to the Virginia Supreme Court bombing, at which time he moves back into the terminal, as it is old news to Harlan, setting his bowling ball down in front of the screens displaying theincoming and outgoing flights. The fundamentalist drinks his cola and eats his peanuts while studying the electronic flight schedules, as any traveler would do. “What is your average, bowler?” Harlan turns to the questioner and sees a very fit man, twice his age, his hair cut short to a flattop, the kind Harlan’s mother made him wear as a pre-adolescent. He holds a Spalding bowling ball case exactly like the one the wanted man holds. Lines give the questioner’s chiseled face the appearance of knowledge, his square jaw that of character. Harlan suppresses a grin, because in spite of the man’s strong persona, his dress is laughable: he wears the green 50

plaid outdoor shirt the secretary said he would, only the casual shirt is mitigated by sharp creases in his black, walking shorts, as are the expensive red, white and blue training shoes mitigated by black, dresssocks pulled up to his knees. If the man intends to appear as a bowler, then he is even more outlandish than what Harlan sees himself to be. “I average one eighty-seven. Harlan answers the man’s question. “What is your average, bowler?” “Seventeen points higher at two o four.” “Two, zero, four, that impressive. Might be I will have to settle for second place if you are competing in the same Tel Aviv tournament.” “Did I say seventeen points? Sorry I should have said seven. I average one ninety-four.” Harlansmiles and shakes the general’s extended hand, satisfied that the password exchange went off in the manner that he was informed it would. He likes the fit man with his low commanding voice and earnest eyes. “You always dress like General Buck Turgitson in the movie, Doctor Stangelove?” Harlan remarks to break the tension he feels exists between them. “By the way you are dressed. . . The older man methodically studies Harlan’s cutoff jeans and too tight green plaid shirt and rundown athletic shoes. “. . . you probably spent countless hours watching Gomer Pyle on TV, as you have done a fine job emulating him.” Harlan smiles, as he gives a retort: “if a person lives in a glass house, he shouldn’t throw rocks, bowler.” The general slaps the younger man’s shoulder good naturedly, picks up his bowling ball case and uses the toe of his shoe to nudge an identical case forward, causing Harlan some apprehension over the unexpected switch. “When you board your flight, Mossad agents will let you pass though their security with my ball. I will carry your ball. You will have no problem getting past Shabak, the 51

Israeli secret police in Israel. Everything has been arranged. How is your memory?” “Average. Look, I only have a high school education, so I am not up to memorizing a complex, nuclear formula.” “I didn’t think you would be. Are you going to offer me some of your peanuts?” Harlan hands over his tube-like bag of peanuts, somewhat surprised by the request. “The bomb’s design is in the form of the bowling ball by your feet. Replicas of the layout---spacer, reflector, pit are inside. The actual atomic ingredient and weight equations are in the blue capsule I just spit into your peanuts. You are to swallow it.” “And do what?” “Once there, retrieve it. And if you believe the Israelis are on the up and up, give it to them.” “By taking a dump?” “I wouldn’t do it with them watching. If they play games, as they have been known to do, chew up the capsule until it is mush. Even with a nation of propeller heads as they are known to be, it will take six months to a year for them figure out the atomic weights and their arrangement.” “Then, what is my leverage once I give them the bowling ball, for I have heard the Jews are a very methodical and patient race? For them, a year to discover the design could be no more than a long day at the library.” “Dudes, I am desperate. Can you help out a teenager in a fix. Give me fifty dollars each, and I will be your cheerleader.” The plotting men, so deep in their discussion, did not notice the well developed brunette approach them; her shorts so brief the cheeks of her butt hang out, an equally brief halter and sandals are the only other articles covering her body. Irked by the interruption, the general replies, “Get lost, Daisy Mae.” 52

“Who’s Daisy Mae, old timer? Let us start over: I will do anything you ask, just give me the money,” she says in a provocative manner. The fit and very proper military man, struggling to hide his displeasure, replies, “what I want you to do is to go home and put on respectable clothing. You should be ashamed of yourself. You look like a harlot.” The teenage beauty, amused by his reply, says, “excuse me for living. I didn’t realize I was talking to two bad asses from god’s bowling team.” Seeing that she is not getting anywhere with panhandling, she takes a new tact, offering up: “I have some super smoke. You want to score.” “Young lady. . .” the general speaks through clinched teeth, . . “you are making a real nuisanceof yourself. I am kindly asking you to leave us alone.” “He is right, little darling. The only thing we want to score is a perfect game of three hundred,”Harlan adds, attempting to halt the interruption. The teenager, fully aware that the halter she wears struggles to contain her ample breasts, pushes her chest forward, saying: “take a hit on my stuff, and you will giggle at any score over ten.” “Get away, you little hustler, before I call the police. I am sure your parents would be overjoyed to know you, half naked, are peddling dope at the airport,” the general remarks, no longer able to swallow his irritation. “Save your breath, shmuck. My parent’s flight from Israel arrives inabout an hour. Give me a hundred dollars, and I will vanish.” “I am not giving you zip shit, you dirty mouthed panhandler. Now, go home and put some clothes on,” the general, his patience worn thin, barks. “I am wearing clothes, you cheap, moronic putz. I now realize I am dealing with a lower mentality in you two, so let me get down to your level: I will blow you both for a hundred dollars each.” 53

Anger reaches the point to where it constricts the general’s normally controlled face, draining all color from it. He is barely able to growl his words: “young lady, do not say another foul word. Your soul is teetering on the precipice of a unforgiving and fiery Hell.” Ignoring his condemnation, she adds, “I will swallow your come or spit it on your belly, hot from your throbbing shlong. Look, I am in a real jam, so I’ll do whatever your fantasy is: up the tochis,if that turns you on. Two hundred is all I need.” The stiff military man, unable to bear another irreligious word, turns his back to the determined teenager. Harlan reaches into his trouser pocket and says, “prostitution can get you a week in the slammer. Here is twenty dollars, if you promise to go pester someone else.” “I tried to play fair with you two self-righteous klutzes. If anyone is going to the slammer, it will be both of you for twenty years. What do you think the police will think about mature men propositioning a minor—me-- big boy? Your word against an innocent young girl who is waiting to greet her parents returning from the holy land.” She wiggles her hips to put a period on her threat. “Since you both have demeaned me, you owe me a lot more than twenty dollars.” “Give you forty,” Harlan replies, checking his anger, knowing this underdressed and under aged girl could unwind his mission. “As I said before, one hundred dollars each,” the teenager says with authority. “So now it’s a shake down, is it?” the irritated military man, unable to walk away, comments. The girl’s heretofore commanding mannerbegins to dissolve. “I am really in a jam and fast running out of time. I swear this is the truth.” Her pretty face turns sour, as tears roll down her cheeks. “I took my dad’s custom made golf clubs from the trunk of his Beamer and hocked them for 54

two hundred and fifty dollars to buy some stash, hoping to keep half and sell the rest to classmates for a quick profit. The deals fell through, and I need to redeem the clubs before my dad discovers his Saturday morning playthings are missing. I managed to sell a few joints, but still need two hundred dollars. Please!” “That is a true crock if I ever heard one. Here is five dollars, now get out of my sight,”the general extends the money. The bawling teenager can do no more than stare at the offer, her tears drying on her cheeks. “You cheap, goymother fucker. That is probably the first five dollars you ever earned. What an uptight idiot you are. I would not take money from you two, if you were the last people on earth.” The teenager is so annoyedshe spits her words onto the general’s green plaid shirt. Not knowing what else to do, she grabs the cellophane tube of nuts Harlan holds. “At least give me a handful of your peanuts for all the time I wasted here.” Instantaneously, the hands of the general and the fundamentalist latch on to her wrist. Genuinely astonished by the desperation showing in the eyes of the two men, “she entreats, “okay, let go. I didn’t realize you mushugas were so much into nuts.” “Careful you don’t spill the nuts,” Harlan pleads to the girl, who notes the panic in his voice. “I will tear your bag to shreds if you don’t let go of my wrist.” “Bowler, I believe we should give this young lady the money she needs, and cut our loss before it gets much bigger,” the general, regaining control of his senses, suggests, as he carefully releases the teenager’s wrist. The previously mischievous, previously tearful and afore angry girl’s pretty face, sensing a successful quest, bursts into a portrait of delight. “Thank you, my two benevolent bowlers.” She turns to Harlan, who sighs as he releases her arm. After she 55

removes her hand from the bag of nuts, he hands her two hundred dollars. Both men watch the voluptuous teenage saunter to the airport gift shop, counting her money. “She must be the devil’s very own daughter,” Harlan remarks. “I think we avoided biting a bullet. If she is an example of the next generation, we truly are outgunned,” the general, his face showing relief, adds. “Where were we?” the general asks Harlan. “Oh yes, after examining the bowling bowl, why wouldn’t the Israelis go ahead and develop the bomb and keep the holy object we seek? The drawback for them, Harlan, is the firing sequences of the mechanisms that transfer our gift from an inoperative device into a lethal one beyond any force imaginable. That bit of info is in the second capsule, a red one, that I am about to give you. Memorize the contents. Don’t swallow this one, or you will have to expel it before your flight leaves, “the military man adds, in better humor after the teenager disappeared.” “Say I keep my wits and don’t swallow the red capsule. What am I to memorize?” “I do not believe there is any harm in letting you understand the complexity that took our top nuclear scientists more than forty years to formulate. You are memorizing the firing sequences for two multi-laser emitters in spinning fly eye configurations. Enough fire power in two baseball size devices to generate the heat of the sun that will trigger atomic collisions at the speed of light.” “General, fly eyes are known to have a hundred facets. How am I, an ex coal miner, suppose to commit to memory two separate firing sequences of such complexity?” “I am informed the sequences areeven more complicated than that. How about using the number one hundred squared to the hundredth degree? That should put you somewhere over a trillion possibilities for each sequence, 56

ten billion to the tenth to be exact, with only two workable ones in the mix. And those two sequences must be harmonized for full effect. Mind boggling, huh? Those impossible numbers are why one particular nuclear scientist has been working on it since the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world almost slipped into a nuclear holocaust. The Israelis or anyone else cannot figure out the mechanisms within any sensible timeframe without the firing sequences you are to trade for the item the preacher and I so fiercely desire.” “I owe the preacher my life, but I don’t understand why he doesn’t send this nuclear scientist and eliminate all this swallowing, expelling and memorizing business?” “For starters, he is a Heb, not a Born Again like we are. If that is not a good enough reason, he mysteriously died of heart failure the same week he worked out the two firing sequences.” “Risky business being a dedicated nuclear scientist,” Harlan comments, suspecting foul play, but indifferent to the scientist’s death. “It can be for a Jewish one with a brother who is a senior officer in the Israeli Defense Forces. You have one hour to memorize the formulas of the two firing sequences, before you board your El Al flight. Now, swallow the blue onewith your Big Gulp drink. I have no communicabledisease, so don’t worry about catching anything. And, I suggest you buy a laxative when you get to Israel.” Harmon gulps down the blue capsule with a few peanuts. “Offer me the bag of peanuts again,” the general instructs the fundamentalist. He hands the cylinder bag to the general, who holds the cellophane tube to his mouth, spitting the red capsule into the bag. “Go to the men’s rest room, find a stall and open the red capsule I just spit into thisbag of nuts and memorize its contents. Once you do that, immediately shred the paper 57

and flush the pieces down twoseparate toilets. The Israelis are our friends, but they can be tricky at times, so do not fail to destroy the equation. And above all, do not reveal what you have memorized until you receive what you are being sent to get. Now get going. I will wait for you in the boarding queue.” “Look, I may not be the smartest guy in town, but I know the bowling ball going to Israel has to be radioactive.” “It is only a facsimile of the real thing, using different colored plastics to represent the various atomic components. Harmless! The Israelis will allow you to keep possession of the bomb facsimile until you hand them the blue capsule with the bomb’s atomic structure. Now let’s move before another weirdo drops by.” Harlan sits on the toilet seat, thinking, after swallowing the tiny blue capsule, no bigger than a jelly bean, he isfully committed to the venture that lies ahead. It is a different commitment, carrying the capsule in his stomach, than executing abortionists and secular blasphemers, but still a commitment to God. He twists the red capsule, twice the size of the other one, and it separates, revealing a tiny scroll. Unrolling the curled paper, he studies the two mathematical formulas. None of what he reads makes sense to him, but the formulas, short equations, although different from each other, are easy to memorize, which he does is a short time, and then shreds the tiny scroll and flushes half of the shreds down the commode underneath him and discards the remainder in another commode as instructed. Carrying the general’s bowling ball, he finds the man carrying his ball and steps beside him in front of the ticket counter. “Completed as instructed,” Harlan says in an easy way. “An American archeologist will contact you upon checking in at your hotel. He will authenticate the object you are to take in trade. The Israeli VIP probably will have a nuclear 58

scientist to make sure you are not handing him the formula for a bogus bomb. Once the trade is made, you are to contact the preacher’s secretary, and he will make arrangements to collect the object. It is as simple as that.” “The Israelis have their own neutron bomb, why do they want another?’ “Any Israeli politician that you corner will deny having such a weapon, even though any American high school kid knows their spies stole a fission formula from us. Be that as it may, I believe they have yet to develop a thermonuclear bomb, so this will be a big leap forward for them. The bomb we are about to give them is extremely powerful without much of a radiation fallout, which means the Hebs can do our dirty work for us--blow Mecca and Medina to Kingdom Come, send the Arabs scattering like ants without a nest. In the doing they won’t contaminate the Middle East population with much radiation fallout.” “Do you think that even the Israelis would do that?” “Understand this: the holy land is the devil’s playground; it hosts surrounding fundamentalists in Iran, Syria, Iraq, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Sudan and Yemen plotting to destroy Israel. Israel, in turn, would welcome the opportunity to destroy them. In addition to those hostile countries, the mother of all diabolical murderers, al Queda in Afghanistan, lurks in the background. To save their tiny country, any Israeli government in power would not hesitate to use our bomb.” The two pseudo bowlerspick up their tickets and move to the electronic scanner before the boarding area. “You are a senior military officer, how can you give the murderers of Jesus Christ Our Lord this super bomb?” Harlan asks, still uncomfortable with turning over such a deadly weapon to a foreign country. “Well, I don’t think the Hebs will use it on us. Hopefully, they will slow down these multiplying terrorists from getting to our doorstep.” 59

The senior military man places the bowling ball he took from Harlanon the conveyer belt to be x-rayed by security. He gives the younger American a fair well handshake, instructing, “you are to carry your ball onto the plane.” The general’s bowling ball passes through the security scanner without incident, but when the incompatibly dressed man steps through the metal detector, the alarm goes off, prompting two security agents to pull him out of line. They seem almost apologetic until their search of the suspect finds a penknife. And then the men fit enough to be Mossad operatives, quietly escort the pseudo bowler away from the boarding area, disappearing behind a door with the lettering: Private. No Entry. At first the Christian fundamentalist is distraught, thinking the general’s detainment will thwart his mission, and then chuckling to himself as he realizes the incident has been staged to excuse the general from boarding the Israel bound airplane. *

*

The forged passport supplied to him by his benefactors was a good one, for the Israeli inspectors let him carry his bowling ball aboard the El Al flight to Israel without incident as the general stated. Like Baltimore, New York City has a large Jewish population, and he passed as just another Jew visiting the land of his ancestors. But in reality, he knows he is a soldier in the service of Jesus with a bomb’s design in his belly, the equation for ignition plus a covenant with God in his head. He hoped the general would also be correct when he said Israeli customs would not search him upon arrival in Tel Aviv, and he could safely travel to Jerusalem. If not, then he would be discovered and returned to federal authorities in the United States. And immediately upon running his fingerprints, the FBI would discover his true identity, that of being the most wanted man in the nation, next to Muslim terrorists. 60

* DOVID * The Israeli Defense Minister turns his back to the boy, and gazes out his Jerusalem apartment window at the distinct Knesset building in the distance, wondering what new problems are being hatched there by his liberalfoes. “It had to be a trap, sir. At least, twenty-five to thirty refugee dwellings in all directions were deserted. The attackers were women, not men, shooting at us. I could not retreat with the others because of my wounded leg, so I played dead.” The young man touches the cast on his leg where a bullet shattered the bone. “It is not right that my comrades in arms should die, and I am the only one to live. The Palestinians must have planned the trap for weeks. Our tanks never had a chance. It was awful, sir.” “Planned it for one week,” the minister comments to himself. Remembering his order to Jonathan to level the terrorist boy‘s house after Acharon Shel Pesach, the last day of Passover was observed, he has difficulty facing the young, overwrought soldier,. With difficulty, he directs his attention to the wounded soldier barely out of his teens. “I want you to discard your guilt. You had nothing to do with the others dying. A mistake on our part caused the tragedy. Now, I want you to go home and recuperate with your family. The general will see to it that you receive active duty pay until you are well enough to resume your life as you knew it before the attack. Your duty for this year is over, so enjoy civilian life. You are a music student are you not?” “Yes sir, I study piano in Hefa,” the wounded boy answers, his attention going to the balding four-star General of the Israeli Defense Forces. The ageing, yet fit and sturdy commander of the army places a hand on his shoulder and says, “that will be all, Private. Thank you for telling us what you witnessed at Aide” 61

“Sir,” the soldier directs his words toward the Defense Minister, seemingly unsure of what happened at Aide: “Are they are all dead. The tank crews? Everyone in my platoon?” “Yes,” the heavyset minister answers, leaning back against the wall to steady himself against the wave of grief hitting him over the demise of twenty-four young men serving Israel. They are all dead, except for the young man, crutches aiding his movement,being escorted from the room by a male nurse. The soldiers were either killed during the trap or mutilated by Aide inhabitants, probably Hamas militants, when they fled into the refugee village, their violated bodies later discovered in a lot littered with garbage. Three tanks, the armored transport, two bulldozers all destroyed. The tank crews dead. Three young Israelis burnt to death outside Jonathan’s lead tank. His son gutted and left to die in agony---the highest singlebattle casualties since the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Adding to the setback, the valuable nail he promised the American religious leader was missing from Jonathan’s possessions. The minister just wants to curl up somewhere and die, but he cannot, because his nation is calling for retaliation, especially since the newspapers, television and radio stations have kept the disaster at Aide in the public’s eye; some of the leftist stations even calling for his resignation. The prime minister has ordered him to explain the incident in writing after his son’s funeral at the family house in the Negev. Mattath turns to his old friend, the man who turned the Syrian Army back when they attempted to capture the Golan Heights in the last war. “Solly, who planned and who executed the trap?” he uses the pet name for Solomon, as he and the general have known each other since they were recruit commandos attacking Palestinian strongholds in Jordan. Subsequently, the elite Golani unit of the army was patterned after their 62

early commando exploits. “Dovid, senior agents at Mossad believe it could be a pack of women, possibly the ones who have been spasmodically murdering soldiers at checkpoints in the territories.” “Arab women, how can it be?” “Mossad suspects the ringleader to be a woman recently returned from England where she purportedly studied World Political Theory, gaining a Post Graduate Degree there. They have no description of her. Although, if this particular woman was the ringleader she could be the niece of a high profile Hamas leader, George Hamad, a real Rashi.” “Is not that a contradiction in terms, General; the niece of a Hamas fundamentalist being allowed to have militant followers and add to that improvability the notion she is given the leeway to combat men, even Jewish ones?” Rabbi Shimshon asks; he is the most renowned Rebbe in Jerusalem, not only because of his ultra conservative scholarship, but also because his family was one of the first immigrates to Palestine from the Ukraine in the former United Socialist Soviet Republic. The general restrains his irritation at being questioned by a civilian, because he knows his old friend, the minister, is heavily influenced by the ultra-conservativeRabbi. But the venerable firebrand, this Rabbi, who as a young man encouraged Menachem Begin to implement the settler program in the Palestinian Territories, irritates him. Because as general of the IDF he has to deal with the Palestinians’ growing hatred over having their land confiscated for ultra-conservatives to move into newly build homes paid for by the government. He puts aside his irritation, knowing the rabbi is here to console his friend over the loss of his last surviving son. He turns to the very thin man in black who sits relaxed in a chair, studying the full red beard the religious leader wears, 63

thinking he resembles a red-headed Rasputin, and replies to the question: “This high-ranking Hamas leader allows her more autonomy than any Arab womanfor some unknown reason. Possibly, he has unusual tolerance for her, because her grandparents, his parents, were killed during our War of Independence, her parents his brother and sister-in-law were killed at Shatila by the Lebanese Christians.” He hesitates, not meaning to mention Shatila, because Dovid almost resigned in disgrace for allegedly masterminding the carnage at the Lebanese refugee camp. “Shatila is a matter long in the past, Solly. Please continue,” the minister instructs his general, staring at the al Aqsa Mosque dominating the far horizon outside his apartment, his visit there reportedly sparking the last intifada, known as the second one. “We have no physical description of her as she has never appeared on intelligence’s radar screen. We do know, prior to her schooling in England, she attended Cairo University, which has always been a hot bed for Muslim Brotherhood dissidents. Reputed to be a very assertive woman, almost unbelievably so for a female Muslim, she probably had some dealings with that extreme group in Cairo. What I find curious is how did she, a Muslim woman, gain so much clout to influence the Aide refugees to not only evacuate two hundred or more hovels, but to do it in such a covert manner.” “And without Israeli Intelligence even knowing about her. Thank you, General. If you can place her at the time and place of the trap, I want you to find and eradicate her and her followers.” “As you wish, Minister.” “Dovid,” the Rebbe addresses the minister softly, standing. “I only speak because your current grief may be clouding your thoughts. There is the matter of Aide. It has been a hornets’ nest for attacks on our brave settlers living nearby. 64

This could be an excellent opportunity to rid ourselves of the pests. I suggest you take advantage of public opinion against the Palestinians to level the camp and scatter the inhabitants into the four winds.” The Defense Minister moves away from the wall and begins to pace back and forth across his spacious study without responding to the rabbi’s suggestion. “Dovid, your grandparents immigrated here from Poland, mine from the Ukraine. The people of those lands kept our people persecuted and isolated for generations. All the wrongs perpetrated against us have given us a mandate to dwell in the land of our ancestors. Our ancient land runsfrom the Mediterranean to the Jordan River. We must rid it of the Arab pestilence. “What you say is true, Rebbe. But we have our supporters in Europe and especially in Washington, D.C. to consider. General, please order the Air Force to drop leaflets advising the Aide refugees to evacuate within twenty-four hours to placate the world media and then level the camp a mile in each direction from the spot of the infamous attack on our brave men and women.” “Dovid, that action could displace as many as 8000 men, women and children into the desert between Jerusalem and Bethlehem.” “Perhaps a good thing. It will give the PLO something constructive to do upon their return to the territories,” Rabbi Shimshon interjects. “See that the order is carried out within the next forty-eight hours,” Dovid adds, and then addresses the Rabbi, “will you lead us in Mincha and perhaps a Yizkor in memory of my son? The three powerful Israelis put on their Tallis and the Rabbi chants in Hebrew Psalm eighty-four: “How lovely is Your dwelling place, O Lord of. . . .” * HAIFA * 65

The tall, statuesque Palestinian woman, the victor over the Israelis at Aide, now a fugitive, walks the narrow street in Suq Hamadya, the main market in the Old City of Damascus, desiring to buy fresh vegetables and fruit from the vendors. It has been a week since her escape from the refugee camp outside of Jerusalem, and she is still uncomfortable in this city notorious for its secret police and foreign spies, including Israeli ones in spite of Syria’s open hostility toward Jews. She will take the food back to her modest room in the Old City on the bank of the Barada River, as she has taken food from a different marketplace every evening since arriving here. After taking the ancient nail from the dying Israeli officer, she ordered her female followers to flee the country in the best way they could, for the Israeli Defense Minister would have blood in his eyes when notified of his son’s death and the army’s disaster. Haifa knew some women had made plans to flee to Cairo, some to Baghdad, some to Beirut--all metropolitan Arab cities where single, unescorted females would not be marked by the unyielding Shariah practiced in many Arab cities, such as Riyadh, and Teheran. She read in the Damascus newspaper that two of her women were shot trying to escape to Egypt at the Gaza border near the Sinai, and the Israeli army leveled a third of the Aide refugee camp. No reports of her uncle’s house in Ram Allah being destroyed appear in the Palestinian media, so she knows for the time being the Israelis have not placed her at Aide. For herself, she had previously planned her escape, and it went well; speaking fluent Hebrew, thanks to the Chairman who instructed, “know thy enemy,” when speaking to her undergraduate class at Cairo University, she successfully got past the Israeli checkpoint on the Palestinian side of the King Hussein Bridge leading to Amman,Jordan. Her Hebrew with a touch of a British accent, along with a forged British passport,indicating her Jewish nationality, 66

got her past the four soldiers and their young officer. By their flirtatious manner, she assumed they had not heard of the army’s disaster at Aide. The young Israeli officer even patted her buttocks, much to the titillation of his subordinates. In Amman, maybe the most secular of Arab cities, she openly functioned as a Palestinian woman, dressing conservative in loose clothing, wearing gloves and a kijab over her hair. After the Aide attack dominated all TV and print stories in Amman, she caught a French Airlines flight from the Jordanian capital to Damascus, resembling any professional Arab woman on a business trip. Immediately after the trap she set for the soldiers and their tanks, she arranged one more attack on the murderer of her parents, the Israeli Minister of Defense. This is another reason for her risking exposure in the marketplace, searching for news of what she hoped would be a disastrous funeral for the son of the infamous Defense Minister. She had not anticipated Mattath’s son driving the tank into her trap at Aide, but his death gave her the opportunity to put into play a kidnapping she had placed on hold for months, waiting for the right time and location. This would be one last gift to the man who orchestrated the deaths of so many Palestinians, including her parents at Shatila, but to date no news of the deadly gift has surfaced. She finds herself moving aimlessly through the street traffic, down the center of a narrow street choked with venders and occupied by a hundred scents--some good, some not so good. The vendors sell their wares from stalls hanging offancient walls enclosing the venerable marketplace. The street, looking strangled by the many overhanging electrical wires, is crowded with conservative Syrian women shopping for their dinners as she appears to be, and a blend of contemporary dressed women and men she assumes are their husbands. They mill about, examining shoes, dresses, shirts and accessories jammed 67

into cramped shopping areas. She picks out two oranges with some irony, because the vender guarantees they are fresh from Palestine, and a few tomatoes, a leafy head of lettuce and a loaf of flat bread. The gnarled vender, his yellowed beard thinned by age, takes in her modest, although tasteful dress and quickly reveals a bottle of expensive Syrian wine. Knowing it is foolhardy to break character, that of a devout Muslim woman, she pays the vender his outrageous asking price and tucks the wine in the bag containing her dinner. When poverty pulls on it populace as it does in this poorer section of the city, predators and opportunists abound. As she turns, departing from the vender, a dark faced Syrian with a jackal’s darting eyes catches her attention. A week‘s beard covers his face; a shirt unbuttoned to the navel displays a gold chain holding a tiny gold scimitar with a red-gem handle bouncing on his hairy chest. She has seen this type of flirtatious look many times during her undergraduate days and avoids this flirtation as she brushes past him into the crowded street. “Want some company, sexy,” he asks, putting his hand on her breast as she tries to walk away. Disgusted over her carelessness, she bites her tongue, thinking, unescorted Arab women on the streets are fair game for Arab men, especially when unthinking females purchase an alcoholic drink forbidden by Muslim law. She would literally like to beat herself for such a sophomoric mistake, but now has to deal with the results of it, as the modishly dressed opportunistis following her. She carries no gun or knife, fearing the Syrian custom officers at the Damascus airport would search her upon arrival, which was probable since she had no escort. She darts into the first, dark passageway off of Suq Hamadya and runs, hoping to outdistance the Syrian following her. As she runs, she hears his leather shoes sounding on the cobblestone passageway. She detours into another passageway, more of a dirt covered 68

dark alley with garbage piled up behind run down businesses. The faster she runs, the quicker the beat of his shoes soundbehind her. Breathing so fast she has trouble filling her lungs with air, the fleeing woman drops her food, holding onto the wine bottle, hoping to use it as a weapon to injureher pursuer. She turns to face him, as he runs toward her, slowing his step when he notices she has stopped to confront him. There is just enough thin light from a second story tenement window above the passageway for her to discern the lecherous grin on his face. Even as tall as she is,he appears to be a good three inches taller, perhaps as much as six feet, two inches. She notes that he is not intimidated by the bottle she holds like a club. He speaks in Arabic, the profanity sounding incongruous to the language: “it is time to show me your pussy, baby doll.” “The only thing you are going to see is a long lasting Hell, if you come any closer.” Although agitated by her situation, Haifa is not frightened by the aggressive man. Ever since her uncle hired the mullah to violate her body, she has prepared herself to fight off the violations of men, especially Muslim men. In England, it had been easy to hire an expert, a veteran of the Royal Marines, to teach her hand to hand combat to discourage predators. The attacker takes off his sports jacket and wraps it around his forearm, extends his other hand to grab the bottle she holds. He lunges forward, grabbing her dress by its lapel, but not before she shatters the full wine bottle against his jaw, its contents splashing onto his open shirt and chest. Blood squirts from his busted lips, as he dropsto his knees, ripping the top of her dress open. The bottle had shattered to its neck, cutting her hand. She holds a sharp piece, almost a stiletto, about to plunge it into his eye, and then she hesitates, realizing the force of her thrust will cause the razor sharp glass to further slice her hand to the bone. Her pause gives the attacker time to regain his senses, he grabs 69

her at the knees and pulls her down to where he jumps on top of her, at the same time bending her wrist backwards until she dropsthe splintered piece of glass. He quickly slams his elbow into the side of her head, stunning her. Pinning her arms to the dirt, he gloats over her defenseless position as she triesto fight him off. The Palestinian woman recognizes him as a street tough, one of countless thousands in the Arab world--devout at the mosque and an animal outside of it. This animal has his knee between her legs, pushing her long skirtup to her groin. Fighting to beat off her rapist, she does not notice the shadowy figure moving toward them. The non-descript figure kicksthe attacker in the ribs. After the kick, the man with the wine-stained shirt rolls over, howling with pain, the intervention astonishing him. Haifa, just as surprised by the intruder’s sudden appearance, sees a large, burly man, guessing he is somewhere in his thirties by the imposing way he stands over them. For a few seconds, no one moves as much as a twitch, and then her attacker flicks a knife blade out, pulling himself to his knees and slashing the four-inch blade back and forth in the direction of the intruder. The burly intruder chuckles, as he pulls an automatic pistol from his suit jacket, motioning for the man to place the knife on the dirt. When the thwarted attacker does as ordered, the gunwielding man sends the toe of his shoe into the kneeling man’s mouth. This time the blow seriously injures the attacker, prompting him to crawl to the wall; too battered to escape, he collapsesagainst it. The figure standing in the semi-darkness levels the pistol and methodically shoots the debilitated man in the head. The killer next turns to Haifa, ogling her naked legs. She pushes herself off the ground, pulling her skirt down, standing somewhat baffled by the cold-blooded killing in her behalf. “It is one less sinner Allah will have to deal with. Let him burn in Hell.” 70

“Thank you for coming to my aid. How did you know I was in trouble?” “Trouble is my business. I saw you buy the wine as did this piece of dead trash. Unusual for a devout Muslim woman, such as you appear to be, to buy wine, especially for a womanwho is alone on the streets at night. Some might say suspicious.” “Are you Mukhabarut?” “I am. And you are?” “Palestinian.” Haifa’s survival instincts scream alert with the realization she faces a national security policeman. “Your business in Damascus?” “I planned to visit a classmate of mine, but she is out of town until next Monday, I have taken a room until then,” Haifa lies, trying to buy some time to escape further questioning from a member of the feared Mukhabarut, notorious for their ruthless interrogation methods. She realizes that even as much as Syrians hate the Israelis, it does not put the Palestinians in a favorable light, because ever since the PLO foolishly sought to take over a Lebanese government that was strongly influenced by the Syrian government, Syrian authorities are suspicious of Palestinians. Yasser Arafat and Hafez al Assad were said to be openly hostile to one another, so she is not about to divulge that she is running from the Israelis after destroying three of their tanks. “Your passport please.” The tall woman, uneasy with the situation, does her best to act calm as she takes her Palestinian passport from the pocket of her skirt. The Syrian policeman inspects it, but cannot read it in the poor light. He puts his hand on her bare shoulder where the dress has torn away. “Let us move to where the light is better.“ Instead of being alarmed by his brazen move, that of touching a Muslim woman, she remains calm, knowing she has a bargaining chip. 71

He keeps his hand on her bare shoulder, leading her to where the narrow alley meets the passageway she first fled into and stops under a street light. He studies the passport, commenting, “you have been to England.” “I went to school there, yes.” “What kind of school? Perhaps a spy one,” he removes his hand as if suspecting the worst of the woman. His remark sends a chill up her spine. Under the streetlight, she evaluates the man: he is, although burly, quite good looking, a strong, dark face displaying the popular Syrian mustache. He smiles sinisterly, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “A devout Muslim woman who buys wine. A Palestinian woman who has studied in the crusader’s land. All very suspicious.” He puts her passport into his jacket pocket, and places his hand on her naked shoulder once again. “Officer. . . .” “You can call me Amer.” His hand massages her back where it meets the neck. “Amer, the English gave the Jews my people’s land, the Jews stole my grandparents’ land during Narkba, our catastrophe. I would die before I worked for the infidel English. I studied there because to destroy your enemy, you must know him first,” she pleads, allowing unnecessary panic to flood her voice. “What you say is possible, but there is the matter of the wine.” “Amer, I wear thismodest dress so as not to be molested on the streets as solitary women often are. My beliefs do not forbid me to drink wine.” “All that you say is logical, yet your statements need some authentication. If I take you to the police station until I can get that authentication, then I must file a report and my superiors would wish to talk to you. Perhaps you have some evidencewhere you are staying that can support what 72

you are stating? A room nearby where we can satisfy my police officer’s curiosity?” “Haifa, knowing she has little choice but to comply, allows him to slide his hand onto her breast, noticing the policeman becomes immediately aroused after discovering she wears no undergarment there. “I have a small room at the nearby Hotel Rushid. You have my permission to question me there.” *

*

The Palestinian woman escorts the man who prevented her rape in Suq Hamadya to the tiny Rushid Hotel by the river, named after the male owner, leading him through the narrow doorway into the ornate lobby with its hand painted blue and green tiles covering the lower walls up to a wainscot; hot brown and orange stripped wallpaper clasheswith the cold tiles. It is late so the owner has retired for the evening. She ascends the narrow steps to the third floor, feeling the man’s hands fondle her protruding buttocks at each step. She finds herself in a situation that she did not seek, but now welcomes the opportunity, because men using their authority to take advantage of her, expecting her to comply with their demands, so sure of the outcome, need an awaking. They enter her small room, and she switches on the bedside lamp, waitingwhile he studies the room with its tiny alcove where a hot plate and microwave oven sit near a sink. He then opens the bathroom door, switching on the light and inspectsthe interior. His attention goes immediately to the bed, taking a moment to savor the prospect of being in it with the Palestinian woman. Removing his jacket and tossing it on the chair, he sits on the bed, revealing an automatic pistol in his hip holster for her to see. “For the moment, let us postpone the proof you wish to show me. It is possible that you can convince me in other 73

ways.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt collar, so there is no mistaking his meaning. Haifa, seeing how aroused the man has become, is confident of her moves. She slowly removes her loose shirt, revealing her bare chest, caressingher breasts until the nipples are hard. She knows it is a show that most Muslim men fanaticizeabout, having subdued their wives into impassionate robots. She steps to within a few feet of him, unfastening her long formless skirt and stepping out of it, inviting his eyes to caress her well-formed legs. “Please remove your weapon.” The fingers of both her hands form a V on her crotch, directing his attention to her genitalia under sheer silk, certain that the security policeman will not release her after she performs a sex act with him. The enamored Syrian follows her instruction, dropping his pistol and holster on the chair and removing his belt in the process. Haifa undoes his pants, overcoming her revulsion, caresses his penis as she frees it from his underpants. His hands find her hips, and she knows exactly whatshe must do. She places both hands on the small of her back, arching her pelvis toward him. “I am so hot I cannot wait another moment. Please remove my undergarment.” The man grasps the sheer cloth by both hands, undecided whether or not to remove the panties or ripthem apart. While he is so occupied, Haifa’s fingers probe the crevasse near her anus where her buttocks swell. In the crevasse, she has taped a single-edge razor blade inside one cheek, intending to use it to slit her own wrists if she ever is captured by the Israelis or punished by the Muslims as she once was. The Mukhabarutofficer has slid her panties from her hips to the floor, burying his face into her pubic hair. Taking her time, she pulls the razor blade free, and with her hands behind her back, removes the thin cardboard shield. She ever so gently pushes his head away from her body. When he gazes up to her, she tilts his chin as if to kiss him. At the instant he closes his eyes to enjoy 74

the kiss, she slits his throat with one deep slash. She watches him writhe on the bed, blood squirting from his throat, unable to call for help, as the deep slash has severed his vocal cords. Before she dresses, she has one last piece of business: if Muslim men favor castrating promiscuous women, then she will return the favor. She amputates his still stiff penis and holds it before the dying man,until he averts his eyes. She tosses the amputated piece of flesh into the corner, lastly taking her passport from his jacket slung over the chair. * DOVID * “A child should bury his parents, not the other way around, the heavyset, old man comments to his bereaved wife, as he stands on the stone patio behind his farm house, his gaze upon the family graveyard situated on an elevation in the distance. Three generations--his grandparents, parents and oldest son--are buried where he can view their gravesites from the house; his wife, Hannah’s parents are also buried there. He can see chairs arranged for the service and the mound of dirt that will cover his youngest son. Hannah, slips her arm across his ample back, unable to reach his waist, noticing how much he has aged since news of their son’s death reached them. “He came to see me in his uniform on the second day of Passover, and I sent him away before you discovered his presence,” he says to his wife, who seems to manage her grief better than he does. “Why, Dovid?” “Do you see the Palestinian laborers who showed up today to pick tomatoes and lettuces. They have been with us for years. In the rush to bury Jonathan within twenty-four hours as custom dictates, we forgot to give them the day off. Why can’t all Palestinians be as peaceful as they appear standing idly before the fields? I will send someone 75

to give them this day off. Our guests and members of our son’s tank unit will be arriving soon, and they will not understand Palestinians lingering in the background.” “I will order it done,” his wife volunteers, anxious for any distraction from her grief. “No, it would seem improper on this first day of Shivah. I will send one of our attendants to tell them to leave.” He turns to his lovely wife, noting as he does each day he spends with her that she carries her age well, her hair only now beginning to show gray strands. Her face as finely molded as when they first met at the university in Tel Aviv, she a graduate student, when he appeared as a young, trim commando on leave from training exercises in the Negev Desert; the lively eyes and sensitive mouth that so captivated him as a young man have not lost their appeal. “Dovid, why did you keep my son from me the time he met you in the fields on the second day of Passover?” Hannah asks, worry lines at the corners of her mouth tightening. “At that time, I did not want you to know that I brought him here to conduct military business. The business seemed a simple retaliation for the bombing at the Jerusalem deli the day before. As it turned out, I sent him to his death, as I sent our oldest son to his death.” He tenses, knowing he is emotionally pulling down the woman he loves, but cannot stop verbalizing his guilt. “I could have ordered any officer from scores of tank commanders to retaliate.” The remorseful father feels his wife sag against him, as she absorbs the full impact of what he has said. He steadies her, as they both silently watch the Palestinian field hands, appearing as anomalies to the pending Hebrew funeral. He stands motionless while his wife regains her bearing and speaks: “hopefully time will mitigate my memory of the last day of Passover with Jonathan, his wife, our grandchildren and you, my husband, when you kept me ignorant of the mission of death you planned to send him 76

on. Dovid, the question you must deal with for the rest of your life is, did you have no other choice than sending Jonathan to his death, just as you sent Joshua to his in defense of our country? For now I will tell myself it was necessary for the preservation of Israel. I must tell you that two sons are all I can give to Israel to cast off her enemies. I beg you to make peace with these hostile Palestinians and spare our grandchildren the same fate as our sons.” “I fear peace will not come until all Palestinians are dead. Hannah, we must gain strength from our sons’ deaths, not divisiveness.” The ageing father turns his wife to him, as if to rejuvenate his resolve with her nearness. He attempts to kiss her on the forehead, as she stands stiffly before him, only to be interrupted by one of his military attaches. “Minister, please accept my heartfelt apology for interrupting you in what must be a difficult time.” The middle aged military officer’s erect body sags, displaying his discomfort. “Madam, I would not impose upon you in your time of grief if it were not absolutely necessary. An urgent matter has materialized that must be attended to.” “Please do not berate yourself, Colonel,” Hannah softly commands her husband’s subordinate. “I understand that time does not stand still, even for the Minister of Defense.” She kisses her husband on the cheek. “I will wait for you inside the house.” “The matter will have to wait, Colonel,” Dovid commands in a harsher tone. The officer hesitates, not leaving the patio area, appearing extremely awkward. “Is there something else, Colonel?” “I sincerely regret to inform you that this matter demands your attention before the service.” “Please go with the Colonel, Dovid. I will send someone to dismiss the field hands.” “I extend my regiments and my own deepest respect to you madam on your son’s departure. We all liked and admired him,” the colonel offers sympathetically. 77

The minister watches his wife tense, tears welling in her eyes as she can only nod her appreciation before she departs. “Minister, I have delayed the mourners at the entrance gate, stating security reasons until you are appraised of the failed assassination attempt on you and your family. Furthermore, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you, the assassin is a close friend of your family. I believe the funeral service should be closed off as there could be more than one attempt to kill you today.” “No, I will not deny Jonathan the tribute a son of Israel deserves.” “Your daughter-in-law is in the house, is she not?” “Shalva is with my two grandsons and Hevra Kadisha attendants in Jonathan’s boyhood room. Please dispense with the mystery and get to the point.” “We are holding Jonathan’s and Shalva’s friend, Liya Perez, in the storage barn. If the Minister will be good enough to accompany me, I will explain the details to you on the way.” *

*

They enter the large, corrugated tin barn at the rear entrance to the farm, a safe distance from the funeral arrangements and arriving mourners. Amidst the many fresh produce crates stacked to the ceiling, the father sees his son’s one time betrothed sitting disheveled in a chair, flanked by two soldiers and two men in civilian clothes he recognizes as Shabak agents. She once was the potential daughter-in-law Hannah and he assumed would bear them grandchildren, until her best friend Shalva returned from her schoolingin Germany. Shalva and Jonathanhad shocked everyone when they announced their engagement a month later. Liya, being the practical one of the three young people, accepted their decision without bitterness, moving from Jerusalem to 78

Tel Aviv, starting a practice in dentistry. Eventually she married and gave birth to a boy and girl the same age as Jonathansand Shelia’s children. The minister can do little more than stare at the young woman sobbing on the chair. “Minister, this is Major Bevetz and Capitan Stein of Shabak. On the table, you will see a belt of explosives,” the colonel in charge of security says. “We took them from under her dress and outer coat. She has confessed her intention to kill you, your wife, grandchildren and the guests,” the military officer adds. At first, the minister is too stunned to respond, for the overwrought woman is a childhood friend of his daughterin-law, and she had dated Jonathan since she was a teenager, that is, until his son jilted her and married Shalva. His mind races: could losing Jonathan to Shalva prompt this woman to extract such terrible vengeance. He observes the attractive woman, clad only in her slip, shoulders heaving as she cries uncontrollably. He picks up her black mourning dress from the floor and drapes it across her bare shoulders, and kneels before her. “Why Liya? My family and I have only given you affection. My son’s children have played with your children. We have prayed side by side at schul. How could you attempt such a terrible thing, on the day of Jonathan’s journey to heaven, the final day on earth for the man you once loved?” The weeping woman cannot bring herself to look at the questioner, let alone answer him. “I believe this picture will explain it all, Minister. We found it in her car,” the Shabak major says as he hands the photo to Mattath. The minister has seen many photos of this type, so becomes analytical as he studies Liya’s pre-pubescent older boy, no more than eleven and a girl, the image of her mother and no more than eight years old, kneeling before two, noticeably small, hooded men, both holding large knives before the 79

youngsters’ throats. Behind them stand three more small hooded kidnappers, arms folded across their chests. The children’s abductors are obviously Muslims, probably Palestinians, although there is no identifying flag reflecting their origin. In fact the room, wherever it may be,is chillingly bare. He thinks, killing children, our most precious commodity, where will this fighting take us? “Thiswoman was unusually nervous when I checked her name against the guest list,” the captain adds. “If I hadn’t ordered her searched. . . well. . . .” He gestures with his palms open, indicating the worst outcome. “Dovid, I am so sorry. They were going to decapitate my children. You must understand. . . no life could be more precious to me than theirs.” “Fortunately, Liya, no one has died,” the minister consoles the hysterical woman, knowing that her children will be beheaded by sundown, because of the failed bombing attempt. ”I will press no charges against you. You are suffering enough.” He stands and questions the Shabak major, “her husband?” “He is in Los Angeles, guest lecturing at the University of Southern California dental school. We believe he is ignorant of this plot against you.” “See that he is brought back without informing him of the reason. This poor woman, what will you do with her?” “She must be thoroughly questioned about her contact with these terrorists.” “I will deem it a personal favor, if after your interrogation verifies her as an innocent victim, you allow her to return to Tel Aviv and her life there. Her only crime is being a mother. Now I must attend my son‘s funeral. Please allow our guests to enter.” He walks to the door, furious at the unknown initiator of the failed assassination. The attempted murder fermenting in his mind is a terrible sacrilege to his son’s memory. He desiresto strike back with all the power he controls, but 80

knows losing his temper could be disastrous. He turns back to the men guarding the captive woman. “Colonel, please accompany me.” Outside the packing house, Mattath asks the colonel: “you are familiar with the circumstances surrounding the deaths of my son and his detachment?” “General Shamon informed me after assigning me to maintain security during your son’s funeral.” “Good. Those small terrorists in the picture you found in Liya’s automobile, could they be women?” “Possibly.” “There is too much coincidence between the trap set at Aide and thisattempted murder of my family and me. If both instances prove to be carried out by women, then, I suspect this niece of the Hamas leader, George Hamad, is involved. The woman has disappeared, so arrest her uncle. I need leverage to find her.” “As you wish. But it is my duty to inform you that his arrest will send up a howl across the West Bank.” “It will fall on deaf ears as the PLO controls the territories, and they will be glad to be rid of one more Hamas opponent.” “The charge?” “Instigating terrorism against the Israeli people. Destroy his house and those of his aides, but do not cripple him in any way, for he must be questioned pertaining to this woman,” the grieved father orders, seeing the invitees gathering by the graveyard. He finds it difficult to breathe, as he fortifies himself for the burial, but the Lion of Sinai will not be deterred from honoring his son. “I will walk alone to the house, Colonel.” *

*

Dovid rips the left lapel off of his suit jacket and watches his wife rip the left sleeve off her mourning dress as is the 81

Hebrew custom. Six high ranking officers of the IDF Tank Corps, acting as pallbearers, lift the plain wooden coffin from its supports in his living room. Dovid and his wife walk behind the coffin covered with Israel’s Star of David flag, followed by their daughter-in-law, grandchildren and Havra Kadisha attendants. Rabbinical codified custom dictates immediate burial with the coffin sealed. The father and mother ignored their protocol advisor, Rabbi Shimshon, to not view their deceased son, bathing and dressing Jonathan in a plain white shroud, placing his personal skullcap and talit upon him before placing himin the wood box. The funeral procession stops the customary seven times before arriving at the burial site; the Rabbinical mandated observation derives from Adonai creating the earth in that many days, subsequently recreated each week in Hebrew observance, therefore a human death reduces it by seven days, therefore the seven pauses. The minister’s grief is mitigated by the sight of the Prime Minister and Lukud members of his cabinet standing reverently by the gravesite, paying tribute to his son. A full squad of Jonathan’s tank unit, in military dress uniforms, standbehind the important personages. The soldiers all wear, as he does, skullcaps, a sign of their devotion to the Lord God; he places more trust onto men devoted to the Lord, than ones without devotion. Rabbi Shimshon and a celebrated Cantor stand before the open hole, their focus on the approaching coffin. At the procession’s fourth pause, Dovid’s and Hannah’s few close friends fall in behind the grandchildren, following the coffin to the gravesite. As soon as the pallbearers place the wood coffin on the mounts over the gravesite, the Cantor begins to chant Kaddish, an Aramaic prayer, in a melodious voice; the funeral participants joining in. At the end of the prayer, Dovid and Hannah sit on hard chairs, as does everyone else, and listen to his longtime 82

friend, Solomon Shamon, the general who was grooming Jonathan for military leadership, eulogize their son’s all too short life and his devotion to family, friends and the Israeli nation. Before the service ends, Hannah reads a verse from Psalm 27, her words becoming shaky: “One thing I ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of the Lord. . . . to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord. . . . ” * HARLAN * “Finally, the preacher’s courier mumbles to himself as he exits the Jerusalem Marriott Holyland Hotel onto the Via Dolorosa, Christian Jerusalem’s most famous street, “the time has come to trade.” The Israelis have made him wait a week, saying conditions were not right for the exchange, and now only giving him an hour to rendezvous at the sacred place where Jesus was taken prisoner by the Jews. He refused their offer of transportation, saying he would take a taxi, because he has to pick up the American archeologist, a Ph.D. from Michigan University,who has been digging about the holy land. The first time visitor walks across Via Dolorosa, carrying the bowling ball in the red, white and blue case, to where there is a sheltered bus stop and seats himself on the bench, intending to wait for one hour. He has kept the facsimile of the fusion bomb constantly within sight, except when he has no choice but to check it in the hotel security room. Cautious habits, accompanied by an observant eye, have put him on alert; upon arrival in Tel Aviv, an aggressive taxi driver at the airport jumped into his path in the lobby, insisting he was the only driver who could properly serve a bowler from the United States. Since when is a cabby so anxious to pick up a blue collar bowler, he thought as he entered the cab. The American had changed out of the ridiculous outfit he wore boarding the El Al flight in the Tel Aviv Airport men’s room, the one Israelis probably were 83

aware of, into one befitting a non-descripttourist. No longer dressed in the identifying bowler’s garments made the cab driver’s eager solicitation to drive him seem suspicious. The taxi driver, who spoke too well to be an immigrant, never blinked an eye when Harlan, a supposed bowler in Tel Avivfor a tournament, asked to be driven to Jerusalem. The American fugitive knew from his scant research pertaining to Israel that many newly arrived immigrants fill all menial jobs such as washing dishes and driving cabs. And immigrants have a thicker accent than the driver’s Israeli one. A well spoken man like the cab driver would have found better employment, because Israel is a prosperous country gainfully employing its educated citizens. And, the man’s all-too clean cab alerted the American; it had been completely wiped clean of stains and smudges, but most tellingly, of old fingerprints that could hinder identifying his ones. He had been a fugitive for too long, not to be suspicious about such an obvious ploy to get his fingerprints, so cleaned away any place he touched on the cab. Delaying the meeting one hour while he waits across from the elegant fifteen story hotel located in the Christian section of the city is a test of the trust he has been told to expect from the Jews. The famous street, where tourists believe Jesus Christ carried the cross of his crucifixion,is clogged with visitors celebrating the upcoming Easter weekend. The fundamentalist regrets that he must miss the chance of a lifetime, not able to participate in the celebration of his Lord‘s assent to heaven. Bidding his time, he is very mindful of the week the Israelis have kept him waiting, for it is the exact length of the first mourning period following a Hebrew funeral for a family member. The television and newspaper media, at least the ones in English, have termed that week a time of intense mourning, known as Shaivah, the reason for the Minister of Defense, Dovid Mattath, being absent from government for 84

a week. The same media have reported and speculated on the vicious trap inflicted upon the Minister’s of Defense last surviving son and a unit of Israeli soldiers massacred at a nearby Palestinian refugee camp. Harlan read that the son, Jonathan Mattath, was a respected archeologist, as esteemed as the one he is about to pick up to verify the item for exchange. What makes the one week mourning period interesting to Harlan is the Israeli high official he is to meet could very well be this Minister Mattath, the bereaved father. An archeologist like the minister’s deceased son could have been the one who discovered the ancient nail the preacher’s secretary ordered him to obtain. After discovering the object’s value, the son would have told his father, the very same high official with whom Harlan is to meet. The father is a highly decorated past general of the Israeli Defense Forces, perhaps with a past military connection to the American general who gave him the bomb‘s formula. All this is speculation, but enough possibilities exist for Harlan to mind his Ps and Qs at the arranged meeting. Especially, since the Born Again Christian believes Jews are not to be trusted, being of the same bloodline that betrayed and lobbied for his Lord’s crucifixion. He reinforces his belief of the Jews betrayal verbalizing a biblical verse from Mathew, “then answered all the people, and said, His blood be on us and on our children.” He checks the big clock in the men’s haberdashery window across the street from where he sits, but pious pedestrians elbowing their way along Via Dolorosa, walking the route that Jesus Christ was forced to carry his cross to the crucifixion hill, force him to stand to see the exact time. He watches the big clock until one hour has passed, enough time for the aggressive Israelis to act, if they plan to act. Crossing the street clutching his bowling ball case, he pushes though a stream of tourists exiting the hotel, walks 85

across the interior’s plush carpet and takes the elevator to his suite on the tenth floor. His suite, thanks to the Israeli high official, whoever he may be, includes sitting and bed rooms. He sees that nothing has been disturbed, and everything is as he left it. He goes to the bathroom where for the last six days he has removed the showerhead to see if the capsule that he placed there, the blue one the general gave him, is still there. And, it has remained untouched until now. He congratulates himself for his foresight, for today the capsule supposedly elaborating on the bomb’s atomic design is gone. It is precautions such as this one that has kept him out of an American death house. His mind has learned to extrapolate on irregularities such as the missing capsule: if the Israelis searched his room, stealing the capsule, before they met with him, what future trick do they have in mind? And why did they jeopardize the pending trade with him, knowing he would discover the robbery? He has no idea, only a suspicion that something may have gone wrong with their plans. Hopefully, they have no more tricks. Disobeying the general’s instructions, he previously opened the blue capsule after his body expelled it, taking advantage of the seven day wait the Israelis imposed upon him to memorize the atomic weights, compositions and placements of the bomb’s beryllium-deuterium spacer depleted uranium tamper, tritium booster and the forty-six Plutonium-239 pellets, positioned like chromosomes, making up the helix designed pit. He then destroyed the formula and replaced it with a blank piece of paper to frustrate the descendents of his Lord’s murderers. He requests the hotel concierge to order him a taxi. It is time to meet this high official and give him the bowling ball. *RABBI*

86

Harel Shimshon waits outside the security hut near the entrance to the Garden of Gethsemane, holding the cellar phone Dovid’s aide gave him to use to inform the minister —still very much overwrought over Jonathan’s death--of any irregularity during the arranged meeting. The graying red haired, ultra-conservative Rabbi nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot, because the American is an hour late, but decides not to prematurely call Dovid whose place in the proposed meeting he has taken. He chose the garden meeting spot, because Americans become child-like near any place they think their so caller savior walked, and he knows he will need all the distraction he can get to secure the bomb‘s formula. Ironic, he thinks, the same hard line Christians who once persecuted Jews, now befriend them because of some pie in the sky belief about a second coming of their son of god. Now that the garden is so packed with Christian tourists anticipating their Easter holiday, he is not sure meeting here is a good idea as privacy will be limited. Doctor Barnum Mansel, a retired nuclear scientist, the man who first headed up the Israeli nuclear program, waits in the Chevrolet sedan to authenticate the American’s formula for a pure fusion explosion. Such a weapon, carried on an ordinary missile, releasing energy enough to obliterate the rats’ nest called Gaza, heretofore only existed in one’s dreams. Ace in the Hole pops into his mind, an expression for the stud poker he played as a boy in the Ukraine, notorious for his ability to pair up with his down card. He smiles to himself, realizing he had not thought in the Russian tongue for ages. He hates the Russians for the way they terrorized his isolated community near Luts’k. As a boy of thirteen, a day after his Bar Mitzvah, he had beaten a Ukrainian youth bloody, causing as much outrage in the community as an assault on a Russian Orthodox priest would, because every Jew was thought a subhuman degenerate by Soviet governments. The incident forced him, his parents and 87

siblings to flee to Israel or face beatings, perhaps even imprisonment. Fortunately, the early Zionist community in Palestine controlled by the Ottoman Empire prior to WW II were in need of Rabbis, and his father quickly found a following and subsequent livelihood in the coastal community of Haifa. The Americans, with their limitless wealth, revenged him for being forced to flee the Ukraine without knowing it when they all but destroyed the Soviets in Afghanistan, later bankrupting that empire at the end of aninsane arms race. In his mature years, the Rabbi directs his hatred toward the Muslims, the Palestinians in particular, the ones who lay claim to Israel’s ancient lands given to his people by their Lord, Adonai. He repeats a verse from Genesis, the one in which God promised Cannon, a land flowing from the river in Egypt to the Euphrates River, to the descendents of Abraham. These Palestinians have vowed, in spite of their numerous defeats before Israeli armies, to wipe his nation from the face of the earth. To his way of thinking, the settlers’ program, initiated many years ago when he and Dovid were youngermen, as effective as it has been to drive out the Palestinians, is too slow and leaves too many parcels of land in the enemy’s hands. He yearns for another war, a reason to drive all Palestinians into Jordan, Lebanon, Syria and to the four corners of the Arab world. This bomb the American will deliver, this Ace in the Hole, for Israel, will guarantee the nation’s solvency for ages and lend enough muscle to further beat the Muslims to their knees. The mere hint of using it will not only render the Arab nations harmless, it will discourage any European interference as well; it will allow Israel a free hand with the Palestinians. “‘Walk softly and carry a big stick,’ a massive explosion with small radiation fallout. Who can fault its usage?” he mumbles, smilingto himself, feeling evil for speaking the quote in Russian. “With a weapon like the 88

one the American religious community has promised, a nation can do anything it deems necessary.” The cell phone rings in his hands. He believes the caller will be Dovid, returning to government duties even with so much pain in his heart. He hears the defense minister’s voice: “Rebbe, you must understand the need for discretion, as I cannot allow myself or the Israeli government to be linked to the exchange. I want to share with you the recent information brought to my attention about the American you will be dealing with. We became suspicious about this courier when after his flight from New York to Tel Aviv our agents were not able to lift one fingerprint from him. They eventually got a print from his hotel room, of all things, off a much used page of his King James Christian bible. These religious zealots in America must be sniffing angel dust, sending the most wanted man in the United States to deliver the goods. Interpol identified his fingerprint, informing us, that his name is Harlan Stegal. He is wanted for murdering three abortion clinic doctors and crippling a liberal radio talk show host in the United States. He is also suspected of masterminding the recent bombing of a superior courthouse in the state of Virginia.” “How would you have me handle the situation, Dovid?” “It goes without sayingI want you to be careful. It is unlikely that he has had a chance to arm himself since arriving in Israel, but these extremists are capable of anything when disturbed, especially now after he has discovered his capsule missing from his room, giving us a blank piece of paper for our break in. After your specialist examines the bowling ball, you must convince him to give you the composition of atomic elements we failed to find in his hotel room. You have the nail I had duplicated from what the university lab personnel could remember from the original one. The archeologist accompanying this American, who will do the authentication, has been paid a 89

great deal of money to verify its origin to be the same as the original.” “What if the American will not give the bomb formula to me?” “With or without the bomb’s formula, I intend to have him assassinated by would-be Palestinians, the phony nail disappearing in the process, and his remains turned over to the American authorities. That way the nail can never be found a phony, so our associates in the U.S. will think he mishandled his mission, keeping our valued relationship intact. “Dovid, we must get the formula before you eliminate him.” “Believe me, we will. If he does not give you the formula, I will have him thoroughly interrogated, before he is eliminated.” “Leave it to me, my old friend. I will get what Adonai has willed,” the Rabbi assures his cohort, mentally committing to the task before disconnecting his call, at the same time noticing a taxi pull out of traffic and head toward the security hut. The yellow cab stops behind the car occupied by the retired nuclear scientist. The Rabbi watches the lean, hard appearing man dressed neatly in a blue light-weight sports jacket and darker blue slacks exit, followed by the American born archeologist. He is surprised at how clean cut and attractive the abortion clinic murderer appears. The American nods to him without smiling or offering his hand for a cordial greeting; the archeologist stands a few feet behind, awaiting instructions from the weapon’s courier. “Behind you on the hill is the Garden of Olives,” the aging Rabbi says the first line of the pre-established code.” “Will the fruit ripen soon?” Harlan asks, scrutinizing the old, thin man in a shinny, black suit and tieless, rumpled, buttoned at the neck white shirt. “The fruit only ripens before the rains.” 90

“Are they holy olives?” “If you mean h, o, l, e, y. He spells out the last word. “Then, of course, they are to be pitted.” “As the Lord will have it.” The exchange of six sentences between the two men went as planned, so the older man introduces himself. “I am a Rabbi and close confidant of the man who originally intended to meet you. He, because of your history, cannot be present.” The American fugitive grits his teeth as he searches the Rabbi’s face, a man who looks to have had orange red hair in his youth, realizing the Israelis have identified him. And once they get what they want, they will turn him over to American authorities, as the Israelites turned Jesus over to Pilate. “Do you have the item I have traveled to obtain?” The Rabbi is surprised that the American does not introduce himself before getting to the purpose of the meeting or even requesting some credentials from him. “I have and do you have the items in exchange?” “I have the items, and I believe you already have the blank piece of paper missing from my hotel room.” Harlan enjoys seeing the man, he is sure stands in for Prime Minister Mattath, wince at his mention of the stolen capsule. “May I see the item I have travelled over the ocean to see?” The Rabbi beckons to one of his two bodyguards watching the exchange from inside the security hut. A young, stronglooking man, wearing a skull cap and a full beard, his unbuttoned shirt showing a hint of a hair-covered barrel chest, hands over a small wooden box with a carrying handle to the conservative Rabbi, who opens it for Harlan’s inspection. Upon the taxi entering the garden where his Lord was betrayed, the American avoided any distraction, refusing to gaze upon any of the venerable landscape, but he cannot stop himself from gawking at the ancient nail that could 91

have very well pierced the body of Jesus Christ, God Almighty‘s Son. For a brief moment, he is one with his God while holding the nail. He turns the nine inch object over in the box, examining the many hammer marks made by the forging. It is worn, slightly bent by some recent force with a small clump of dirt at its point. He finds it remarkably free of corrosion, as he cups the object in his hand and feels the weight of the iron, giddy from the touch. “Harlanhands the box to the American archeologist. “How long will it take you to authenticate this object”? The middle aged man with a perfect tan and wearing the short beard scientists so value, looks to the Rabbi and inquires: “Did you bring the dating equipment requested? “The items are in the security hut.” The Rabbi focuses on the American. “May I have the information that has been previously agreed upon?” “The old man in the car, is that your expert?” “He is.” “Then I will give the information to him,” the Christian replies, immediately disliking the Jew. The Rabbi escorts the old scientist, who must use a cane to walk,to the American. Harlan hands him the replica of the bomb in the Spalding bowling ball case along with the red capsule he kept after memorizing the lasers firing sequences at Kennedy Airport. Believing he would need to counter an Israeli deception, he disobeyed the general’s order to flush it down a toilet and subsequently inserted a scroll listing a bogus equation of the beryllium-deuterium spacer, depleted uranium tamper, tritium booster and the helix designed pit--all ingredients pertaining to the bomb’s physical design. He did not include any information pertaining to the fly-eye lasers. “This is what your people failed to steal, he comments to the Rabbi, handing the red capsule to his authenticator. “I will give you the final ingredient, the trigger, after Doctor Smith gives me verification of the holy nail.” 92

The Rabbi waits until the Israeli nuclear scientist and the American archeologist enter the security hut, and then politely suggests, attempting to distract the American: “while we wait, let us walk through this ancient, but magnificent garden.” The American fundamentalist is reluctant to stroll in this holy place with a Jew, but needs time to formulate his plan, so accompanies him along the dirt path toward the grove of olive trees a hundred feet into the garden. The unlikely pair stop before a large, knurled olive tree. Harlan stands, head bowed in reverence to the ancient place where his Lord prayed before His arrest, His disciples sleeping nearby. “Many think this tree stood here when. . . .” The Rabbi pauses, unable to say your god, so says, “Jesus of Nazareth walked these grounds. But history tells us all the olive trees of that time were cut down in 60 A.D. when the Romans led by Augustus’sadopted son, Tiberius destroyed Jerusalem. These venerable trees were planted some time after that terrible time.” Harlan steps onto the grass and touches the tree’s bark, feeling light headed by historic events that passed near this tree, for he believes the tree is from the time of Jesus, knowing God would not allow the tree Jesus prayed under to be destroyed. His attention goes to a large crowd forming around an old stonewall, some fifteen feet high. A procession of actors dressed in biblical soldiers’ Jewish attire, and carrying short swords, march into the crowds’ midst. The Rabbi feels repulsed by the soldiers portraying Jewish villainy, as he volunteers to the American: “they are soldiers of the Sanhedrin sent to arrest your savior.” The fundamentalist feels the muscles knot across his shoulders, as he stares fascinated at the twelve robed men portraying Jesus’s disciples gatheraround a tall, blond haired man dressed in a royal purple robe in an attempt to protect him from the soldiers of the Sanhedrin. 93

At that moment, the two muscular men Harlan saw at the security hut appear. The fit, full bearded aide, who first delivered the nail to the old Jew, his shirt showing perspiration from hurrying under the mid-day sun, speaks: “Rabbi, both Dr. Mansel and Dr. Smith have made their analysis and wish you to return with your guest.” “My friend. . . .” the Rabbi feels the young man pull back, repulsed, as he touches his arm. “The exchange can wait for a moment if you desire to watch the reenactment.” The Born Again Christian fights the fury overtaking him by the portrayal of Jesus’s arrest scene playing out a short distance away, but also by the knowledge that he must deal with a Rabbi, a descendant of the ones who sent the soldiers to this garden almost two millenniums ago. “No,” he replies, knowing he must not allow himself to be distracted by what he knows to be actors performing an event that he knows by heart. He turns and walks back to the security hut followed by the Israelis. Harlan waits while the old Rabbi confers with the nuclear scientist, his two beefy bodyguards observing from the hut’s doorway. The American notes that the Michigan archeologist does not hold the wood box with the nail as he moves closer and gives the archeologist an inquisitive look. The erudite man says, “by the way the object has been forged, especially the size of the hammer marks and the crudeness of the force that shaped it, it looks to be from the time of the early Roman occupation of Palestine. My dating of the soil stuck to the object puts it at the year 1 B.C., plus or minus a hundred years.” The religious fundamentalist feels as if his chest will explode with delight, not only at being in the presence of something as Godly as the crucifixion nail, but also to obtain it for the great man and his church in Virginia. He keeps his face expressionless, his survival skills screaming to him to remain stoic. 94

The Rabbi breaks off his conversation with the Israeli scientist, and crosses to Harlan, politely saying, “Doctor Mansel advises me that the atomic makeup of the bomb’s design is not only incomplete, but also incorrect. I would like the complete and correct formula of that design along with the missing trigger mechanism not duplicated in the facsimile. Be so kind as to give it to the esteemed man now, or there will be no exchange, and my two aides will escort you to the Tel Aviv Airport where you can go home empty handed.” “I will do as you say, but first I would like to view the crucifixion nail one more time,” the preacher’s courier requests, wanting to buy some time. “Of course,” the Rabbi replies, gesturing to his bodyguard to give the box to Harlan. The fundamentalist opens the box, gently fingering the precious object. He knew before coming to this holy place that he could not give a Jew, one of the murderers of his Savior, the means to make Israel the most powerful nation on earth, equal to United States. The old Israeli politely watches him, nervous over the precarious way this transaction is progressing. With all the force Harlan can muster, he kicks the Rabbi in the stomach, driving him into his two bodyguards, and then darts pass the Chevrolet sedan toward the exit, the box containing the nail in his hand. With the agility of an athlete, the American archeologist jumps on Harlan’s back; his alliance with the Israelis completely catches the American by surprise. The fundamentalist and the archeologist tumble onto the dirt path. Harlan, holding the box protectively, tries to kick the betrayer off of him, only his effort is for naught as the two bodyguards pounce on him, furiously driving their fists into his body. The American absorbs the blows, desiring to protect the box more than his own well being. The two physically superior men beat Harlan about his face and torso until he hangs limply between their holds. 95

Feeling bruised and battered, he can see the old Israeli stumbling toward him, anger scorching his face. “You are a fool to try such a thing. Now give up the information or I will have you subjected to the most horrible interrogation you can imagine,” the old Rabbi labors to talk, still shaken by Harlan’s vicious kick. “Knowing my identity should tell you such an interrogation is a venture that you cannot win. Death for me is a first class ticket to Paradise,” Harlan replies, the smile his lips form twisting into a snarl. “We have an agreement. Will you or will you not honor it?” Harlanrealizes that his attempt to steal the nail has failed, now the only chance to obtain it lies in giving the Jews the weapon they demand. “I will. . . .” Before, he can say, honor it, he hears a heart piercing wail coming from the spectators watching the reenactment of the Jesus’s arrest. For the moment, the attention of all six men is distracted by the crowd’s simultaneous cries of: “NO, DON’T ARREST HIM. DON’T TAKE OUR LORD. PLEASE DON’T TREAT HIM SO ROUGHLY.” Harlan watches as the actors costumed as Sanhadrin soldiers, drag the tall, blond man by ropes strung to his hands and neck, followed by religious observers who have whipped themselves into despair over viewing the realistic reenactment. The biblical actors, surrounded by a throng of at least two hundred Christian pilgrims, press toward Harlan, many screaming in agony, pulling their hair, digging fingernails into their arms, creating pandemonium in the garden. The grief stricken procession exiting the garden forces him, his two captors and the Rabbi against the Chevrolet sedan. They barely escape being trampled. The battered American still holdsthe wood box, his arms locked in the vice like grips of the two bodyguards. When the thick of the crowd is upon them, Harlanscreams with all the ferocity he can muster: “The Jews did this to our Lord. The Jews are responsible for his terrible crucifixion. 96

Remember their confession before Pilate: ‘His blood be on us and our children.’ Punish the Jews. Punish the Jews.” Harlan has caught the attention of those participants closest to the Rabbi’s two aides holding him. A man and woman close to the struggling American cry out: “The Jews are responsible. The Jews are responsible.” Other participants in crowd are distracted from the procession when they hear the captive yell, “these two men wearing their skull caps are Jews. Look at my battered face. See how they have beaten me for being a Christian. Make them release me, and then punish them for what they have done. Punish them for what their ancestors have done to our Lord.” Men and women break away from the procession and press upon the two men holding Harlan, searching for an explanation to what the captive has charged. The two Israeli bodyguards, as burley as they appear, are intimidated by the thirty or so people surrounding them,but do not release their captive. A middle-aged woman demands of the men in skull caps, “free this man, Christ killers.” One of the bodyguards pushes her away with his beefy hand. His aggression is all it takesfor a male college student, a physical match for the Israeli, to slap the skull cap off of the offender’s head. The Israeli releases Harlan’s arm to defend himself; his move is an invitation to the college studentto forcibly knock him back against the sedan. A woman scratches the other bodyguard’s face with her fingernails, drawing blood. Then a fist strikes the same face, knocking the Rabbi’s aide free of Harlan. The fundamentalist, still clutching the box, profusely thanksthe crowd around him for his rescue. He pushes into the midst of the crowd, separating himself from the Israelis and blends in with the grief-stricken throng following the actors who are proceeding to the next stop of the reenactment. *

* 97

Harlan knows as any good Born Again Christian worth his salt would know that the observation of Christ’s final hours on earth indicates the procession into whose midst he had secured himself will find its way to the Praetorian where Pilate condemned his Lord. Then it will move to where He received his cross, to where He falls unable to continue after his horrific scourging, to where He falls again, and His mother comfortshim. So far, he sees no Jews among the wailing, grief stricken, Christians inwhose midst he now walks. Even as desperate as he is to escape with the holy nail and knowing the Israeli high official, once notified of his escape, will have more people searching for him, he abruptly stops. He cannot help but be awe stricken by the narrow, ancient stone street with its archways depicting Roman architecture; in some areas looking untouched since the time of Christ. He takes the holy nail from the polished wood box and drops it inside the breast pocket of his sports jacket, discretely allowing the box to fall to the stone-paved street. He runs until he nears the tall blond actor staggering under the weight of the cross he carries, doing a wonderful job to emulate the Lord’s suffering. The Christ figurefalls, the heavy-beamed cross tumbling into the crowd. Forgetting his predicament, Harlan forces his way though the mesmerized crowd, closer to the fallen actor. He grabs one edge of the crossbeam, as other men grab any portion that they can grip. For the participants carrying the cross, it will be the foremost honor of a lifetime. To Harlan’s irritation, an older man places his hands on the same portion of the cross as he has gripped. He puts his irritation aside, seeing how anxious the man is to carry the cross, how frightful he is at being pushed away by a younger and stronger man as Harlanappears to him. Even as aged as the man’s body looks to be, his face is remarkably smooth and unlined. The younger Christian sees benevolence in the man’s 98

uncertain manner. An escape plan formulates in the fugitive’s mind as he studies the man’s well groomed countenance, his neatly pressed slacks, polo shirt and sandals over white socks. “Brother, please take my place carryingthis holy cross. With your permission, I will walk beside you, holding onto your shoulder, and we will be Simon of Cyrene, merciful unto our Lord,” Harlan says, seeing tears of joy well up in the man’s clear blue eyes. He adds, “my name is Earl Thompson from Louisville. You also look to be American.” “Steve Singleton from Jacksonville in Florida. I don’t know how I canever repay you for such an unselfish act. I would shake your hand, only I fear to remove mine from this precious wood.” He omits a nervous laugh, which Harlanjoins. The crowd parts as the actor portraying Christ staggers toward old Jerusalem’s outside gate. The fifteen or more men gripping the eight foot long crossbeam follow him, surrounded to and fro by spectators that the fundamentalist estimates to be close to five hundred. The procession squeezes though the narrow passages of Via Dolorosa, stepping on old, hand cut stones, exiting through the Damascus gate to a small hill where two upright crosses are visible. The blond haired actor falls for the third time, provoking sounds of anguish from the surrounding men and women. Once the procession reaches the top of the small hill where the two crucifixion crosses holding the thieves are fixed, actors portraying Roman soldiers strip the Christ portrayer to his loin cloth. For the next hour, absolute silence falls on the huge procession as they stand in the shadow of a portrayal of Christ dying on the cross, desiring to absorb the suffering of the actor, until the heart rendering utterance, ‘My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me’ is voiced. The man from Jacksonville weeps openly next to Harlan. The 99

fugitive, wiping tears from his eyes, gazes back at the old walled city of Jerusalem, knowing what he must do. “Brother Steve, I keep my passport on me at all times, in a money belt. One cannot be too careful in a crowd pressing together like this one. There are thieves everywhere.” The clean cut man glances at the younger American as if he cannot believe such small concern could so distract his fellow Christian from the tumultuous event taking place before their eyes, although his straightforward nature prompts him to reply, “my passport and wallet are safely placed in the front pockets of my slacks. Thank you for your concernfriend.” Harlansqueezes the older American’s shoulder in a gesture of comradely, and then nods his head to where the Roman actors are removing the limp body of the Christ actor from the cross. He places his other hand on the older, smaller man’s shoulder and turns him back toward Jerusalem, volunteering, “my friend, see the Muslim dome dominating the old city, walled in as it is. Underneath that dome of Muslim sacrilege, are the remains of the Jewish temple where two millenniums ago Christ threw out the money changers, the peddlers of sacrificial animals and scattered the corrupt Pharisees. When He returns to earth on Judgment Day, that mosque will shatter to a million tiny pieces, and the Muslims praying there, descendants of the desecraters will burst into pillars of fire before the Faithfull’s eyes.” “Do you think a loving God would do that friend Earl.” “He is also an angry God. Vengeance is mine, sayth the Lord.” Both men, squeezed by the large crowd, follow the procession back though the gate to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, earlier destroyed by marauding Muslims and rebuilt over Christ’s supposed tomb by the Crusaders while Jerusalem was in Christian hands, to where the crucifixion reenactment will end. 100

Neither man can find entry into the venerable Catholic Church for the final sermon, as all the seats have been previously taken, so they stand respectfully before the old, golden in the evening sunlit, stone structure. It appears to Harlan to be a combination of French and Arabic design, two stories high with a three story dome. The two Americans bide their time in respect to the service taking place inside the church until it ends, and a flow of faithful observers exit the church, hypnotically chanting, “He is not there, for He is risen,” prompting the outside crowd to join the chant. Head bowed in respect, confused as to what to do when the crowd begins to disperse, Steve, in a rare moment of speaking first, volunteers: “this holiest of holy places, the spot where our Lord ascended to Heaven, was first built by Emperor Constantine’s mother, Helen, in 324 A.D., after she and her son embraced Christianity.” “It is truly a magnificent church, my friend.” the fugitive comments, knowing he must act fast, believing the Israelis have somehow infiltrated the procession and wait for the chance to apprehend him. The man from Jacksonville extends his hand in a farewell gesture. Harlan takes it, saying: “it seems you and I are two souls alone, still shaken by today’s events. Please join me for dinner?” “Thank you friend Earl, but I intend to spend the evening praying to my Lord Jesus.” “Yes how stupid of me. That is what I should do. I will pray with you, and perhaps you will eat with me at the end of our devotions. Let us pray and find peace together. I feel lost in this strange land without a friend.” “It would be my pleasure to spend the evening in prayer with you, my friend.” Harlan and the holy pilgrim, the Christian from Jacksonville, leave the front of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and retrace their steps on the Via Delarosa. At the place where Jesus is said to have fallen for the third 101

time, the men kneel in the dwindling light and recite the Lord’s Prayer. The Christians who earlier followed the crucifixion procession have scattered in various directions, although enough of them remain on the street to prevent the fundamentalist from executinghis hastily made plan. Instead of rushing to the place where the Lord fell for the second time, he begins to describe the palace of Herod Antipas, who was the Jewish tetrarch of Galilee during Jesus’s last days in Jerusalem. He relates that the Roman Empire supported this cruel heir of Herod the Great, because much of the ruler’s education had been gained in Rome, and he turned out more Roman than Jewish. Stalling for time, Harlan’s eyes watch the street traffic, looking for an opportunity to execute his plan. “Two thousand years have not erased the sorrow that lingers over this city because of our Lord’s crucifixion. As you well know Steve before Christ entered Jerusalem, this Herod Antipas beheaded John the Baptist, the man who led the way for the Lord. That is why Jesus loathed him, why he refused to answer his questions, even though he knew he would be brutally flogged if he refused. Antipas wanted Jesus dead, because He was a direct descendent of King David and the rightful heir to the throne of Israel, gathering supporters in the tens of thousands who cried for Antipas’ removal.” “Those were terrible times,” is all the older Christian can utter. Harlan’s left hand goes into his jacket pocket, fingering the garrote he fashioned from a cord torn from the Venetian Blinds in his hotel room. The two Christians meander to where the Lord fell for the second time,where they plan to pray. The younger American learns that Steve has five more years before he retires with a nice pension, having worked for thirty-five years selling plumbing components for a major manufacturer in the deep South. He has two grown sons, 102

both college graduates and both gainfully employed as engineers for a housing developer in Atlanta, Georgia. With the exception of using a phony name, Harlan sees no reason to lie, so tells the man that he worked in the coal fields of Eastern Kentucky, drank whiskey and chased women until his wife and daughter were burned alive in a freak gas explosion, after which he found the Lord. The accounting of his past causes Harlan’s eyes to tear up and emotionally moves the older Christian to the extent that he embraces Harlan, saying, “I wish I could absorb your grief.” By the time the two worshipers of Jesus Christ kneel and pray for the second time, reciting the Bible’s One Hundred Psalm, it grows dark and the foot traffic on Via Dolorosahas all but disappeared. Even though his opportunity to strike is at hand, Harlan grows uneasy, because alone on the street with only his companion, the Israeli ministers’ agents will surely find him. He hurries the older man to the next spot of prayer. At the spot where Jesus’s mother long ago wept over her fallen Son, the older Christian sobsas he thanks the Lord for dying for his sins. Harlan who has knelt beside him under the cover of a dark passageway between two connecting buildings, slowly stands behind the unaware man and wraps the garrote around both hands for maximum tension. He waits until his fellow American lowers his praying hands to his chest, reciting his Lord’s words before Caiaphas, the Pharisees high priest, “. . .you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of God.” He wraps the thin cord around the man’s neck, crossing his hands and pushing them in opposite directions, tightening the cord. “The Lord has called upon you to sacrifice your life in His service, friend Steve. He has need for the identification you possess. Go peacefully, do not resist.” Up until now the older man was too shocked by the attempt upon his life to react. Now, he rolls to his side, thrashing 103

his body about, kicking his legs wildly, his hands trying to pull away the cord cutting into his neck. “Be patient, Steve. It will take two minutes, no more, before you are at your Savior’s side. I envy you your journey.” The older American’s movements slow, his purple face looks as if it will explode. Then, he goes limp. “Just a few more seconds and you will be in eternity. Goodbye my friend until we meet in the Great Beyond.” Harlan loosens the cord from where it cutsinto his hands and pulls the dead man back to the stone wall where he places him in a sitting position. He takes the man’s passport and wallet. Remembering the direction where the sun dropped in the west, he walks, hands clasped in prayer, in the opposite direction. * DOVID * “Dovid, forgive me for failing you,” Rabbi Shimshon pleads to his religious adherent. The heavyset minister looks to his old acquaintance, still distracted by his recent meeting with the Prime Minister, who did not ask for his resignation over the disastrous outcome at Aide, probably because of sympathy for the loss of his son there. Although, the head of the Israeli government gave the impression that his tenure as Defense Minister could not stand another such setback. Dovid knows all too well that the American running loose in Jerusalem with the phony nail and bomb formula could very well be that setback. “Nonsense, I should have gone myself,” he replies to quash the Rabbi’s guilt over his mishandling of the exchange. “You are a man of God, and I am a man of war, therefore it was a mistake to ask you to take my place.” 104

“I don’t think the American knew the nail was a phony. He held it so reverently. Then, he just kicked me. The Christian procession crowded the garden, and before we could subdue him, pandemonium broke out all around us, allowing him to escape.” “Rebbe, you did your best, and that is all a person can ask of a man. This American is a psychotic, therefore unpredictable.” He wraps his arm around the old Rabbi’s shoulders and leads him to the door. “We must get the formula, Dovid. Israel cannot survive without it.” “Old friend, I ask myself does Israel really need this pure fusion bomb. Our tiny nation can survive without it. In its arsenal, it has implosion devices ranging from five to twenty-five megatons. Five kilotons will desolatean area of one mile. This fusion one reportedly is two hundred megatons. `. . . How much death must be inflicted in order for Israel to survive?” “Dovid, we as a civilized nation cannot use the bombs you refer to; they are just deterrents to keep our enemies at bay. With the one the Americans sent, we have the means to destroy the terrorist cities, Baghdad, Damascus and Tehran, without the massive radiation fallout that normally would reach Israel. I have people in my control willing to goto those cities. For these faithful men and women, it would be as easy as sitting down to watch a soccer match, holding what looks to be a soccer ball, detonating it, eliminating those who support terror. No one could trace such destruction to you or Israel.” “Not to worry, old friend, we have the facsimile of the bomb’s shell and the brain power to discover the atomic ingredients pertaining to that design. I have no choice but to find this American and get the trigger mechanism that he failed to turn over, because who knows what hands it could fall into. He has my attention, for he is the most dangerous 105

man in the Middle East. Now, my aide will drive you to wherever you wish to go.” “Keep me informed.” “I will.” He signals his junior assistant waiting in the outer room to attend to the Rabbi. When the two men have left his offices, he beckons to the trim, middle aged man sitting on the couch to accompany him back into his office. “Please sit down, Major.” When the ex-boxer, an Olympic bronze metal winner in 1984, seats himself before the minister’s desk, the senior official pours two cups of coffee from a container and extends one to the Mossad operative. “We must capture theAmerican loose cannon, before the felonious nail gets out of Jerusalem. If my American contact discovers the nail is not authentic, then we may as well toss out all chances of getting the necessary information for the weapon’s completion from him. I repeat, this American must be apprehended.” “Minister, as soon as you notified me, I ordered all gates to the Old City to be watched. I have placed agents at our soldiers’ checkpoints outside the city, and as we speak, more agents are patrolling the streets inside and outside the walls. No one need know what his crime is, only that Mossad wants him in custody.” “He has eluded the FBI for five years in his country, so might be able to get past your people. What are his options when he tries to escape?” “Few. If he tries to fly out of Israel with the Christian tourists, we will have him. If he tries to drive out with the same Christians, we will get him at a checkpoint, as the Rabbi gave us a good description. If he is as devious as you say, then he would most likely try to make it to Lebanon, Jordan, maybe even Syria.” “God forbid that should happen.” “I will find him, Minister. I promise.” * HARLAN * 106

Harlan wakes on Easter morning, believing if the police found Steve’s bodythey would be unable to identify it for many days. His first move is to touch the holy nail in his jacket pocket, assuring himselfit is still there. He reverently takes the object in both hands, noting the dawn breaking over the eastern wall of the old city. After he sent Steve to meet his Maker, he left the Via Dolorosa and wandered north into the Arab section of the old city, thinking Israeli agents would not venture into thatsection after dark. Knowing beforehand that Friday was the Muslim’s main day of observation to their god, Allah, the same day as the Jews devoted to their god, Adonai, he assumed all the Arab shops would be open late on Saturday for expectant patrons, so lingered over a meal of falafel, roasted lamb and too-sweet tea in the darkest corner of a backstreet eatery. Later he slept undisturbed in the doorway of the same falafel shop after the proprietorclosed for the day. The fugitive awoke to Easter, the holist of all Sundays for him. He consoles himself that he is a man on a mission or else he would not miss paying his respect to the greatest event in world history, his Lord’s assent to Heaven. He cannot undo the foolish move he made against the minister’s representative in the Garden of Gethsemane, so sets his mind to escaping from Jerusalem, which the Israelis control, and then leave the Palestinian territories. He does not speak Hebrew or Arabic, so staying in Jerusalem another day after the Easter celebration is over when most English speaking visitors depart the city, would be disastrous for him. Therefore,he figures to make his escape today. If the minister, who was to trade for the fusion bomb, is the powerful Minister of Defense, then he will have agents scouring the old city, tracing all phone calls to America in order to apprehend him. The fundamentalist thinks to go to Amman, Jordan to call the preacher’s 107

secretary and receive instructionsabout how to send the nail to the great man. He has been told that the Jordanians have a strong treaty with the Israelis, so figures little likelihood exists that Israeli agents will try to kidnap him there. But how to get to Amman, he wonders. The answer comes to him when he hears the striking, high pitched Muslim muezzin’s first morning callto prayer emanating from both nearby al Aqsa and Dome of the Rock mosques. He tries to smooth out his rumpledsports jacket and slacks, as he finds the main street heading to Herod’s Gate, the northern exit from the old city. Rubbing the one day’s stumble on his face and hoping it will make him resemble a Muslim, he spots an Arab in the street by a taxi cab prostrating himself in the direction of Mecca. The man is young, Harlan’s age and size, wearing a short beard and mustache, dressed in fashionable jeans and polo shirt. A New York Mets ball cap is pulled down over long black hair. Reports of how the Israelis have sealed the city off from the territories, preventing non-Jewish workers from leaving to find work, have indicated to him that employment would be hard to find in this Arab part of the city. This knowledge leads him to believe that earnings are probably very thin here, and a bribe to this Palestinian he approaches will prove successful. He waits until the Arab has finished his devotions and speaks to him in English: “I will pay you much money to drive me to Amman.” The Arab looks at him like he cannot believe what he heard and thensmiles broadly. “American, are you lost. You should be in the Christian part of the city. There, crowds are filling the streets, heading toward the many Christian Churches. Do you not hear the church bells ringing for your holist day, Easter? Why are you not joining them?” “I would be there if I could. My name is Steve, and I must leave Jerusalem immediately. I have a passport.” Harlan walks closer so that the taxi driver can see the picture of 108

him that he put in place on the dead man’s passport. He hesitates, saying a silent prayer that this man is not an Israeli agent or part of the PLO police, then volunteers: “I cannot use my passport to leave Jerusalem, for I had a scuffle with some Israelis and fear they have reported me to the police. I will pay you handsomely to drive me to Amman.” Again, he counts on the Arabs’ hatred for the Jews and their need for money. “What is it that you have done that is so bad you fear the Israeli police?” “I kicked an old Rabbi in the stomach for showing his distaste for a Christian pageantry, subsequently causing two of his bodyguards to be thrashed by fellow Christians,” he answers, mixing a lie with truth.” “Two bodyguards? The Rabbi must be a very important one. Tell me his name.” “I think he said it was Shinshon.” “You kicked that bastard Shinshon. I will carry you to Amman on my back.” The Arab claps his hands together in adoration. “But not for free.” “I will pay you cash, and no need to carry me. The cab will do. Tell me, who is this Rabbi Shinshon?” “He is the spiritual leader of the settlers who surround Jerusalem in their new, big houses with air conditioning and swimming pools, around which the Israeli government builds high walls to protect. He is an advisor to Minister Dovid Mattath, devilof all devils. May Allah, blessed be His name, roast him in Hell for all eternity.” “Can we leave now? It will be unsafe for me once the Christians attend the Easter Services and the streets are empty of Americans.” “Steve, my name is Marshaal HaniOdeh, and it will be my honor to drive you to Amman. But first, if agents are searching for you, we must get you the proper clothing. My Kaffiyyah and Jibab are in the trunk of my cab. The Israeli Army checkpoints are outside of Jerusalem, and the 109

soldiers will not be looking for an Arab leaving by the Damascus Gate. Once they see you in the backseat of my cab, they will say, another lousy Arab going to Jordan, good riddance!” He hands his headscarf and robe to the American. After Harlan slips into the Jibab, the Palestinian adjusts the Kaffiyyah on his head, stating, “at least you don’t have blond hair and blue eyes.” It is as Marshaal, the taxi driver said: no one gave two Arabs in a cab a second look as the cab slowly drove past two plainclothes men carrying Israeli rifles at the Old Jerusalem gate. The taxi cab negotiates the street toward the King Hussein Bridge that crosses the river into Jordan, only, after progressing for a few street crossings, the driver stops abruptly. “Ahead is the first Israeli checkpoint where this road intersects the roads to the settlements, Givat Ze’er to the north and Ma’ale Adumin to the east. Always I must get out of my cab and show identification. You will be all right with an American passport. Israeli soldiers love Americans, so we will not have to wait an eternity to pass through. Please take off my garments.” The American fugitive does not removethe Arabs robe and headdress. “Maybe they won’t love this American so much, especially if the Rabbi reported me to the military,” Harlan says facetiously, but still making his point to Marshaal. “I cannot chance they are not watching for me. There must be some way around the checkpoint.” “There is another way, only it is very dangerous. Little airplanes without pilots patrol the land and inform soldiers of all movement, and then theyrace across the desert in troop carriers to overtake the intruders. They rarely take prisoners. My expected fee to drive over the Hussein Bridge was one hundred American dollars, if you want to risk a more dangerous route, it must be two hundred fifty American dollars to try it.” “Keep the change.” Harlan hands the driver three hundred American dollars, grateful that the preacher spends lavishly 110

for God’s work. Avoiding the Israeli checkpoint, the cab cuts south through a maze of neglected streets where stagnate water collects in muddy pools in the Arab section on the outskirts of Jerusalem. The streets resemble neglected dirt alleys to the American. The cab progresses to where the streets become so narrow, the two men must fold in the cab’s outside mirrors to pass through. An hour later, they leave the squalor of the Arab section of Jerusalem and head directly into the desert. The sun sets high above the scattered clouds. Harlan notes the desolate, windswept sandy bluffs and gullies filled with small, green trees and shrubbery dotting the landscape ahead of him. “We will follow the protection of this wadi south for three miles, avoid Jericho, then make a dash for the Jordan River and Bethany,” the drivers informs Harlanas he cuts into a ravine that looks more like a desert dry river. The vehicle bounces, skids, slides over the rough floor of the wadi, as Marshaal is hesitant to slow down for fear of Israeli spy planes. When they exit the wadi, the American can see the outline of Jericho, no more than a village and beyond that the sliver of water called the Jordan River, where so much Old Testament bloodshed took place. Harlanguesses the distance to the river to be five miles. The Arab floors the accelerator and the cab races across the desert floor, bouncing wildly, barely a mile or two north of the Dead Sea. After the cab slides to a halt above the river in a fierce cloud of dust, Marshaal extends some Jordanian dinars to Harlan. “There are two hundred dinars here, equal to one hundredtwenty American dollars. Wade across the river, walk north of Bethany and you will come onto tour buses from Amman,at the place where the Jewish prophet, John baptized his fellow Jews. Because it is your great holy day, the buses will not be full. Give thebus driver one hundred dinars to take you back to Amman. He will not ask questions, as the money is more than he will make in a 111

month’s time.” Harlan exchanges his currency for the Arab’s and scans the far side of the river for activity. Seeing none, he exits the cab. “My American friend, one more thing. Amman is a modern city with many tall buildings, with a downtown much like your Phoenix in America. Much intrigue exists there. Go to the section of the city called Medinaeh Ar Riadiya, find the Jabbals Café where the smells of roasting kebabs and rich coffee will greet you. That will be the Palestinian neighborhood. The café is owned by my cousin, Mustafa, who escaped Jerusalem during the war of ‘67. He will help you find a place to stay where you will be safe from the Israelis. Tell him I am well and will visit him and his family during Eid Al-Fiter, after Ramadan.” “Thank you, you have been most helpful. How will you get back?” Harlan inquires, genuinely liking the Arab. “I will drive to Jericho, have a good meal and drive back to Jerusalemlike a free man, which I am not. Go now, before the little Israeli devil planes find you.” A little Israeli drone flew over the river as Harlan waded across; he simply knelt in the river, the water coming to his chest, and held his hands forth in prayer. Ahead of him he could see the scattering of tour buses parked by the river and the village of Bethany sitting as an archaic mud hut enclave on a bluff to his far right. The sun sends columns of rays, as if sent by God, through the sparse clouds, reverently touching the river made holy by the Lord Jesus and his beloved John. Whoever was monitoring the drone’s television camera would see him as just one more devout worshiper on a tour from Amman, silly enough to drench himself in the water of the Jordan River. He makes his way into the group of tourists surrounding a dry pool formed by slabs of stone where a Jordanian guide, standing midway onthe descending steps, explains this was the place where John baptized Jesus, setting him upon the greatest venture in the history of the world. The fugitive 112

stands reverently among fellow Americans and others he judges to be Europeans, feeling the power of the ancient place. He walks down the worn stone slabs past the guide and kneels on the floor of the baptismal pool, his hand finds a few pebbles that he clasps in his praying hands, and he thanks God for allowing him to experience the same joy as the prophet John’s followers must have felt when baptized here. *HAIFA* The Palestinian woman, dressed in a smart, yet modest gray business suit scans the grounds of Amman Universityfrom the fifth floor window of the impressive Life Science building. Thinking about her own under graduate days at the grander Cairo University, she studies the students, mostly in modern dress, although many women still wear the modified head covering, as she once did, moving from class to class along the tree lined path. Her eyes settle upon the center square where a four sided clock perched upon a huge stone pedestal dominates the view. A large picture of the young King Hussein is prominently displayednext to the fifty foot high pedestal. Upon arriving in Amman from Damascus, her first act was to determine the value of the ancient-looking nail that she took off the dead Mattath at Aide, recently scarred by some unknown force. She has been in the old city for a week now, staying at a modest hotel in the Jubeiha district of the city, waiting for the nail’s testing results from Dr. Saadi ZahiZelet, who holds a Ph.D. in both archeology and anthropology. He promised to give the object a thorough testing. She trusts the man will not betray her to the authorities, as he was run out of Palestine by the Israelis for criticizing their occupation of the West Bank. Like so many Palestinians, he shares her hatred of the invaders, even after making a new life for himself in 113

Jordan where the government, uncharacteristic for an Arab one, offered citizenship to all Palestinians in Diaspora. She reads a Damascus newspaper accounting that the agent she killed died naturally, sleeping in his own bed. This bogus report tells her that the Syrian authorities are not anxious to make the man’s murder public. She watched the al Jazzeera network television and learned that her uncle’s house in the Palestinian section of Jerusalem, along with fifteen others, had been destroyed by Israeli bulldozers because of the Aide attack. The reports indicate that her uncle, a Hamas leader, escaped arrest before the troops surrounded his house. Dr. Zahi Zelet taps her on the shoulder, interrupting her thoughts. She turns to the elegant professor, tall for a Palestinian. He wears the neatly trimmed beard and mustache that academics are so fond of, a rumpled tweed suit and striped tie. “Haifa, how very good to see you. Normally I would not keep you waiting so many days, only I felt the need to run additional tests after the initial one put the nail’s origin at somewhere around 1 B.C. plus or minus one hundred years.” He hands the nail, wrapped in padded paper to her. “Why would an Israeli soldier carry this nail into battle?” she inquires of the scientist. “As you well know, Haifa, he was an archeologist from a very prominent Jewish family.” “I did not disclose from whomI got the object. How do you know that particular soldier had it?” “My very intelligent, but secretive, young woman, I put two and two together. One of the dead officers at Aide, the leader of the raid, was an archeologist; in this case the Defense Minister’s son. You, a rebellious woman with much talent, possess an object that you do not know the history of. Your uncle’s house has been razed in Palestine indicating to me that you are the architect of the victory at Aide. Do not worry, as your history is safe with me. You 114

are a true mujahedeen to me and the other Palestinians in Jordan.” “Doctor, be good enough to answer my question.” “The dead soldier carried it on his person, because he thought it too valuable to leave behind.” “How so?” “Historical value. As you know the Roman council, Pompey, first conquered Judea in the first century B.C. The object I returned to you could be a crucifixion nail from that period, possibly one that was commonly used to nail a forearm to the crossbeam. Then again, it could be one from around the period of the prophet, Jesus. The Romans executed scores of eccentrics back then for claiming to be the Davidic heir, the prophesized messiah who would lead the Jews from bondage and to everlasting power over all nations. It could also be from the time when the Romans sacked Jerusalem and crucified over ten thousand Jews in 70 A.D. If the latter proves true, it would be valuable to the Jews, but not priceless.” “If that is the case, what is its value to me?” “Please let me continue.” The tall attractive visitornods her assent and follows the professor into his office, filled with books, scattered papers and pieces of bones catalogued on a long table. To her the roomappears stuffy and messy. He hands her a picture of a crude, stone vault, the size of a breadbox, with Hebrew characters chiseled into the side. “The inscription on the ossuary reads, James, Brother of Jesus. If the bones belong to James, the almost certain brother of the crucified Jesus, then they are from the time when Annas II ordered him stoned to death. Historically, what makes all this so fascinating is that Annas II was the son of Annas, the Sanhedrin most responsible for the death of Jesus the prophet. This stoning of James happened thirty-two years after the better known death of his brother, Jesus. “Doctor, do you possess this ossuary?” 115

“No, the Jews have it.” “Then, it is a bird in the bush, therefore of no value to me.” “Haifa, just suppose this ossuary held the remains of the true brother of the Christians’ god and DNA off of this nail can be found and traced to Jesus, and his DNA can be traced to James, certain Jews would pay a lot to get even for two thousand years of persecution. The persecution they claim they suffered from the hands of Christians for executing their god.” “Are you suggesting I deal with Jews.” “No, I will. I would negotiate with the devil himself to prove that this Jesus was a lesser prophet than Muhammad. Peace be to Him.” “The Jews, if not the devil reincarnated, are the devil’s henchmen, and I will spare you such dark theocracy negotiations.” She hands the ossuary picture to him. “You have been most accommodating to give me such a thorough accounting. The shiny mark where the object is bent, what do you make of that?” Haifa studies the mark made by the settler’s bullet. The professor takes the ossuary picture from Haifa and files it under a stack of papers. “Judging by the force that made it, I would venture that some idiot used the nail for target practice. Haifa, the object you are holding in you hand could be an earth shaking find.” Haifa places the nail into her shoulder bag. “Please reconsider. I would like to thoroughly check the nail for some trace of human DNA for a future match against James’s bones.” “What you find so fascinatingis only a distraction for me. Goodbye, Doctor,” the professional appearing woman curtly remarks, cutting off any more conversation. * HARLAN * The first thing the fugitive fleeingIsraeli agents did was to find the Jabbals Café in the part of Amman know as 116

Medinaeh Ar Riadiya. There he found Marshaal’s cousin, the proprietor, a serious looking man, full bearded, who he guesses to be in his late twenties. Once he mentions the taxi cab driver’s name, the cousin, Mustafa smiles and reveals a cell phone, indicating that he knows about the American’s wild ride to the Jordan River and the reason he made such a risky entranceinto Jordan. Mustafa also knows all about Rabbi Shimshon and vehemently expresses his hatred for his Zionist policies and especially for his outspoken support forincreasing the Jewish settlements throughout the West Bank. None of the animosity between the Jews and Palestinians in Jordan means much to the American, except that kicking the Rabbi may have gained him an ally, someone who can guide him undetected through the maze of unintelligible Amman streets to an English speaking section of the city. Outside a British bank, he placed a collect call to the preacher’s secretary from a pay phone and received instructions to deliver the holy nail to Patty Novak, the head of the Embassy’s Immigration Department in Jordan, a Born Again Christian who is to be trusted. According to the elated secretary, she will see that the sought-after object gets to the preacher. Probably in a diplomatic pouch, Harlan guesses. The preacher’s polished secretary seemed unable to contain his excitement over the acquisition continuously congratulating the courier, so overjoyed was he with the successful venture. Obviously, Harlan thought, he has not been in contact with the Israeli Defense Minister. Mustafa temporarily leaves Harlanand exits through the kitchen into his living quarters and returns a few minutes later. “Please, you will join me and my family for tea and some biscuits. My mother would like to meet you. She said that you are the only American she knows about who does not love Israelis. Please, you follow me.” 117

Harlan wanted to reply, oh, there are many more, you just don’t know about them, but refrained from doing so. He feels uncomfortable following the displaced Palestinian: he has escaped detection in the past by not expanding his circle of acquaintances, especially with members of a culture he knows next to nothing about. The café he earlier entered was Spartan, a few tables with plastic covers, metal folding chairs and old, turn-of-the-century black and white photos of what must have been better days in Palestine before the Jews ran them out of their ancient land. The apartment behind the café, separated by a long hallway, is tastefully decorated as any upscale Arab one would be: a long couch and two easy chairs covered in an expensive cloth of a Mediterranean pattern dominate the room. A thick green rug covers the floor; a spinet piano occupies the corner of the room, indicating to the visitor that the family pursues music, a sign they have gained a certain amount of culture. On the coffee table there is a tea service and pastries. Harlan notices framed quotes in embellished Arabic handwriting from what he guesses to be from the Qu’ran, giving tribute to their god, Allah, covering the walls. Unlike in his religion where pictures glorify Jesus, there are no pictures of Allah or his messenger, Muhammad. The visitor stands in the middle of the room next to Mustafa, realizing he is waiting for the mother to appear. He focuses on an emblem on one wall that hangs over pictures of masked, armed men, holding AK47s diagonally across their chests, posing in various threatening positions. Mustafa, encouraged by the American’s interest in the emblem, explains its design: “The emblem of Hamas. That is the al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem that the infidel Mattath desecrated by setting foot on the holy site and creating a second intifada for us Palestinians. To wipe out such irreverence, Hamas came into being,” he adds with a sense of pride. The two crossed swords are emblematic of our jihad against the Israelis, 118

which will not rest until the invaders are pushed into the sea. As you can see our two Palestinian flags flank the swords.” “Harlangoes out of his way to show interest in the emblem, hoping to garner favor with the Palestinian man. “Will you translate the Arabic written underneath the emblem?” “There is no God, but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah,” Mustafa speaks, his hand clasped before his chest in reverence. On his last word, a door opens and a heavy woman followed by two younger women, at least the American guesses them to be so by their lively step, for all three women are dressed in black robes, head covers and veiled so that only their dark eyes are visible. “Please, my American friend, give me your name so I can say it to my mother.” Harlan uses the name of the plumbing salesman from Florida, who he believes is in Heaven. “Steve Singleton.” The fugitive listens while the Arab male speaks in length to his mother in Arabic, and then hears his name pronounced. The mother and her two daughters bow their heads respectfully, and the older woman speaks in Arabic to her son. He notes she has a soft, demur voice. “My mother is honored to meet you and wishes me to tell you that the daughter on her immediate left, my oldest sister, is Najma. The younger one is named Sherma. “I am honored to meet you Mrs. Jabbals and your two daughters.” The veiled woman asks her son to translate, and when he does, the two younger women begin to giggle. “Please, Steve, do not be offended by my sisters’ rude manners. They are laughing because Jabbals is the name for the seven hills surrounding Amman and not our name. Our surname is Subah.”

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Harlan blushes over his mistake, although he sees that his error endears him to the mother who relaxes her stiff posture and speaks to her son. “Please, you will now join us for tea and knafe--a cheese and wheat and rose water delight, and then I shall take you to your hotel. It is nearby.” None of the three women will speak directly to the foreigner, as they will not to any man outside of the family. They only speak to him though Mustafa, who is very respectful to his mother, but not so respectful to his sisters. The younger women hidden behind their robes and veils address their questions to their brother who most times is short with them for asking question he thinks to be silly. Through the brother, Harlan relates what he thinks would be the life of the dead Floridian. He describes life on the road in the Southern United States, selling plumbing supplies to hardware and home improvement stores, sending his sons to college in Gainesville and his imaginary life in the rich colorful landscape of verdant Florida. He, for reasons that escape him, includes the story of his wife’s and daughter’s fiery deaths, moving the location to Jacksonville. The women listen with fascination, emotionally moved over the deaths of his loved ones; the younger girls press their brother to get more details, which Harlandoes not provide. In the exchange, Harlanlearns that the brother is a member of the al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, the armed wing of Hamas. He infers by the man’s vehement dislike for the Israelis that the brigade is an outlaw force opposing the Israelis, similar to the IRA opposing the British in Ireland. The similarity ends there for the American, for in his mind the British and the Irish are Anglos like him; these people, Israelis and Arabs are Semites. He also infers that the family is extremely religious, by their constant references to Allah and their prayer to Him framed on the wall, which is sort of like the fundamentalist’s Lord’s Prayer. He informs them that he 120

also believes deeply in his God, Jesus Christ. To his surprise, the family knows as much about Jesus as he does, at least the historical part; although, they refrain from any suggestion that He is a deity. He says his goodbyes, thinking these Palestinians in exile are gracious, at least more gracious than the Rabbi and his cohorts were in Jerusalem. *

*

The man known as Steve Singleton from Florida in the United States has been, ever since delivering the holy nail to the Embassy located southeast of his hotel in the Der Ghbar section of the city, playing the role of a Christian tourist extending his stay in the Middle East after the Easter observance. He has visited the ruins of the Roman amphitheater in the old part of town, floated in the Dead Sea on the Jordanian side. He went into the desert to visit the ancient city of Pella an hour’s bus drive north of Amman and sawmore Roman ruins, built over Greek ruins, a place that traces its history back to 1900 B.C. He has tipped generously, although not lavishly, at the hotel restaurant and to the tour guides, as he does not want to draw too much attention to himself. He has given dinars to the Jordanian needy on the streets, and, although ignorant of the seven pillars of the Qur ‘an, has unintentionally filled an important responsibility of the Muslim faith called Zelet, which has not gone unappreciated in his small Arab circle. The preacher’s secretary instructed him to bide his time in Amman until arrangements could be made to send him to Ireland where he will fit in with the culture, becoming just another American returning to his roots; at such time arrangements will be made for him to quietly live there for five years, until the FBI hunt for him in the states fades. He and the embassy contact have set up weekly meetings at 121

the Roman amphitheater until the time for him to depart Jordan arrives. The American appears for their second meeting, expecting the middle-aged, although attractive Immigration Department woman to be all smiles in his presence as she did the first time they met. At that time, impressed by the magnitude of the nail he turned over to her, she had invited him to dinner in her apartment, and he was tempted to accept, for her boldness sexually stirred him. For the same security reasons that have kept him out of harm’s way, he refused her invitation. Standing on the periphery of a group of ten tourists standing between the Roman columns supporting the entrance to the amphitheater, he spots Patty’s curvaceous form, clothed in a smart business suit, showing a lot of leg exiting a taxi, and then making her way toward him. Whereas the brunette’s face had been relaxed and engaging at their first meeting, this time it is tense, almost hostile. She does not greet him, abruptly taking his arm and leading him into the vastness of the amphitheater. Her abrupt manner puts him on alert. She punches out a number on a cell phone and hands it to him, informing him: “the preacher’s secretary is waiting for this call.” Harlan, who is fully expecting to be reprimanded for not giving the bomb’s formula to the Israeli contact, sits on the first stone bench, the first of many forming a semi circle facing the amphitheater. Instead, he hears the secretary’s voice say very slowly. “The Jews have screwed us. The nail is a phony.” For a moment, the American can do no more than stare at the embassy woman, who returns his gaze with one of pending doom, her eyes tearing up as she fights sobbing. He grasps the devout woman’s hand to comfort her, and then to reassure her he says, “circumstances are not as bad as they seem.” Tears have smeared her mascara, and lines that he had not seen before appear around her mouth as she forces a smile. 122

“He speaks into the cell phone, responding to the secretary: “I could never trust a race of people who crucified Our Lord, so I did not give them the complete atomic make up or the trigger design. Their trickery failed, consequently they do not have the bomb.” He can almost hear the secretary sigh his relief. The fugitive waits for a response a full moment,until the man says, “so we are back to square one. For this negative result, you have risked capture, and we in America haverisked exposure. God will punish those deviants.” The woman standing before him is noticeably trembling, still overwrought about the phony nail. Harlanstands and puts his arm around her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. He feels her body melt into him as he relates to the secretary what he has just now pieced together: He gives the newspapers’ account of the Palestinian attack on the Defense Minister’s son, who when not a soldier is an archeologist. The fugitive tells the secretary that he strongly suspects that the Palestinians who killed Jonathan Mattathtook the holy nail from his dead body. That he believes the Israelis, desperate to get the fusion bomb, decided to deceive him with a phony nail. He then relates how he stole the nail from the minister’s representative without turning over the sequences for the fish eye lasershe memorized. He feels the heat of the distraught woman’s body pressed against his; his free hand instinctively rubs the small of her back, and feels her tenseness relax under his touch. He cannot believe what the secretary next orders him to do and asks him to repeat his instructions. “You are to trade what you have memorized with whoever has the nail, be it Israeli or Palestinian.” Harlan has forgotten that he still rubs the woman’s back as his eyes search the amphitheater for anyone who might be watching him. Seeing only a few Anglos milling about the amphitheater’s tiers of stone benches, taking photos of each 123

other, his mind returns to what the secretary ordered him to do and he replies: “Palestinians are Arabs, and Arabs are Muslims who are sworn by their religion to destroy the United States. I cannot give the weapon to such people.” “We must have the nail. You are to do as instructed,” the secretary commands Harlan. “If that is what the preacher wants, then I must hear the words from his own lips.” “Very well, call back in thirty minutes.” The American disconnects the call, and feels the woman’s lips press against his neck. She has aroused him by pressing her pelvic area against his thigh. “I love Jesus as I know you do. Come home with me,” she whispers, her voice turning husky. He calms his lust for her by silently telling himself that God’s duty has a higher priority than pursuing the weakness of the flesh. He gently pushes her away. “Patty, will you lend me your cell phone. I must call the states in a half hour.” “Of course, I have time, I will wait with you.” “No. I need to make the call in private.” He sees the hurt flood across her face. The mascara has runs down her cheeks, making her appear old, almostwicked. “Give me the address of your apartment, and I will meet you there after my call is completed.” He can see that his words have reawaken her spirit, and she kisses him fully on the mouth. He allows her lips to linger on his and then pushes her away, joining a group of tourists who now have entered the amphitheater. *

*

Exactly one half hour later, Patty’s cell phone playsthe Star Spangle Banner, tinny like a harpsichord would. Harlan, 124

says, “I am here,” into it and hears the secretary say, “I am handing the phone to the preacher.” He listens as the great man speaks:“my son, you have acted as if God’s own hand is guiding you. After my secretary informed me how you out-tricked the tricksters, I knew you I chose the right man for God‘s mission.” “Thank you sir,” is all the fundamentalist can think to reply. “He also informed me that you believe the Palestinians have the precious nail.” “All indicators seem to point to them.” “Then Harlan, you must deal with them.” “But Reverent, they are heathens sworn to destroy America.” “Some are so sworn, some just want their land back. Once the nail is in our possession, then no doubt can exist that our Lord Jesus walked, preached and died on the cross for us. Harlan, here in America, many enemies of the church exist, enemies who plot each day to lure our fellow Christians away from us, and they have found much success pursuing their evil intent. Our wayward followers lured from us will return to the church like lost sheep hungry for nourishment when the sacred nail is in our possession. We will finally have formed the mighty army of the Lord, awaiting his return onjudgment day. Born Again Christianity will be at the head of His waiting army. My son, give the Palestinians the weapon for the holy nail.” The confused American does not readily agree to the order. He paces across the open area of the amphitheater. For a moment in his mind’s eye, the stands fill with fiendish people dressed in togas and robes, standing and enthusiastically cheering as he and other Christians are tied to stakes. To him, the spectators are the enemies of the church the preacher referred to, laughing, applauding as the wild animals--tigers, wolves and hyenas tear at his flesh-the screams of nearby Christians consuming his senses. 125

“Harlan, are you still there? Answer me, son,” The preacher’s voice sounds over the cell phone. Harlan shakes his head furiously, and the evil spectators disappear from the stone benches. “I am here.” “You and I will be dead by the time those Muslim primitives develop the technology to build such a sophisticated weapon. God has told me to tell you to trade what you have in your head for His Son’s nail of suffering.” “I will do the Lord’s bidding.” “And He will reward you with eternal life. Keep my secretary informed of your progress.” The fundamentalists disconnects the phone and sits on the stone bench where the Romans once ruled supreme, remindful of how the early Christians suffered under their occupation. He thinks, the word of our Lord Jesus converted the Romans, and they were bornagain. Now with the nail, we Born Agains will convert all humanity. * HAIFA * The Palestinian woman has yet to determine the bargaining power of the ancient nail, wondering if she could trade it to the Saudi Wahabbis, or possibly Christian radicals, for weapons to aid the Palestinian cause; if so, where to hide the weapons from the Israelis and to whom to give them, Arafat’s Fatah or her uncle’s Hamas? Even though Arafat had returned from Tunisia after his disastrous defeat by the Israelis in Lebanon, Fatah is demoralized and disorganized. Hamas, the organization her uncle and a few others direct, is too small, too undeveloped, to launch a substantial attack against the Israelis. Israel has set up a police state in Gaza and the West Bank, watching the Palestinians like a colony of ants in a glass box, so where could she hide artillery, missile launchers or even a cache of small weapons. So, until she can determine the nail’s true value and how best to use it to drive the Israelis from Palestine, she placed it in a 126

safety deposit box at the Bank of Jordan in the heart of Amman’s modern business district. Given her sophistication and the phony identification declaring her a British citizen, there had been no trouble getting a security box. She secured the nail after she contacted a Hamas man she knew from the West Bank, one Mustafa Hani Odeh living in Medinaeh Ar Riadiya, inquiring about her uncle’s whereabouts after the destruction of his house. Mustafa told her that he did not know her uncle’s exact whereabouts, but suspected he had escaped through Gaza across the Sinai to Egypt. When she turned to leave his café, the young, bearded man volunteered information about a tall generous American with lots of money who had attacked a Rabbi in Jerusalem. The man had been pressed him for a contact in Hamas, Fatah or with any Arab who might know what happened at Aide. Her first instinct is to believe the American is a CIA agent working in Amman to assist the Israelis in their search for the attackers at Aide, but when she expressed her suspicion to Mustafa, he said the man did not fit a CIA agent’s profile. This American did not seem educated or sophisticated, he expressed himself like a laborer, and a very devout one at that, so ignorant that he did not know that Hamas and Fatah were not allied in the cause to stop Israeli aggression, the latter recognizing and the other group sworn to destroy Israel. She put aside her suspicions, her curiosity about the Aide connection getting the best of her, requesting the Hamas man introduce her as the person who could give an accounting of the incident at Aide. The man, knowing that she, although not committed to Hamas, had orchestrated and pulled off one of the largest injuries the Palestinians had inflicted upon the Israelis, agreed to arrange a meeting. It had been one week since her contact with Mustafa, and she had not heard from him. When she phoned his café, he 127

was unavailable; when she visited the café, his employees said he was away on business. She suspected something was in the making, maybe the planning of a shahid bombings in Israel distracted Mustafa from introducing her to the American. She puts her concern aside for a greater concern, because one of Arafat’s personal aides finds her at the modest hotel where she has taken a room and gives her a note from the Chairman, inviting her aboard his plane when it touchesdown at al Aila Airport tomorrow morning. The note indicates the Chairman wantsto congratulate her for her tremendous victory over the Israelis. Keeping her poise until Arafat’s messenger departs, her breath catches in her throat, as she fights the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She immediately collects her few articles of clothing and personal belongings and vacates the hotel room, bribing the proprietor to allow her to leave by the kitchen exit. If Arafat’s organization can find her, so can the Israelis. In the street her pace slows as she suddenly solves the reason for Mustafa’s absence: Chairman Arafat is on a fund raising tour, meetingthe heads of state in the Arab nations. Jordan being the closest in distance to Gaza, although not the closest ally because of Arafat’s past intrigues in that nation, would be the first country he visited. The meeting between Arafat and King Hussein would be short and on the Chairman’s plane, a DC7. Haifa suspects the meeting will be more for show than result, or else Arafat would have been invited to the king’s palace. Although living in Amman, Mustafa had joined al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, Hamas’ radical militants pledged to destroy Israelis in Palestine. She knows the leadership of Hamas has despised Arafat after he announced his intention to recognize Israel in exchange for Palestinian control over what was left of their land. Like King Hussein, Arafat was known to be secular and her uncle, the primary head of 128

Hamas was a fundamentalist devoted to the violent interpretations of the Qur’an—their philosophical beliefs opposed. She doubts that men in positions like her uncle would plan an assassination on Arafat in front of King Hussein in spite of their differences with the PLO head, because KingHussein had befriended the exiled Palestinians in Jordan. In addition to that, Hussein had lost Jerusalem to Israel when championing the Palestinian cause by joining the Egyptians, Syrians and other Arab countries in their crushing 1967 defeat by the Israelis; in a later action against Israel, joining Egypt and Syria, the king almost lost his country to the victorious Jews and would have lost it if not for American intervention with the Israelis. Killing the Chairman of the PLO under Hussein’s nose would be a huge embarrassment for him, subsequently devastating for Jordanian Palestinians, as the king would harshly reprimand them. So given all that she can piece together she guesses the assassination attempt to be an outlaw one, planned by fanatics like Mustafa, acting independentlyof Hamas leadership. Whether or not Arafat will be alive to call upon, she does not know, but decides to risk discovery by going to the airport to watch what will unfold there. Whether or not she returns safely, the nail would be safe in the deposit box. *

*

The next morning, after a restless night in a different hotel, Haifa steps from the cab in the front of the Queen al Aila International Airport after an hour’s ride from central Amman. The traffic had been heavy for the late morning hour, probably because of the large Palestinian population in Amman wanting to see Arafat for the brief time he would spend with the king. In spite of aging leader’s military setbacks, he still remains a popular leader for these exiles. A generation ago, as a recent graduate of Cairo University, 129

and protégée of the Muslim Brotherhood, a militant fundamentalist organization ensconced in Egypt, Arafat had been the first Palestinian to take up arms against the Israeli military, launching attacks from across the Jordan border at Israeli outposts; not gaining much of a military result, but the first Palestinian sign of resistance to the Israeli/Yankee military machine. He had by sheer will and wit formed the Palestinian Liberation Organization and Fatah, their military wing, by soliciting huge monies from Arab countries such as Saudi Arabia, Libya and even Shi’te Iran, developing the PLO into a world recognized political force opposing the Israelis. The Palestinian woman, in spite of the Chairman’s personal invitation, has no intention of warning him about the possible attempt on his life, although as Arab leaders go, she calculates, he is one of the most secular, tolerant of women‘s rights, unlike the subjugating dinosaurs ruling most Arab countries. But the organization he put together is corrupt and inefficient, his coalition of cronies are too rooted in the venerable Arab tradition of lining their pockets, too complacent in their positions to stop lower level pilfering of needed services to their people. The PLO corruption and Arafat’s capitulation to the Israeli government, disregarding Palestinian repatriation, indicates to her that her grandparent’s land lost in the 1948 Israeli takeover is lost forever. All of which brings her to think a new Palestinian leader might be a good thing. There are two terminals serving the airport, and she goes to the far and smallest one where the Chairman’s DC7 willtaxi to after touchdown. She knows from recently flying into Queen al Aila Airport, the runways are positioned in a gigantic H configuration; two incoming on one side and two outgoing runways on the other side of the terminals. The terminals run parallel inside the runways and perpendicular to the bar in the H, which is a pathway for 130

freight and baggage carriers to access the incoming and outgoing flights. As she makes her way through the first terminal, displaying restaurants, wireless connection bars, American Starbucks and Pizza Hut outlets, she spots through the plate glass windows the planes of Royal Jordanian, Air Arabia, Iraqi Airlines and other Arab Airlines on the right side; Arkia Israel Airlines and the American Royal Blue on the other side. All this commerce leads her to believe this King Mohammed Hussein is trying to do the best for his country by opening it up to international commerce. If only her uncle and men of his ilk would think the same way, perhaps Palestine would find the revenues to better resist the Israelis. The king’s grandfather, Abdullah ibn Al-Hussein, tracing his Hashimitge heritage to 510 C.E. and to Haskin ibn Abd al Manaf, the great grandfather of Mohammed, had been assassinated before the grandson’s eyes. His father Talal bin Abdulla, ruled briefly, but was declared incompetent due to frequent bouts with schizophrenia. Educated in England, where Haifa obtained a post graduate degree, Prince Mohammed as he was then known, replaced his father as supreme rulerat seventeen years of age. The country he rules is small and impoverished, but unlike other Arab leaders, he does not pilfer the resources, using what revenue he has to improve Jordanian life. The tall, young woman fully cloaked in an obscuring black robe, a headdress called a jalabiyyah covering her head and a veil hiding all but her eyes, thinks unanimity is the only advantage this heavy black disguise offers, as she sees other women cloaked as she is. When she reaches the second terminal, not as crowded with international travelers as the first, she sees a field of red and white checkered Kaffiyyahs on the ground below; the male spectators wearing them are restrained from the tarmac by a waisthigh, wire fence. On the far side of the fence, ceremonial Jordanian soldiers, with their red and white Kaffiyyahs, 131

black trousers and white pistol belts, stand six feet apart as a second barrier to the spectators, but do not carry rifles. Dressed as a devout Muslim, Haifa has no problem getting to the plate glass window for a better view of the tarmac where three other figures cloaked in black as she is stand, because men respectful of a devoted woman clear a path before her. There are, she estimates, another fifty or more spectators pressing from behind her to get a view of the anticipated meeting. Almost all the Arab men and women standing behind her are dressed in European styled attire. There are a few curious Anglos politely standing toward the rear, travelers curious about what is going to take place. The eyes of the heavily cloaked woman scan the spectators below on the tarmac, almost all participants are waving the green red and white Palestinian flag in one hand, the distinct green, yellow and brown Jordanian flag in the other. The mass of red and white Kaffiyyahs adorned by men milling about before the tarmac is like viewing a field of poppies on the plains of Afghanistan with a few black jalabiyyahs and a half dozen uncovered heads interspersed. It is the uncovered heads that her attention focuses on; one tall, brown haired individual with a freshbeard stands out from the black haired men. He carries what she believes to be a small translation book by its appearance, probably English to Arabic, as he constantly refers to it when he speaks to the male spectators. From what she can see, the men turn away from him upon hearing whatever it is he says to them. Her attention intensifies when the tall Anglo recognizes someone in the crowd. Waving his arm above his head, he shouts a name she cannot hear, but as soon as she spots the object of his attention, Mustafa pushing his way toward the fence with four others, all of them wearing Kaffiyyahs and ankle length robes,she knows this is the American she hoped to meet. Mustafa ignores the Anglo trying to get his attention, until the man starts to follow him, and then what 132

must be two Hamas men from his group confront the tall man, reprimanding him about something. When the American desists from his pursuit, the pair rejoin Mustafa and their group at the fence. Her eyes follow the Anglo as he falls back to the rear of the spectators, and then her attention goes to where Chairman Arafat’s DC7 taxis off the runway onto thenearby tarmac. Immediately, five black limousines displaying Jordanian flags, followed by four troop carrying vehicles, speed toward the tarmac, abruptly stopping, boxing in the airplane. Thirty soldiers wearing green fatigues, carrying American M16s form a phalanx between the spectators and the airplane; another thirty soldiers form a second phalanx between the aircraft and the runways. Government aides exit one limousine, take a rolled red carpet from the trunk and unroll it between the DC7 and the middle limousine, which Haifa guesses carries the king. As she can see from her elevated view, nine vehicles surround the DC7. All the Jordanian dignitaries have exited their vehicles, waiting at the carpet’s end opposite the airplane. Lastly, the short, trim form of King Hussein appears from a limousine, and he takes his position at the head of the delegation. A commander’s gold leafing, under the morning sun, flashes off his military barracks hat. Next, Arafat appears at the aircraft’s open door to cheering that is even audible to Haifa through the thick plate glass window. He waves, flashing his seductive smile to the exiled Palestinians who are chanting, “a free Palestine homeland,” as he descends the ramp placed against the aircraft. The king meets him halfway on the red carpet. They are almost identical in height; the king well groomed and dapper in his beige military uniform; the Chairman looking somewhat rumpled with his scraggly beard and un-pressed green military fatigues. The two dignitaries embrace, exchange kisses on the cheeks, niceties per the Arab custom. 133

For the moment, Haifa has lost the American in the crowd of spectators, although she has no trouble locating Mustafa and his four cohorts. In front of them, four of the ceremonially dressed King’s guards fall away from the fence, draw their side arms as Mustafa and the Hamas four discard their robes and jump the fence. All nine men dash across the forty meters of open space separating them from the phalanx of soldiers toward Arafat and the king, firing what seems to be Israeli Uzi machine guns. Haifa first thought the attack a fool’s mission, now she can see it is a deranged endeavor. The soldiers, probably the king’s elite guard, knell upon command and fire upon the attackers. Mustafa and the other eight assassins barely make fifteen meters, beforethey are reduced to a bloody mess of felled bodies pulsating on the tarmac. Aides collapse around the king and push him to the ground. Arafat, has broken through the soldiers’ rank protecting him and is rushing toward the felled attackers, firing his Magnum pistol at any one of the attackers who stirs. The Palestinian leader’s bravado does not stop the panicked spectators from overrunning each other, struggling to get inside the terminal out of harm’s way. In the ensuing pandemonium, Haifa sees that some of the soldiers’ rifle fire, having missed the attackers, has wounded or killed a dozen or more spectators. On the far side of the dead attackers, security agents usher the king behind his limousine. The disguised observer, deciding it is not wise to linger in the terminal as every law enforcement officer within five kilometers will be converging on the airport, moves to join the flood of escaping spectators now stampeding past her. In the stampede, she notices the tall American ahead of her making his exit to the second terminal and subsequent escape via the airport entrance road. Compelled by her curiosity, the robed woman follows him. She is maybe eight meters behind--fifteen or twenty fleeing people separating them--in the passageway 134

to the other terminal. A muscular man who resembles a boxer more than a policeman suddenly appears and grabs the American by the arm, placing a Berretta to the back of his head. The fit man in a loose shirt and slacks pulls the bigger man from the fleeing mass of humanity. Haifa pushes herself against the wall, free of the human rush, eyes trained on the pugnacious man with the pistol, who guides the American into the men’s toilet room. Realizing that every moment she lingers here, puts her in peril of being picked up in a police swept of the airport and subsequently turned over to the Israelis, she puts her concern aside and cracks open the door to get a view of the inner room. A solitary man dressed in a jibab and Kaffiyyah is washing his hands. Haifa opens the door wider, shocking the man by her appearance, but not seeing the American or the man with the pistol. The Arab is about to reprimand her for her blatant disrespect of his privacy, only before he can do so, the woman pulls an American made snub-nosed revolver from under her robe. She puts the finger of her other hand to her mouth, indicating he should be silent. The woman’s lust for revenge has molded her into a cold, calculating instrument of death, enabling her to take her time searching the area for the two men she pursues. Noting all the toilet stalls with half doors are empty, her eyes lock on the only stall with a full door, housing an open hole in the floor for those usersoffended by western-styled conveniences. Because of the noise, she cannot shoot the Arab who looks as if he will faint, so indicates to him to lie on the floor. She next stuffs his mouth with paper towels, straddles him, securing the gag with the cord from his Kaffiyyah and slams her pistol into the base of his skull. The injured man struggles to escape, until she inflicts a second blow to the same spot, knocking him unconscious. She stands, noting the full door to the open pit toilet remains closed. 135

Haifa places her ear to the door, hearing questions in English pertaining to the captured man’s identity, accusing him of possessing a dead man’s identification, wanting to know what he is doing at this airport without an airline ticket. The questioner speaks perfect English, the same as an American would, so she doubts he is Jordanian, maybe CIA, maybe Mossad. One or the other makes little difference to her. Then the questioner identifies himself as an Israeli, when he states, “you are going back to Israel and divulge what it is you have memorized.” “The accosted man replies, “not until your minister of defense turns over what he first promised us.” Her hand carefully grasps the door handle, every so softly turning it until the door pulls out. The smaller pugnacious man has pressed his Berrettainto the taller man’s cheek, his other hand holding an American passport. The two men are almost comical, positioned as they are against one wall in the tiled room with the open hole for human waste, the attacker‘s body pressed against his victim--they could be homosexuals exposed in an amorous act. She notes, before she aims her pistol at the questioner’s head that the American is unafraid, experiencing a sort of elation. The tall Anglo notices her, and his attacker turns to see what has distracted his prisoner. Haifa shoots the armed man in the forehead, his blood splattering on the walls. Her action momentarily stuns the American, rendering him motionless. She removes her veil, so he can see her face and then says: “I am the person you seek. Go back to your hotel, and I will contact you.” He nods, unfazed by the dead body as he steps over it, but not before taking Steve‘s passport from the dead Israeli’s hand. Haifa waits a few minutes until the American can melt into the chaos in the terminal and then shoots the unconscious Arab in the temple with the Israeli’s Beretta, using the dead man’s Kaffiyyah to wipe the weapon clean of fingerprints, and then tossing it back into the open pit 136

stall next to the dead man. She subsequently flees the airport. *HARLAN* As he has done for the last three days, the tall American, wearing a traditional Muslim beard waits by an alley’s entrance across from the drab, three story Palestinian hotel where he had rented a room before the failed assassination on YasserArafat at the Queen al Alia Airport. A silent prayer spins in his head that the mysterious woman in the black robe will find him as she stated she would, and this hotel he vacated is the most likely place. He is desperate to make contact with the woman who rescued him from the Israeli agent at the airport, thinking she can helphim find the holy nail. He has been searching for an interpreter to make contact with the militant group that killed the minister’s son at Aide with little success, until the woman dressed in the blackrobe found him. He could not leave his new address for the female with the proprietor of the hotel, because the man might be questioned by Jordanian authorities, so saw no choice but to return to the hotel vicinity and wait for the woman to appear. Was she the one with the nail or did she know who had it, he wondered. Why did she murder the Israeli in the men’s toilet, instead of rendering him helpless? Three days ago, he grabbed his few possessions and immediately left the firetrap hotelupon his return from the airport. The owners were friends of Mustafa, the failed al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade assassin, so he surmised it would be a matter of hours before the Jordanian security police made the connection and raided the hotel. Uncomfortable at being on the streets in an Arab city he knew absolutely nothing about, his first thought was to go to a mainstream hotel in the downtown area, but discarded the impulse, as 137

the Israelis would be looking for him in upscale accommodations. He thought to call his contact at the American Embassy to stay with her, but because she would want sex in return shunned the idea. After vacating the Arab hotel Mustafa found for him, he pursued his only option, taking a taxi to the Roman amphitheater where he remembered a nearby European coffee shop, tucked among five and six story apartment buildingsaccommodating foreign embassy personnel. At the coffee shop, he picked up a copy of the American Stars and Stripes newspaper and found an advertisement to rent a room in a private house offeredby a Canadian couple living in the Abdoun district south of the foreign embassies. When the American approached the couple, the wife turned him down his application, wanting to rent to aEuropean embassy employee. He lied, saying he had enrolled in a Christian school and presented six months rent in cash, which convinced the womanto rent to him. He had only slept in his room for two nights but it was enough time to realize that the Canadian female from the Saskatchewan farm belt, unlike her outgoing spouse, was a stickler for privacy, ordering him to only use his room and no other part of the house; this was fine with the American who preferred the privacy of the back door stairway to his attic room. So obsessed with finding the holy nail that he put aside his concern for what was happening in the world, until he picked up the Stars and Stripes newspaper at the coffee shop. He read where the preacher announced his intention to run for the presidency of the United States and would be campaigning in the Republican party’s primary runoffs. The news made him feel even more honored to serve the great man and more determined to get the holy object that he had been dispatched to obtain. If by divine intervention the preacher should became president, he would have the power to bring prayer and morality back to public schools, 138

make homosexuality a crime, restore family values to the country; maybe even some day make Sunday church mandatory, puttingall citizens back on the path to righteousness. Once president, who could stop the preacher from fulfilling God’s work to the fullest potential? The other news which received bigger headlines was the intention of the current American president to attack Iraq, because that country’s army had invaded neighboring Kuwait. The Stars and Stripes made no mention of it, but Mustafa had told him that the Palestinians favored the Iraqi president‘s attack, because oil rich Kuwait had once belonged to Iraq before the British occupiers split it apart. Harlan would be only too glad to leave this volatile region where everyone hated someone and killed without restraint. He notes that the same taxi cab has passed the hotel three times in the last half hour and now stops in front of him by the hotel entrance. He pushes himself against the side of a building in an alley and watches the stately woman who rescued him at the airport exit the taxi. *DOVID* The heavy man kneels, his knees sinking in fresh earth, his eyes affectionately fixed on his elegant wife, Hannah, who has removed the last of the colorful petunias from the tray and placed them in the ground between their two dead sons Jesuda and Jonathan. Even though he experienced one of his recent breathing attacks, a shortness of breath followed by dizziness, he refuses to sit in the shade. Still struggling for breath, the grieved father leans forward and places his hands atop his wife’s, and together they pat the soil around the newly planted flowers. His faithful wife of almost fifty years kisses him on the mouth, before standing. Even though as commanding officer, he sent both of their sons to early deaths, Hannah has only reproached him for the loss of both boys that one time at Jonathan’s funeral. He bushes 139

the dirt from her shapely knees, hishands lingering on her still girlish legs. She takes his hands, gently assists him to his feet and leads him to the stone bench they placed under a solitary orange tree overlooking the gravesites, because as pubescent boys their sons enjoyed picking oranges fresh from the branches, eating the fruit until their stomachs looked to burst. His wife still holds his hands, waiting for him to catch his breath. “I must see to our evening meal,” she whispers to him, her concern for his health reflected in her gray eyes. “Go ahead, my love. I will sit here with our boys for a few more minutes,” he responds to his wife, his eyes fixed on the purple, pink and white petunias neatly arranged between the boys’ gravesites. The slim woman kisses his forehead, releasing his hands. He watches her stride downhill to their house, marveling, as he always does, at how well she ages. For himself, he feels his mortality coming to an end. The Minister of Defense believes he has so much more to do for his country before his ending. He thinks life has fled so quickly for him, consumed by defending Israel against her many enemies--the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Jordanians and the Iraqis--the ones in close proximity to Israel; politically stalemating the Saudis, the Liberians and the Iranians who supply his nation’s enemies with money and weapons. All of Israel’s past enemies materialized because of the Palestinians crying for Israel’s land, instigating the many wars and confrontations that took his comrades in arms, his sons. All of this death and destruction came into being, because Arabpeople refuse to accept the reality of his country’s sovereignty. And now this woman, who, he knows killed Jonathan, is still at large somewhere in some Arab country, perhaps Jordan where the Mossad agent he dispatched was recently murdered. The old man believes she is capable of shooting the major, thesame one he sent to hunt the American down. But how could she have 140

discovered the movements of such a seasoned veteran. No, the American had to be the killer, and he still carriesthe dreadful bomb’s formula in his head. Dovid knows he underestimated the man’s capability,not taking into consideration that he has murdered consistently and successfully in his country. He desperately wants the Palestinian woman dead and the loose cannon American caught, only events keep him from taking an active role in the undertaking, starting with his expected attendance at the Olympian medal winner’sfuneral whose body was returned to Tel Aviv from Amman two days ago. Also, he has yet to explain the agent’s death to the Prime Minister, let along members of the Knesset, so cannot risk dispatching another agent to find the American, and he cannot concentrate his energy on the woman, because his old enemy, his nemesis, the Palestinian terrorist, Yasser Arafat, is up to his old treachery. Arafat had not returned from exile in Tunis for more than a few months, when a rash of terrorist bombings hit Israeli cities: children were shot in their school in Hefa, soldiers were blown to bits while riding the public bus in Tel Aviv, old men celebrating an old friend’s birthday were murdered by a suicide bomber in Acre and the never to be overlooked Passover bombing in Jerusalem that has set off the clamorous chain of events. The minister believes Arafat, if he did not personally order the attacks, then he at least sanctioned them, while all the time denying involvement to the Americans and to the world. Resurrecting memories of his old enemy invigorates Dovid, his breath returns to normal, and he uprights himself on the stone bench, thinking Arafat is a snake capable of growing a new head every time one is chopped off. The minister directed the battle at Karama when Israeli troops soundly beat the army of the so called founder of the PLO, the creator of Fatah’s murderous band, Black September, only to see the reptile escape to Jordan as a 141

hero to his misguided people. The Jordanians drove the reptile from their country after he tried to overthrow the Hashemite government. In Lebanon, Dovid, commanding an Israeli strike force, invaded the country, driving the Palestinian Liberation Army into the sea at Beirut only to see the reptile fly to Tunis as a hero without a country. So many times the old warrior has seen the reptile lose its scraggly head, only to reemerge with a new one, more venomous than the last one. In Lebanon, Dovid could have killed Arafat and wiped out his pitiful army, but succumbed to international pressure to let them go to Tunis. At this very moment, the Minister of Defense’s tanks have the man thoroughly surrounded in his headquarters at Rammalah, pressuring him to stop the terrorist bombings in Israel. That was the reason given to the international press; the other reason is that the reptile is protecting the murders of Israel’s Cabinet Minister Zeeve, shot in the street, and he wants them handed over and punished. He prays daily that Arafat will make a mistake and give him the opportunity to forever sever his head from his evil body. Weary of dark thoughts, he stands and walks to the colorful petunias between his sons’ graves--Joshua’s, the namesake of the biblical second son of Mattathias, better known as the first Maccabean, is covered in grass, Jonathan’s fresh grave has yet to spout grass. The old warrior falls to his knees and prays to God to give him the strength of Mattathias, of David, give him the wisdom of Abraham and Moses. “Please, Lord return me to the man that I was in the Egyptian War, embolden me to once again be the Lion of Sinai. Let me roar as I did that day when I drove the enemy back across the Sinai and turned my tanks away from the defenseless gates of Cairo.” The old man places one hand on each of his sons’ graves, assuming the posture of a lion, and roars until his throat turns raw, assuring himself that he is still the man he once was. 142

“Dovi, your lioness has provided you with a meal. Come, eat.” Hannah strokes his white mane, and he wonders if she views him as he once was. * HAIFA * Dressed conservatively in a black, loose fitting dress and head scarf covering her hair, the Palestinian woman hands the taxi driver twenty dinars to make a third drive past the rundown hotel in the Medinaeh Ar Riadiya section of Amman. The scruffy old man swallows his impatience at what he believes to be her nervousness over meeting her lover; the woman, acting coyly, had requested the old taxi driver to place her upscale shopping bag containing a visible bottle of expensive wine and a flimsy nightdress into the cab, setting up his suspicion of her amorous intent. He directs the cab through the crowded streets of the suburban commercial district, inundated with smells of spicy cooked foods and packed with small shops selling western and Arab women’s apparel, men’s clothing and toys for children. Countless venders sell fresh produce from their carts making the asphalt covered street next to impassable. The foot traffic patronizing the venders is so heavy and so hectic that no one pays much attention to the taxi creeping around the block, but Haifa pays close attention to the street fronting the dilapidated, mud-brick hotel where the American stays. As far as she can determine, from her second pass by the old hotel, no one seems to be watching the entrance from the street or from the few parked autos. Three old men dressed in traditional headdresses and robes, too old to be Jordanian police, sit on the steps. Smoke columns float upward from cigarettes dangling from their mouths, as they watch the pedestrian traffic and quietly converse with each other. A wheel falls off a cart, spilling blankets in the taxi’s path, prompting the driver to throw his hand despairingly into the air, glancing 143

back at Haifa. She smiles affectionately like a patient daughter at him, while giving him another twenty dinars. The recent executioner of three men gives the appearance of having no concern other than meeting her lover, but she is anything but calm, risking herself by appearing at a place that could be connected to Mustafa and the failed Hamas attack on Chairman Arafat. Even though she now carries a British passport, she is still of Palestinian nationality, subject to questioning by the king’s investigators. Any arrest by Jordanians would certainly draw the attention of Israeli authorities, most certainly Mossad, as the Israeli she executed appeared to be connected to that deadly efficient agency. Then it would be only a matter of time before they connectedher to the death of the Defense Minister‘s son. The vender with the dislodged wheel has drawn a crowd of well wishers, heatedly discussing how best to repair the wheel and get him on his way. Ever since Professor Zahi Zelet informed her of the value of the ancient nail, her curiosity has been uncontrollable: somehow the American she seeks is tied to the object; why else would theforeigner search for an interpreter to make contact with the victors at Aide. And why would the same person attack an Israeli rabbi known to be a close associate of the powerful father, whose son she eliminated. Knowing that eventually the local police will arrive to clear the street of the vender’s disabled cart, she beckons to an old woman, a tattered and soiled robe hanging from her frail frame. Haifa guesses the poor creature for some reason, probably a manmade one, has been morally thrown onto the street, selling Amman daily newspapers to survive. She buys one and buries herself behind the front page, assuming the air of a calm sophisticated woman, reading where the American and their allies have build up massive troop numbersagainst the Iraqi army that invaded Kuwait in preparation for a massive counter attack. In the interim, Israeli Defense Forces have all but destroyed Arafat’s 144

headquarter, known as al-Muqata, and now surround him. The Palestinian Chairman is sequestered in a windowless bunker. Outside his fortification, armored bulldozers level nearby buildings. The behemoth machines are clearing the way for a 160 brutal Israeli tanks and 2500 soldiers pursuing the under-armed PLO forces taking up defensive positions in the bombed out rumble. To his credit, the Chairman, perhaps the best leader her hapless people could have during this dreadful era, has not buckled, giving countless interviews to the international press, holding a Kalashnikov rifle, stating he is prepared to die a martyr and stand at his god’s side. His histrionics have won back the hearts of most Palestinians angered by his recognition of Israel’s right to exist. Normally, Haifa would smile at Arafat’s manipulation of the press, but the awesome Israeli power surrounding him, once again inflicting harsh punishment on the Palestinians, reinforces her commitment to neutralize the occupiers of her homeland. At the same time, Israeli bulldozers have leveled the refugee village atAcre, their tanks and soldiers killing scores of innocent residents, while they professed to be rooting out the terrorists that allegedly shot four settlers occupying land in the heart of the Palestinian West Bank. The Israelis have built special roads cutting through the West Bank that only the settlers can use, setting up checkpoints where those roads cross Palestinian ones, reducing her people to prisoners on patches of their own land. Now, the occupiers are building a wall through the heart of Palestinian territory, separating families from each other, destroying the paths of ancient commerce, all to protect Israelis from facing retribution for squatting on another’s land. She believes these actions by the Israelis to be apartheid ones, on the same level that the world, especially the Americans, earlier condemned in South Africa; now, the world mutes its criticism. The woman grits her teeth in frustration, because Nakba, the catastrophe 145

of 1948 where her grandparents lost their land and were subsequently murdered by the Israelis and similar violations inflicted upon hundreds of thousands of displaced Palestinians isbeing pushed further and further from public view by the escalation of Israeli aggression and Palestinian reaction. The world might forget that the cunning Jews stole Palestinianland over a half century ago, blessed by a United Nations mandate, but she will not forget. Somehow, she suspects the American possesses the means to stop the Israelis. The taxi begins to creep along the crowded street, and Haifa lowers the newspaper, seeing the grateful vender once again pushing his repaired cart laden with blankets, happily thanking all in his path. She thinks, he is probably as grateful as she is that no police arrived. On the third pass by the old hotel, she instructs the cab to stop a few car lengths past the entrance and departs after tipping the driver modestly, not wanting to draw more attention to herself. The three old men have meandered to the next door coffee shop serving sweet brew out of a space that looks to be converted from a hallway. She moves to the open doorway of a shop selling silken items and examines a woven scarf, trimmed in a Jordanian colored brocade, her eyes averting the hotel. The scarf’s merchant is immediately at her side. She purchases the item, allowing her eyes to scan the street while the rotund man packages the scarf. As any affluent woman passing an idle afternoon would do, she drops the package into her shopping bag while meandering to the hotel. Haifa fights to control the surprise taking hold, when she sees the tall, fully bearded American watching her from across the street. Allowing her eyes to linger on his, she sends him a silent signal to follow her and strolls away from the hotel, examining the street vendors’merchandise. She feels his presence at her side and casually comments in English: “Have you found what you are searching for?” 146

“Why did you shoot that man at the airport?” “I asked you a question first.” Her eyes focus on some very attractive, very revealing French dresses hanging on a rack. “No I have not found what I am looking for.” He steps between her and the dresses so as to get her full attention. She examines his bearded face, noting his well formed features and how clear his dark brown eyes are. “What is it you desire?” she asks. “I answered your question, now it is your turn to answer mine.” She continues her walk along the pedestrian crowded street, eyes focusing ahead. “He was an Israeli agent. I am a Palestinian. No more explanation is necessary. But for your sake, I will elaborate: you needed an interpreter. I needed income. The Israeli stood in our way.” “Why should I believe you?” “What choice does a foreigner in strange land have?” Haifa slows her pace when the American grips her arm. “Interpreters don’t murder Israelis. There is more to you than being bi-lingual. You were at Aide when the Israelis were destroyed.” “Is that a question or an accusation?” She notes the determination in his unsmiling face. “Why did you meet and subsequently accost an Israeli rabbi?” Haifa suspects some sort of treachery took place at that meeting ending in a physical allocation. “High placed, radical rabbis normally don’t give the time of day to ordinary Americans unless there is something to gain. What did you have to give them? Or more importantly, what did they have that you wanted? Was it an ancient object that could be traced to your Christian god?” For the first time, she sees his stoic face reveal emotion, as his mouth parts to take a deep breath, noting that he realizes his expression has given her an affirmative answer. Haifa takes his hand. “Comewalk with me as if we are lovers. 147

We must leave this city. The Israelis are searching for both of us. The Jordanians are rounding up all Palestinians, high placed or not, for questioning. We are both connected to Mustafa, so it is a matter of time before his family reveals our connection to the interrogators.” “Where to?” “The place where your precious holy object is kept.” “How can I trust you?” “You can trust the picture of it that I will show you. It is in my hotel room.” The Palestinian woman guides the hesitant man to a line of taxis at the end of the street where it meets a wide boulevard. *

*

Even since her mutilation contrived by her uncle, sex with a man has only become a means to an end; in the case of the Damascus policeman, a distraction before death. Realizing that she cannot revenge the damage inflicted upon her by killing all men she happens upon, especially if they have done her no harm, she hopes to persuade the American to reveal the valuable thing he possesses, the same one she guesses he used to bargain with the Jews. Once he reveals what he knows, she will expose him to Jordanian authorities rather than killing him. At the moment, he sits on her bed, examining the picture of the damaged ancient nail she concealed at the Bank of Amman. Naked, all except for flimsy panties, she studies the transparent red lace barely covering her genitals in the bathroom mirror’s reflection, no more than a paint brush stokeacross her rounded hips. Pinching the nipples of her small breasts to harden them, she then rubs her vulva until it noticeablyswells. Satisfied that she is totally beguiling, she leaves the bathroom and stands before the American, hoping to get what he knows without killing him. 148

“We have time to enjoy each other before our transport arrives.” The tempest observes that her nakedness first shocks him, and then as he takes in her long, shapely body, passion appears in his cold eyes. She takes the photo of the nail and places it on the side table, allowing his eyes to devour her body. His hands grip her calves, sliding up the back of her legs, over her buttocks, until his fingers pull the lace panties to her knees. “Take me,” she whispers, pulling his face up to hers, thinking to conquer his body, finding a passageway to his inner thoughts. His lips press against hers, and for a second she forgets that he conducted business with her enemy. Noting that her quarry is aroused, she removes his stiff penis from his trousers, gently pushing him back on the bed. Blowing hotly on his penis, the seductress pulls his trousers down to his shoes. Next, she removes her panties and straddles him, feeling his stiffness against her genitals. The man’s forceful hands fondle her breasts while she unbuttons his shirt, licking his nipples. Confident that she is wet, she manipulates his engorged penis until it probes the mouth of her vagina, watching the American heavily panting, his eyelids shut in anticipation. She lowers her body, engulfing him, fully expecting him to respond. Instead, Haifa feels his body tense, as if seized by extreme pain. The man whose name she has not even spoken pushes her off of him, bolting upright from the bed. “I cannot fornicate. It would be a sin against my loved ones in Heaven, and the Lord my God.” Still panting heavily, his words are choppy. Amazed, Haifa stares at the inhibited man in disbelief, unable to remember when she last lost control of a situation she had so carefully orchestrated. He pulls up his trousers, looking down at her, saying, “you are so beautiful, so desirable. But, I cannot break my vow.” Haifa stands and slips into a conservative Arab dress, knowing she must fall back on her contingency plan. Her 149

determination to know what he knows pushes aside any regret that her plan to seduce the American failed. “Your commitment to your dead family is to be admired. I respect your devotion to your god.” Her comment pertaining to his dead family sounded true to her, as she is equally committed to her dead family. Her second comment pertaining to his god rang false in her head, for she learned from experience that devotion to a deity is only a means to control, to subjugate the masses. Her experience leads her to believe that nowhere in the history of the human race has proof for or against a god materialized. In her mind, what passes for proof is wishful thinking, derived from ancient babble. The cunning woman moves to the window and observes a Toyota SUV parked outside. She then puts the photo in her suitcase. “We must leave the city now. What possessions do you need from your lodgings?” “My bible.” *HARLAN* The American fundamentalist sits in the backseat of the Toyota Forerunner, an older model with a banged up dusty body. The Palestinian woman sits in the front with the driver, a teenager who barely looks to be eighteen. He has bad teeth, doesn’t smile or say much. Fuzz and few black hairs cover his cheeks, telling Harlan that the boy is trying to grow a beard, probably a new recruit to some militant group. They are north of Amman, just passing through the city of Irbid and entering a low mountain, desert terrain near the Syria border. The landscape is hot and dry; the driver verifies its aridness by volunteering that they travel east of the costal range, where little moisture is known. They have been driving during the day, so as to blend with traffic and not attract attention from the Jordanian authorities. The sun drops below the low hills in the west, 150

and the driver slows the SUV until darkness overtakes the region, at which time the vehicle leaves the paved road, bouncing over the rough upper desert terrain, sand dunes laden with clusters of sage brush. He turns off the headlights, and the vehicle creepstoward the Syrian border. Harlan is past being uneasy about going to an unknown destination with a woman who so coldly murdered the Mossad agent. He has convinced himself that he is under the Lord’s protection since he is doing the Lord’s work. At a non-descript section of high desert, the young driver states they are at the Syrian border. Within a mile of the crossing, they are met by a lightless passenger car with four bearded men, who the woman, whose name he learns is Haifa, states, “are members of Hezbollah.” “What is going on? I was informed that Hamas is Sunni, Hezbollah is Shi’a. Why would you entrust the valuable object to your historical enemies?” Harlanasks, more out of doubt than fear. Although, he cannot see her face, he feels the irony in her voice as she answers: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” He knows she means the enemy is Israel, but is still distrustful of her intent. “Your friendship extends all the way to the Iranians who bankroll these killers?” “It is a small world. Now, we must not converse, for we parallel the Israeli occupied Golen Heights to the west. This area is heavily patrolled by a nervous Syrian Army, so silence must prevail.” The SUV follows the slow moving passenger vehicle. Since there is nothing the American can say or do, he shuts his eyes and leans back into the seat. At the dawn’s first tinge, the woman nudges his arm and indicates a mountain top touched by the morning’s precursor light. “Mount Hermon, over 2800 meters high. To the north of it, we will take an ancient pass into Lebanon. The route is censored by Syrian police, although we will travel unmolested as local Shi‘as.” 151

Once in southern Lebanon, west of the Latoni River, an area well known as a Hezbollah stronghold, the two vehicle party travelsto their destination, a hilltop village by the name of Bent Jrebail. In the waning evening light Harlancan barely discern the small, flat roof dwellings on a hillside, so tightly pressed together as to resemble shingles on a roof. The auto ahead skids to a stop, and the trailing dust from the dirt street causes him to sneeze. He hears the Hezbollah boy snicker, but keeps his attention focused on a mud brick house the four Hezbollah men approach. “Accompany me,” the woman who offered herself to him commands. The oldest of the four bearded men, one arm crippled, knocks on the door, and Harlan waits with the woman in the murky dusk of the approaching night until the door opens, spreading light across the narrow, dirt street. A powerful man in his prime wearing modish sunglasses, dressed in a black tee shirt and slacks, hair shaved to a shadow, appears in the opening and embraces each of the four men, greeting them like brothers. The friendly exchange over, the dark clad man watches his four bearded cohorts depart in the sedan and then beckonto Haifa to follow him through a hallway as long as the house is deep. At the end of the hallway, the American follows the woman who passes through a rear door onto a high wood fenced yard and stands before doors built into the ground; to Harlan, the doors resemble the ones his grandmother put over her fruit cellar dug out of the cool earth. The fit man in black opens the heavy doors and shouts down the steps in Arabic, “they are here.” Once he descends the steps, the American notices the cellar like room has a cement floor, and the dirt walls are covered in plaster board painted black, giving the space the feel of a dungeon. A solitary spot light illuminates a poster size flag bearing the Hizballah emblem: a gold Kalashnikovrifle 152

atop an obelisk on a red background. The American can make out two more well-built men standing at each end of the emblem, arms folded across their chests; at the same time he senses the one who met them at the outside door closing in behind him. A door opens off to his left, and immediately a light floods the dreary room. A fourth well-built man, dressed in black attire and wearing identical sunglasses to the other three, places a chair before the Hezbollah emblem. Contrasting the black painted room and the four men in identical black attire, a large, stately, old man dressed in a white Arab robe touching the floor appears. Obviously a man of importance, he walks to the chair and sits. “Allahu Akbar,” he says in a voice too high pitched for his burly size. The woman at Harlan’s side repeats the greeting, addressing him as Sheikh. “My followers and myself are at your service, daughter. We are pleased to assist a jahadist in Allah’s service, praise be His name.” The elderly man speaks in heavily accented English. Even though Harlanis uneasy about the woman who rescued him at the Amman airport and certain she is connected to the killing of the Israeli minister’s son, he remains fascinated by the white clad figure sitting before him. There is something holy about the elderly man with his pure white beard and equally white hijab, an Iranian turban, covering white hair. “I see you have brought the unbeliever you spoke of.” For the first time, the dignified man, his dark eyes clashing with his pure white beard and hair, looks directly at Harlan. “You will give this daughter of Islam the information you possess and then you can return to your Satanist country. “I will give her the information when she gives me the holy object I seek.” The thin, hard line forming the old man’s 153

lips bends into a smile. “The value of the object will serve Allah, not any infidel purpose.” Harlancontrols his apprehension, even though he realizes the Palestinian woman has deceived him. “You will get nothing until I have the holy object in my hands.” “I have no patience for fools.” The white bearded man looks to Haifa who moves away from Harlan. Two of the black attiredguards force the American to his knees. Another guard thrusts a long pole behind the kneeling man’s knees, then forces his arms behind the pole and binds his wrists in front of his torso. Afterward, he ties the captive’s ankles together, and then loops the same rope around his neck, applying pressure to the bound man’s windpipe, preventing him from making the slightest movement without pain. Harlan immediately feels his knees growing numb under his weight, his body cramping throughout, as he cannot relieve the pressure put on him by the restraints. “Give us what you had planned to give to the Jews,” the white clad sheikh commands in his high pitched voice. The captive does not respond, defying the old man with his eyes. “Allah’s will be done then. Daughter avert you eyes.” Haifa turns away as she is instructed, hearing the American’s clothing being cut off. The contorted fundamentalist feels a hood drop over his head and tied off under his chin. Next, he feels water saturating the hood. As his breathing sucks the heavy wet cloth against his mouth and nostrils, restricting air from reaching his lungs, he callsupon his God to keep him from panicking, thus enabling him to fight the urge to struggle, to roll about, shake the hood from his head. He convinces himself that if he stays calm he can get enough oxygen to live; telling himself that he might pass out, but he won’t die. The water torment continues for the next ten minutes, causing the American, unable to properly breathe, 154

to go into choking convulsions. He pitches to one side, only to be up-righted by one of his captors. Someone pulls the wet cloth away from his mouth, creating a pocket that enables him to gulp air, and then more water is poured over his head. “You will drown if you do not tell us what you know.” “Go to your heathen hell,” the American manages to sputter before a heavy blow to his temple knocks him unconscious. When the Born Again Christian regains consciousness, the hood has been removed from his head, making him aware of his naked body. Two captors jerk him upright, this time forcing him to squat on rubbery legs. The captors each place a hand on his shoulders, so that the constrained man cannot pitch sideward, forward or backward. He senses a lull in the water torture will take place, for the sheikh and the woman who betrayed him have left the room. It once again turns to semi-darkness, barely illuminated by the spotlight shinning on the Hezbollah emblem. Ten minutes later, acaptor drapes a blanket over Harlan’s naked body and moves the sheikh’s chair before him. The door to the adjacent room opens, and the Palestinian woman sits on the chair, studying the fundamentalist. “You are a murdering whore,” he states between gritted teeth. She smiles. “Call me what you want. Excepting the sheikh’s poor understanding of English, these young Party of God soldiers do not speak or understand it, but they do know how to inflict pain in the most primitive ways. Compare where they are now with your faith at 1300 years of age. That is the age of Islam at this time. Picture your Christian inquisition with its stretching racks, hot tongs and burning deaths, punishing non-believers in the name of 155

your Christ. Islam’s inquisition is called a jihad featuring mutilated bodies and beheadings perpetrated on nonbelievers. Their faith is a hysteria that emboldens the believers to inflict insufferable pain in the name of Allah.” “Their god is your god, you treacherous harlot.” “Harlots do not have gods, and if they do, they soon learn to abandon them. Religion is a manmade industry. Imams, priests, ministers, rabbis are the captains of that industry, pursuing their god’s righteous ways with a cornucopia of misdeeds. Men with great hatreds function under the banner of love.” “And you, how do you function?” “I tolerate the misled while they serve my purpose. Like now. Tell me what you know, and I will see that you live.” “The nail?” “That is lost to you. But you can return to the United States with your life.” “My faith in God is my home. I carry it with me. You will never get the information you seek without giving me what I came to this hellish place for.” “The sheikh in the white robe is not only an Shi’a imam, he is a medical doctor.” “So?’ “Certain persuasive procedures will take place if you continue to be obstinate.” Harlanlaughs, confident he is prepared to meet his maker. The woman nods to a guard and disappears into the darkness of the room. The white haired sheikh, this time with a green surgeon’s gown over his white robe, takes her place on the chair. The American watches as a twenty-four square inch block of wood is placed in front of him and what looks to be a medical kit placed beside it. “Infidel, I will ask you one last time. Give us the information we want,” the Shi’a imam commands the 156

fundamentalist. The bound man remains silent. “Daughter, avert your eyes,” he says to the woman standing behind him. Harlan’s head is jerked back and the blanket pulled away. A curved sword, a scimitar, flashes before the captive‘s face. The holy man takes the weapon by its handle. “Take off my head, I am prepared to meet my Maker.” The fundamentalist closes his eyes, awaiting the death blow. “Notas simple as that. Allah has a blind eye for nonbelievers,” the sheikh comments in his heavily accented English. The American feels the long pole being removed from behind his knees. His torso is next up righted by the captors, and three men hold him fixed in akneeling position. He feels his penis being pulled across the wood block by the fourth man, at the same time hearing the words: “in the name of Allah the Merciful and Compassionate.” Before he can protest, the old man stands and brings the curved blade down with one swift stroke, severing the American’s penis from his body. At first disbelief floods Harlan, and then shock similar to an electrical jolt consumes him. He forces himself to look down at the mutilated spot where blood gushes over the wood block. His severed penis is held before his horrified eyes by a black clad captor, then it is thrown into the darkness. He feels queasy, dizzy but cannot pass out to escape his horror. The imam, doubling as a doctor,hands the scimitar to his guard, indicates to the other men to lay the injured man in a supine position. Something wet that burns is poured over the American’s wound; antiseptic spins in his tormented reality. He muffles a scream as he feels the loose skin being stretched over his bloody stump, as the imam deftly sutures the wound without anesthesia and then says: “we will wait 157

until the blood reduces its flow, and then you will give us what we want to know.” “Sleep does not come to the tormented in hell,” constantly sounds from the fundamentalist, as he slips in and out of delusion. Every time reality returns to him, so does the thought that his captors have castrated him, sending him back into an unreal world where the demons of hell dance in raging fires before his eyes. The damp cement of the cellar-like room chills him as he lies on his side, his wrists tied to his ankles behind him. After a time in which has no duration, he can feel the white robed sheikh change his bandage and a hypodermic needle stuck into his buttock. The throbbing continues in his groin, telling him the shot is not for pain, probably to ward off infection. The relentless pain eventually brings the mutilated man back from his delusion, and he begins to take control of his thought process. The knowledge that he will never copulate with a woman strikes him, but, he tells himself, if he survives this hell driven torment, that is the worst outcome. And that outcome is not a factor, because when the fire consumed his wife and daughter, he pledged to the Lord that he would giveup fornication. The old sheikh finishes bandaging the American captive, and then indicates for his guards to bind the man to the solitary chair. Once again, a blanket is draped over Harlan’s body. The holy man exits the room, leaving his four guards and the overhead light on. The tall woman who deceived him now stands before him, studying his face to determine if he is still delusional. In turn, the captive studies her, noting her regal face is void of any emotion, let alone sympathy for him. “Will you reveal what you know,” she asks in perfect English with a touch of a British accent. “No.” “Steve, these. . . .” 158

“The identification I carried belongs to someone else.” The fundamentalist believing he is about to die, wants his executioners to know his true identity. “My name is Harlan Stegel. I am a soldier of the Christian God, the true God, not your misconceived god.” Haifa laughs. “I was about to say, these devout men turn into the worst of brutish monsters when they believe the wrath of their god is bestowed upon them. To me, it is all so much horseshit. Nevertheless, they are not through mutilating you. The medically educated imam will keep you alive to suffer your punishment no matter how long it goes on.” She pulls her chair closer and whispers in the bound man’s ear: “I will share a confidence with you, then you will tell me what important information you possess for which the Jews were going to exchange such a valuable object as the ancient nail. Once the information is revealed, the imam need not appear again.” “Unless it pertains to the holy nail, I could care less about and such promise.” “You and I have both been defiled in the name of god.” God, as interrupted by man, has castrated you, as he castrated me.” “So that is why you are possessed by the devil?” The woman, her head touching his, laughs. “Revenge possesses me, the devil is for those who delude themselves. It is dangerous for me to linger here in Lebanon, therefore I have no more time to waste on you. What is it that the Jews expected to get?” “Although I walk through the valley. . . .” “Silence him, she orders the guards in Arabic. The woman exits, soon to return with the old, white clad imam. “Hold him still,” the holy man commands his guards in Arabic and then to the captive he speaks in his heavily accented English with an edge of morbid anticipation. Haifa repeats his threat in her better diction so the intransigent man will have no misunderstanding: 159

“First I will remove you lips, then your eyelids and ears. Both of your feetand hands will be removed. You will not sit beside your god as a whole man as you had thought. Before that day arrives, if ever, you will crawl on your belly over an alien land, unable to find peaceful sleep or prayer--unable to express your suffering or end it. You will not die of neglect, because Islam commands its followers to be almsgivers. They will feed a pathetic creature like you, keeping you alive until you wither away in old age. That will be your fate.” The imam removes a scalpel from his case and stretches the captive’s upper lip away from his face. “In Allah’s name, I will start here.” The fundamentalist is prepared to die in the Lord’s service, but not exist in a hell on earth. A visualization flashes in his mind’s eye: he is a freak, hands and feet amputated, slumping against a mud brick hovel in the worst of Arab slums, making unintelligible sounds as he begs for food, never to hear the true Christian word of God, never to say Jesus Christ my Lord, unable to take his own life. The scalpel barely pierceshis upper lip, as if the old man toys with him. Never did he imagine his fate would be this. He panics. “I have the formulafor the most explosive nuclear weapon known to mankind.” His words in English are distorted due to his stretched lip, but the sounds are enough for Haifa to stop the imam from slicing off his lip. Suspecting the imam did not fully understand the American’s English words, she speaks to him in Arabic, “may Allah’s blessing be upon you for the great service you have provided the Palestinian peopletoday. Once I verify what he is about to reveal, Hezbollah and especially you will share the result of that information. Now I must speak in private to the infidel using his tongue.” When the pious, old man releases his lip, Harlan realizes what he had done, and shame floods his psyche, but even then he is relieved that he escaped the horrific existence 160

described by the imam. He knows he will reveal everything he memorized and vowed to reveal only in exchanged for the nail to the woman. In his thoughts, the ramifications of revealing such information are bursts from a rapid-fire gun assaulting his sanity: the Muslims will possess the deadly bomb, the means to destroy Christianity. By capitulating, he not only betrays himself, he betrays God and His favorite one, the preacher. And worst of all, he overestimated his courage when facing the creatures of Hell. The realization that he may not be granted everlasting life because of his weakness chills him. While he waits for the woman to record what he knows, he hears the Muslim call to prayer in the distance. *DOVID* The old Lion of the Sinai, the victorious fighter from forty years confrontations with the Arabs, realizes his high position in government becomes more precarious, as he had to postpone a defense briefing before the Knesset. He cited a stomach disorder, when in reality it was the same shortness of breath that attacked him at his sons’ resting place. His personal physician, sworn to secrecy, has just left his ministry office, leaving behind the same advise —“slow down or your body will shut down.” He did not tell the doctor that his response to such advise would be: events have taken me beyond such an option. At the moment, he wants to fight, strike back, stop the missile attacks on Israel by the Iraqis, only the American president has personally asked the Prime Minister to restrain Israeli forces from attacking the Iraqis for launching Skud Missiles into the heart of Tel Aviv, where they have terrified the residents, although by Adonai’s will, inflicting small casualties. He argued with the Prime Minister and the others in his cabinet that they should send fighter jets to destroy the mobile missile sites in Iraq, but was told to bide 161

his time, for the Americans planes would destroy the attackers as they had done to the Iraqi arm forces fleeing Kuwait. Dovid has ordered his generals to call up the reserves in order to distribute gas masks to all Israeli citizens, because the other snake, the other menace in his life, Saddam Hussein, is capable of lobbing deadly chemicals onto the streets of Tel Aviv or any Israeli city. His aides informed him that the families of Israel, after being issued these gas masks, are terrified for their children should such a dastardly attack take place. The Americans had put together the largest coalition of allied troops since the invasion of Europe taking place fifty years ago. Some 500,000 combatants, aided by tanks and aircraft carriers’ big guns, counter attacked the Iraqi forces, driving them from Kuwait. Now American supersonic aircraft have completely destroyed the retreating columns of Iraqi troops, leaving dead bodies, burned out tanks and motor vehicles strewn along the highway to Baghdad for a hundred miles, and are in the process of bombing Iraq back into the stone age. The Iraqi soldiers, not incinerated by five hundred pound bombs hittingtheir bunkers, are surrendering by the tens of thousands. As Defense Minister, he has deployed Israeli troops along the borders with the Palestinian territories, Lebanon and Syria, not knowing what next to expect. His enemy, Yasser Arafat, has openly voiced support for the Iraqi attack on Kuwait, citing it as that country’s right to take back the land that originally belonged to Iraq under Ottoman rule, namely the entire country of Kuwait and especially the rich oil stores that the British, at the end of their short occupation, gave to the Kuwaitis. The Americans, their population addicted to oil and its byproducts, are not about to allow such a large supply of itto fall into the hands of a maverick government headed by Saddam Hussein. In the interim, the American Secretary 162

of State has asked him to lift the siege on Arafat’s headquarters in Ramallah to prevent the war from spilling over into the Palestinian territories; this he reluctantly recommended to the Prime Minister who ordered the withdrawal. The American president has done a masterful job of putting together such a large allied force as the one currently destroying the Iraqi army, even incorporating Egyptians, Saudis and other Arabforces into the counter attack. Only he made a major blunder by ordering the withdrawal of the American army at the gates of Baghdad, subsequently not overthrowing the evil Baath government that Saddam Hussein heads. Dovid realizes that the downside of destroying the Iraqi forces is that Iran, emboldened by their arch enemy being so thoroughly defeated, have encouraged Hezbollah terrorists in Lebanon to launch Iranian Katyusha missiles onto Hazur and Meron, northern Israeli towns. The Prime Minister immediately gave him the go ahead to send troops into Lebanon and destroy the batteries and drive the Hezbollah murderers from the country. Israeli Defense Forces overran the town of Bent Jubay in a surprise attack, where batteries of Katyusha missiles were being launched at Israel. There to Dovid’s amazement, the elite corps of IDF, Golani Infantry, in a house to house reconnaissance, killed a militant imam and his small army, finding the maverick American he has been searching for, bound and blindfolded in the house’s cellar. The hostage was being held for ransom by the Hezbollah Shi’as. The Christian fundamentalist had been castrated, subsequently in great pain, although refusing to talk to the Israeli strike force leader. According to the Golani major in charge of the attack, he seemed suicidal, refusing treatment for his wound. Treating the American as he would any uncooperative, wounded Israeli soldier, the officer had the man held down, sedating him with a shot of morphine in order to hospitalize him. 163

Dovid, upon learning of his rescue, had kept him incommunicado in a prisoner’s hospital room until he hadphysically recovered. What mental condition the American is in, he is soon to learn, for the unpredictable man with the deadly information to destroy a nation currently waits under guard in his private quarters. Dovid, upon entering the private room adjacent to his offices, sees the tall, rangy American fugitive sitting hunched forward in a reading chair, his handcuffed hands clasped between his knees. He can feel the tremendous energy, an agonizing one, radiating from the American. “Is he violent?” he asks the senior, military police officer attending him. “No Minister, but he is not talkative.” “Thank you, Captain. Please wait outside the door with your men.” He seats himself in the other stuffed chair opposite the American. “I regret that I did not originally meet with you when you first entered Israel and explain that the object you sought was stolen from the body of my murdered son. Trying to deceive you was a mistake, and I apologize for it. I also wish to extend my deepest sympathy for what the Arabs have done to you.” He notices that the reticent man flinches at the mention of the atrocity inflicted upon him, but has yet to even glance in his direction. “The formula for the pure fusion bomb, you must give it to me.” “Only in exchange for the holy nail.” The American looks up from his manacled hands to the minister. His face reflects the same death wish Dovid has seen on battlefield soldiers whose limbs had been blown off. “The nail is too valuable not to turn up somewhere, in some university, in some scholar’s hands. Then, we will seize it for you,” he tries to assure the man. “You will get nothing until I have the nail authenticated and in my hands.” 164

Dovid searches the man’s face for resolution, surprised to see such fury residing in the castrated man’s eyes. “I could have you interrogated. We have ways, unknown to the outside world, to make you talk.” The man’s maniacal laughter shocks the older man, but also puts him on alert that some unknown danger exists in him. “But I won’t do that, because you and I share the same God. We are ordered by God’s commandment to treat our fellow man as we would have ourselves treated.” The fundamentalist’s laughter transitions to anguish, as he volunteers: “my God has turned His eye from me. Maybe, if I gain the holy nail, He will once again stand beside me.” “Harlan, I know aboutyour background and what you have done in the service of your Lord.” The minister pauses, swallowing the contempt he feels for such a cold blooded killer. “Give me the formula, and I will assist you in obtaining the object you seek.” “The woman, who took the nail off your son after she killed him, has it.” “You saw her then?” Dovid hides his anxiety to know the identity of his son’s murderer, realizing that in addition to possessing the bomb’s formula, this distressed man sitting before him can also recognize the woman he desperately wants to hold accountable for his son’s death. “Her name is Haifa, and she is Palestinian. I gave her the formula, because she broke me like she would a cringingdog. I did not have the courage to trust in the Lord’s protection and told everything I knew to the woman.” The American does not cry, although remorse from breaking under torture warps his face. Dovid, as much as his aging frame allows, bolts from the chair to the window overlooking the Knesset building. He is unable to control his fear after the grim realization that finding this woman, he now knows to be George Hamad’s niece, is exacerbated by the fact that she has an avenue to devastate Israel. 165

“Torture me, mutilate me, turn me into be the most wretched man on earth, and I will not reveal what I know until you place the nail in my hands.” The minister believes this man who once broke under torture will not break again, no matter what horrendous tortures within his power to inflict. The realization that he, the high ranking Minister of Defense, set the wheels in motion for a bigger threat to his nation than any Skud missile or Katyusya rocket hitting Israeli towns chills him. In his thinking, getting the fusion formula for Israel is secondary to stopping the woman who now possesses it. Finding her will be difficult, now that he is compromised by the Mossad agent’s death and his time dominated by Israel’s proximity to the current Iraqi-American faceoff. He is convinced that only this disturbed American can prevent a nuclear catastrophe in the Middle East by stopping the Palestinian woman before she gives the information to a hostile power capable of building such a bomb. If the man sitting handcuffed before him is not successful, the veteran warrior’s involvement and mishandling of the stolen formula will leak out to the media. The scandal will bring down the current Likud government and force his resignation, finishing his role as Israel’s staunchest defender and sending him into a retirement fouled by shame. Given that knowledge, he has no choice but to put Israel’s, along with his own fate, in this killer’s hands, a man he would prefer to execute. “I believe you will not reveal what you know until you have your holy object, so I will assist you in finding the woman. I will do this, if you will swear to me that once you have taken the object from her, you will eliminate her.” “I will dispose of her, after I get the nail. But, at this moment, she is a needle in a haystack,” the maimedkiller replies. “Perhaps not. Islamic nations are backward, at least as far as scientific achievement goes. She will take the formula 166

to the only two experts who advocate nuclear power for all Islamic countries, the two Islamic militants who can verify its potential, and they live in Pakistan. If the bomb can be built by extreme Muslims who have no fear of death, then this small nation of Israel will be a cinder and once again Jewish people will be thrown into Diaspora.” The uneasy minister notes that the Christian fundamentalist is indifferent to such a horrendous outcome. “Events have left neither of us with choice in this matter, therefore it is imperative you stop her before that scenario becomes a reality. You are the only person who can identify her. So go get your precious nail, and then eliminate her.” *HAIFA* The Palestinian woman, bolstered by her success with the American fundamentalist, flew from Beirut to Istanbul, the once capital city of the Roman Empire, subsequently becoming a Christian city under Byzantine rule, now conquered and controlled by Muslims; a city representative of the irreparable conflict between Christianity and Islam. Haifa has little interest in the city’s religious transformations, for her purpose in flying to the ancient port was to take a flight to New Delhi and cross the Indian border into Pakistan, traveling though a region swirling in Hindu and Muslim turmoil. She knew, as a woman traveling alone, she could not enter Islamabad through the Islamic fundamentalist countries of Iran and Afghanistan as she had done in secular Jordan, Lebanon and Syria, for she would be apprehended for travelling alone before boardingand punished on the spot by a harsh male society. After reducing the American to jelly, acquiring the design and atomic makeup for a nuclear holocaust, she drove to the Beirut Airport, fortunate to get a flight out of there before the Israelis attacked Lebanon south of the Litani River, because Hezbollah militants, agitated by the 167

crusaders’ attack on Iraq, fired rockets onto Israeli occupied towns. At first, she did not think the man who displayed the obstinacyof a religious militant would reveal what he knew; later, she was stunned by the importance of the information he gave her. Haifa had wanted to kill the American, but the Hezbollah imam and his thugs thought to keep him for ransomafter the man had revealed his background, that of religious assassin. The Hezbollah group could gain a substantial ransom by putting pressure on the American Born Again Christians who would be politically and morally compromised if word got out they sent a notorious killer to Islamic land. The fundamentalist is dead now, she believes, as are the Muslim fanatics who probably killed the American before the Israeli Army overran their center of operations. Prior to leaving their underground enclave, she wrote down the nuclear formula, then committed it to memory. With the Hezbollah and his fanatical followers captured or most probably dead, there is no need to the share the weapon as she implied she would. She departed the airport of Hindu India’s capital city, New Delhi, without incident, after showing her British passport to authorities, breathing a sigh of relief after realizing the Israelis are not involving westernized countries like India in apprehending her, most probably because the Israelis somehow discovered that she possessesthe American fundamentalist’s thermonuclear formula. Losing such a deadly weapon to a Palestinian, she deducts,would bring international condemnation upon Israel and their protector, the United States. At the airport, she quickly changed from a business suit befitting a traveling professional woman into the burqa of a devout Muslim; in her case a grieving widow returning to her parents in Islamabad after her husband‘s death, which she purposefully expressed to passengers queuing in a bus debarkation line with her. She had found the Islamic district in New Delhi and caught a bus packed with Muslims traveling toward or entering 168

Pakistan, where as a grieving Muslim widow she could travel undetected. Unprepared for the insufferable heat of the Indian summer, Haifa perspires profusely under the heavy, black burqa with only a slit across her eyes for ventilation. She has boarded an overcrowded bus weaving its way through the northwest rural villages of India en route to ancient Jullundur, named for a water demon, now known as Jalandar, a thriving city of a million. Subsequently, she plans to cross the border farther west at Lahore, Pakistan. At every farm village supporting a Muslim population, passengers disembark, the cramped vacancies filled by embarking ones; the women, children and elderly, beneficiaries of the males’ sense of propriety, fill space inside the bus with the men riding on top. So far her disguise has worked, as a middle aged, gray bearded Muslim man gave her his seat, and climbed atop the bus with the fifty or so male riders, most of them, except for the very young, bearded. Haifa lost count of how many Punjab villages the slow moving, rickety bus has stopped at. She found them hot, humid, flat and poor settlements, barely worth more than a glance, but with a Muslim population still remaining there, even after a mass exodus to Pakistan a half century ago when the British partitioned greater India into two religious states, Islam and Hindu. She knows she has been traveling over twelve hours as the crowded vehicle crawls, weaving its way through dirt streets and endless farm fields to the Pakistani border. Under the rising morning sun’s first blast of heat, her bus eventually queues behind a line of vehicles attempting to cross into Lahore,Pakistan. She is relieved to see two more overcrowded buses behind her public transport, thinking to find obscurity in the number of passengers crossing the border. The disguised woman watches two green clad Hindu soldiers take a position front and rear of the bus, ordering the men riding on top to climb down and state their 169

nationality and destination, barking orders in a mixture of Hindi and Arabic. Those men with proper identification walk across the border and undergo the same procedure with black-clad Pakistani soldiers. Another, Indian soldier, displaying the stripes of an NCO on his sleeve,enters the bus walking down the aisle, scrutinizing the passengers. Haifa is one of the thirty or more burqa-clad Muslim women, many with children, crossing into Pakistan. In spite of being drenched by perspiration under the heavy black burqa, she is grateful that obscured as they all are by tent-like robes, little distinction exists between her and the other women. Sitting next to an elderly man in a white beard and black turban, she passes unnoticed as the other women do, for this soldier only speaks to the men, not wanting to create an incident by speaking directly to a Muslim woman. The Indian soldiers allow the bus Haifa rides in to cross the border. On the other side, the male passengers climb back on the top, after showing their papers. No one is searched. The women and children inside the bus get a perfunctory scrutiny from a Pakistani soldier who peers at them from the bus step well. Islamabad only lies four hundred kilometers to the north of Lahore, but it takes the rickety bus all day to get there, due to stops at every town and village along the way. Haifa knows that in the Muslim world there are only two eminent nuclear physicists, both living in Pakistan. These two mencan validate or negate the captured formula for her, both having pioneered the Pakistani Nuclear Bomb Program. She must determine if the weapon is fact or fantasy before she sets her plan into action; if factual, then she must know if it can be built by a Muslim. The elder Pakistani scientist, Abdul Qadeer Kahn, stole a nuclear induction formula from a Dutch nuclear facility while employed there and then, along with the second scientist, spent the next ten years designing centrifuges to extract weapon’s grade uranium, subsequently producing enough 170

ninety percent enriched uranium to arm the thermonuclear bomb that they built in the interim. After a successful completion of the bomb, Kahn is currently under house arrest by the Pakistani government for offering the design and uranium to rogue countries such as Iran and North Korea for a price. Surmising Kahn is probably watched by the Pakistani Security Police, she will not approach him. The second scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, a staunch fundamentalist, is more accessible. He too was arrested for allegedly offering the Taliban in Afghanistan, and militant Muslim groups the nuclear bomb’s know how, wanting to neutralize the infidel world’s military might. But, due to his popularity within the country for the charitable institution he founded in Islamabad, known as the Reconstruction of the Islamic Community, along with a respected fundamental madrassas he originated and currently funds in the city, he was spared the fate of his nuclear peer. The government allowed him to resign from the nuclear program and gave their permission for him to move about Islamabad. Within the Muslim world, Meghwar is recognized as a scholar, having written numerous books on science’s relation to Islam, one in particular stands prominent in the Islamic world, the one that advocates a nuclear holocaust, bringing the devoted ones’ their much awaited apocalypse, a world’s end when the faithful gains eternal life in the bliss of Heaven, the unfaithful receiveseternal damnation in the fires of Hell. Haifa knows as a woman, even obscured as she is in the burqa, she cannot directly approach the pious scientist, for he would shun her, finding it inappropriate to be alone with a woman, so she must somehow corner him. But how, she wonders as the lights of Islamabad appear in the distance, illuminating a mid-size city’s triangular layout. Heavy rain, brought on by the monsoon season, strikes the bus’s windows as it nears the modern capital of Pakistan, the tall downtown buildings are a hazy glow in the 171

downpour. The bus pulls over to the road’s side, before it enters a six lane divided highway dissecting the capital city. Through the pounding rainstorm, Haifa sees a tall, lean man wearing a black, western business suit exit from a Nissan sedan, and then ordering the bus driver to open the door; he then enters the bus. None of the rain-drenched men riding on top, put on alert by the suited man’s presence, take the opportunity to enter the dry confines inside the bus. The suited man wipes his wet forehead on his suit sleeve and orders the driver to proceed onto the expressway. He stands at the head of the bus, one hand griping a vertical metal pole, his eyes crawling over the burqa covered women, making everyone, including Haifa,uneasy. The disguised Palestinian woman, very much aware of the new arrival, tries to focus through her window on the wide clean streets and tall buildings of the city zipping by outside. The city was built in the 1960s in order to move the capital to a more secure spot, farther inland than Karachi, the previous capitalon the Arabian Sea. In the business section of the city, the bus pulls into a modern station, although not allowed to park in a covered parking stall, it is forced to disengage its passengers onto a sidewalk into the heavy rain. The dark Nissan sedan following the bus pulls in front of it, and a second shorter, stocky man in an identical blacksuit emerges, moving into a doorway directly in front of the bus’s open door. Haifa remains seated as the first of the women and children begin to disembark, her eyes fixed on the thin man standing in the aisle scrutinizing each person as they step into the rain; she guesses him to be some sort of policeman. When the elderly man, seated next to her, rises, she closely follows him to exit as she would accompanying a male relative, her head lowered, displaying submissiveness. What she could not see until standing is that the thin man blocks each woman’s path, gazing into their eyes to determine their age, maybe even their attractiveness. She has heard too many 172

accounts of rape and extortion inflicted upon women traveling alone in extreme Muslim societies not to be forewarned by the man’s action. The suited man allows the old traveler to pass into the wet night, but blocks Haifa’s path, forcing her to turn toward the bus station’s neon illumination to get a better look at her. Her eyes break away from his scrutiny, as she hopes to discourage whatever action he has in mind, but at the same time her hand moves beneath the heavy burqa and touches the 25 millimeter semi-automatic pistol she has taped for such an occasion to the inner thigh of her left leg. “Not so fast, my pretty eyed one,” he orders in Arabic. His hand grips her left arm. “Haleem,” he calls to the suited man in the doorway, “this one will do.” His voice is deep and rough, and for the first time she notices a dark, short, neatly trimmed beard covers his face. “I am with the Pakistani Inter Service Intelligence. You will please come with me.” He guides her down the bus’s stairwell into the rain. She feels her other arm being taken by his partner, who leads her to the Japanese made sedan. Her spirit plummets when she recalls intelligence agents are federal government police given carte blanche to act in any way they see fit without accountability. At first, she is angered by this interruption blocking her search for the nuclear scientist, but now senses an opportunity to not only find Meghwar, but approach him. Haifa has faced death too many times to be unstrung by her sudden abduction by the two Pakistanis. “Please my husband has just died. I am a widow returning home to my parents in Islamabad,” the Palestinian woman entreats, knowing her plea will fall on deft ears, attempting to distract the men from suspecting her hasty formed plan. “You are a whore. Only whores travel without a man’s protection.” The thin man, his lips twisted into a confident sneer, pushes her into the backseat and jams his body next to her. The stocky one, wearing a thicker beard than his 173

partner, gets behind the steering wheel, turns and allows his eyes to consume the captured prize, and then guides the sedan into the thin evening traffic. After getting a glimpse of his pock-marked, puffy face, the hyena cunning in the eyes leering at her, she suspects what fate awaits her at the hands of the man and his partner. “It was obvious the old man was not escorting you, so I was not fooled by your attempt to deceive me. Only, an Islamic woman who has turned from Allah travelsalone. Flaunting your sex to entrap innocent men will not go unpunished,” the policeman wedged next to her states. Haifa hears the driver’s thin laughter in front of her. Before she can react the hood of the burqa is yanked from her head. Her abductor strokes her short cropped hair. “What a pleasant surprise you are.” The seized woman bides her time, as she takes in her captor’s suggestive smile under a nose pushed to one side by an old blow. He pulls the burqa’s heavy, black cloth away, revealing the shape of her perspiring legstransparent under a silken undergarment sticking to her body. “You can cooperate, or we can beat you into submissiveness. Which would you prefer, my pretty one?” His hand grasps her ankle under the thin silk, sliding it slowly up her bare leg, the dampness enhancing his lust. Her hand finds his before it reaches her thigh. “Not this way, not in the car,” Haifa pleads with the man, stalling for the right moment. “It will be more pleasurable for the three of us, if you cooperate.” She feels his short clipped beard pressing against her neck as he runs his tongue under her chin. “You will not hurt me if I give you want you seek?” “If you satisfy both of us in the manner we want, then we will drive you back to the bus station, and you can continue your journey to your parents.”

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“I will do what you say, if you promise not to hurt me.” Haifa puts as much fear into her voice as she can, at the same time suggesting she will cooperate. “You must perform in the exact way we require, no matter how immoral it may seem to you.” “I will.” The trapped woman holds his hand against her inner knee in an encouraging way. “Haleem, drive to Section Seven, to our little hideaway.” The sedan’s increased speed causes Haifa to sink into the backing of the rear seat. For the moment, the man is content to kiss her lips and neck, his hand doing no more than squeezing her calf. The vehicle leaves the well lit expressway, disappearing into a dark industrial area, a tangle of mud brick huts and haphazardly built streets where human activity has ceased for the day. Haleem has negotiated so many turns on the narrow, dirt streets that the abducted woman has lost her sense of direction. The sedan stops in front of a corrugated tin shanty, the pounding rain audible on its metal roof, the runoff creating a muddy pond in front of the metal hut. The Nissan’s headlights illuminate the padlock on the door as the driver exits the vehicle, unlocks the door and steps inside. Haifa sees a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling by its cord throw lighton a bare metal table displaying a large car battery. Haleem, the stocky driver returns and turns off the car’s ignition, while cheerfully volunteering, “our interrogation room. For tonight it will serve as our pleasure room.” Laughing to himself, he opens the door on the woman’s side and pulls her into the room; his thinner partner following. Haifa has freed the automatic pistol from the tape binding it to her inner thigh and conceals it under the burqa. Inside the hut, she examines the twelve by twelve meter room: it has only one chair, caked with dried blood, with lengths of rope hanging loose from the metal arms. The walls, what she can see of them, are also caked in splattered blood, the 175

stench of decaying blood intimidating to anyviewer. The shorter, thick bearded man removes the large truck battery and electric probes attached to the terminals from the table, his thick hands holds the items before Haifa’seyes, while the other man flashes a stiletto before her. The thin abductor, touching her breast with the knife’s blade, volunteers: “sometimes it is more fun to do it while our sex partnerjerks and screams. We attach these wires to her toes after we enter her. What an electrifying sensation it can be.” Both men laugh in a threatening manner. The woman cannot hide the horror filling her eyes. “If you fulfill our every need, you will be spared such shocking fun,” Haleem adds. Haifa nods her head in compliance. Suddenly, her stomach feels as if it will collapse, as the tall man slams his fist into her belly. She drops to her knees, gasping for air, only to feel the man behind pull her head up by the hair. He slams her in the back of her ribcage with his fist. The thin man hits her a second time in the stomach, leaving her moaning on the dirt floor. It is all she can do to hold onto the pistol, as she struggles to stay conscious. The stocky man lifts her up from the floor and holds her by her underarms. She can barely hold her head erect, for the pain in her abdomen is so intense. She feels herself retching, her stomach heaving violently. The thin man holds his handkerchief over her mouth, until he is sure she won’t vomit. “It is good you don’t cry, as it would do you no good. That was only a taste of what will happen to you, if you do not satisfy our every wish. Climb upon the table and position yourself on your elbows and knees,” the thin man with the stiletto commands. When she complies with his order, careful to allow the pistol to lay loose in her burqa top, he moves to where her head is, and drops his suit trousers and underwear and pushes himself toward her face. “Lick my balls.” 176

The woman, feeling the presence of the observing stocky man beside her, his hand on her back, cannot be certain she can take them both by surprise, so swallows her disgust and moves her tongue over his testicles and erected penis, his pungent body order sickening to her nostrils. She arouses him to a point where he lowers the knife to his side, undulating his pelvis. “Slow down, pretty one. Haleem do what we spoke about.” the man forcing oral sex upon her says to his accomplish. Haifa feels the skirt of her heavy burqa being pushed over her hips, her sheer undergarment being town away. He spreads her legs apart, ripping out the crotch of her panties. “So wet and slippery you feel, so easy for me to slide back and forth. What is this tape near your pussie for? The man behind her asks, momentarily pulling back. “Money I carry to give to my parents,” she lies, allowing the humiliation flowing though her to drench her words, previously taping ten English one hundred pound notes on her outside leg opposite the pistol, an intended bribe for someone to locate Meghwar. “Not only do you pleasure us, you reward us.“ The man behind her laughs, cutting the tape away with a knife and pocketing the currency. Haifa winces as she feels two of the man’s thick fingers stab repeatedly into her vaginauntil she is wet, taking his time while he strips naked. His partner watches, as she feels the man behind enter her, his ponderous body thrusting back and forth. The force behind her is so violent that she cannot help but grunt. The thin man misreads her physical responsefor passion and pulls her head toward him. “Now suck my cock off. I must see you swallow my come.” When she senses both men are close to the point of ejaculation, she retrievesthe small automatic revolver from inside her burqa and brings it toward the man pumping his hips into her face, firing it into his left thigh. He pulls back in agony, his face a mask of shock. The behind man 177

plunging into her stiffens, but so controlled by an imminent ejaculation cannot stop his thrusts. The woman rolls from the rapist’s grip onto her back, kicking him free from her. She jumps from the table, her eyes locked on the hairy, bigbellied rapist whose crimson flushed face can do little more than watch the sperm trickle from his penis. The thin rapist leans against the dried blood on the wall, the hand holding the thin stiletto dangling at his side, his eyes watching fresh blood squirt from his thigh. She motions for the naked rapist to join his cohort by the wall. The reality of the trap they have fallen into grips both men, becoming aware of their nakedness, subsequently their vulnerability to the woman they have performed untoward acts upon. “You with the pants around you ankles, give the stiletto to your accomplish and lay on the table. Not believing what he heard, the thin man does not move, prompting Haifa to fire a bullet into the wall next to his head. The man attempts to pull up his trousers, only to be stopped by the woman’s command: “leave them down.” He limps to the table, leaving a trail of blood, and lies upon it. “You who forced yourself upon me from behind, like some beast, take your knife and slice off your partner’s genitalia,” she orders the naked man, who now holds his hands over his own genitalia. When he too hesitates, she adds: “from this distance, I can easily shoot your not-so private parts off.” She watches while the stocky man moves to the table and staresdown at his terrified partner. “Take your left hand and grab his penis and sack. One quick slice will do it.” She puts the pistol against the back of his head to force him to comply. The naked man reluctantly follows her instructions, grabbing his accomplice’s penis and testicles, bringing the stiletto’s blade to the wounded man’s flesh. “In Allah’s name, have mercy.” “Was it not in Allah’s name you raped me. If and when you make it to the promiseland, your mutilation will serve as 178

your everlasting shame.” The woman, who kept her composure throughout the mortifying rape, moves toward the policeman turned victim to fulfillmenther purpose. “I am sorry. I beg your forgiveness. I have a wife and children. How can I face them after you take my manhood away?” the supine, half naked man implores. “Your manhood? Do you refer to your cock and balls, the ones you forced me to lick. Your family would be better off without such misguided tools.” So fierce is her repulsion to the man, she cannot even manage to smirk at the ironic juxtaposition of the night. The thought of all the injustices that Muslim women have suffered, emboldens her need to castrate the monster whimpering on the table. Giving him time to further diminish his psyche, she takes a minute to rehash the many tragedies inflicted on the women of Islam by so called superior pious males. The most recent assault coming to her mind: the Muslim deft-mute in a village she passed through in the Punjab state, thrown into the dusty streets, her two children taken from her by a husband who divorced her after the next door neighbor raped her. And, the young, vulnerable woman was stupid enough to point out her rapist to the village leader, subsequently being charged with being impure, napak, according to the village elder’s version of Shariah. Haifa can still visualize in her thoughts, the young impregnated mother, carrying the rapist’s baby, unstrung by her fall from grace, sitting in the decrepit public square, expressing unintelligible words as she begsfor her next meal, while boys taunt her with the word, whore. The woman’s life shattered and the rapist never charged with a crime, still livingnext door to the woman’s ex-husband who has remarried. Just one of the many injuries inflicted upon Muslim women by so-called superior males. “Let me repeat what you said to me:cooperate. If you can see your way to do so, maybe, I will spare your manhood.” 179

“Yes, anything. Anything you want. Please tell me what it is, and I will do it.” “The scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar. I know your security police have kept him under surveillance. Tell me where he lives and what he is doing at this moment.” The half naked man’s eyes fixing on the stiletto touching his scrotum, shows his eagerness to cooperate, stammering: “he lives where he works in nearby Section Seven, the poor district down by the river. Please,tell Haleem to release my privates.” The once superior face of her abductor has paled in fear. Haifa ignores his request, touching the standing man’s temple as a reminder not to remove the blade from the man’s genitalia. “Where is he at this moment? Speak quickly or you will carry your manhoodin your pocket.” “In his rooms. He is known for working late into the night.” Haifa’s pistolnudges the naked man gripping the other’s genitalia. “Do you know how to find this place?” “Yes. We can take you there,” the burly undercover policeman replies. “One person will do,” the Palestinian says to the naked man. She shoots the thin rapist stretched across the table in the head, his blood splattering over the man holding his penis and testicles. Both she and the corpulent, hairy rapist watch his accomplice’s blood flow off the table, saturating the dirt floor. Retrieving her money from the subdued policeman‘s trousers she then tosses the garment into a corner, ordering the naked man: “Get dressed.” *

*

The woman, obscured in the burqa and its hood, holds the automatic pistol to the stocky policeman’s head. The man she only knows as Haleem sees his superiority transmuted 180

to insecurity, as the Nissan sedan comes to a stop in front of a two story office building. This time the rapist rides as the captive, not the captor. Next to the office building is another structure that is walled in, except for the iron door securing the archway entrance where the name, Ummah Tamee e Nau, is painted in Arabic. The two buildings are dark, except for a solitary light shinning through a window upstairs. Both Haleem and Haifa in the rear seat are profusely perspiring; the failed rapist from being unnerved by the pistol she has pressed to his head for the last fifteen minutes while he drove through the downpour to Meghwar’s residence. In spite of the intense heat and humidity of the night, exacerbated by the heavy, nonbreathable garment she continues to wear that causes her to copiously perspire, so much that the pistol in her hand drips with her sweat, Haifa, unlike the policeman, is calm, in control of the situation. “That is Doctor Meghwar’s apartment. The great man works late into the night. It is highly unlikely that he will see you.” “It will be up to you, as a law enforcer, to make it likely.” The woman slaps the pistol against the driver’s head. “Get out and knock on the door. I will follow like the submission creature I am dressed to be.” After five minutes of incessant pounding on the outside door, a teenage boy wiping sleep from his eyes, Haifa guesses to be a madrassas student working off his tuition, opens the door. The boy is reluctant to disturb the scientist, but after seeing Haleem’s badgeleads them up a stairway and gently knocks on the door. “What is it that you want, Maulana?” “An officer of the law and a woman to see you, Doctor.” “A woman at this hour? Tell them to go away as I am busy. The police officer can return at a respectable hour.” Haifa jams the pistol into the heavy policeman’s back. He pushes the boy aside and opens the unlocked door. “Go 181

back to sleep and do not disturb us,” he orders the teenager. Looking uncertain, although unable to disobey an authority figure, the boy descends the stairs to his room. Haifa follows the policeman into the room where a white bearded, old rotund man wearing a black turban and dressed in a loose fitting kurta, the national shirt preference, sits before a computer, his eyes locked upon the screen, papers with handwritten notes scattered about his desk. “What is the meaning of this interruption?” Both arrivals know his irate question is solely directed to Haleem, demonstrating his distain for women. “Did you not hear me when I saidI did not want to be disturbed? And this woman. . . . How dare you foul my house with her presence?” The scientist, showing his contempt for the interruption, does not look up from his computer. The disheveled policeman presents his badge and credentials to the small, round man. “Forgive me honorable one. She states that her purpose is urgent. I have no choice in the matter or else I would not disturb you.” The scientist glances at the police agent. “You talk nonsense. Unless you are here on official business, leave here immediately and take this apostate with you, or I will report you to your superiors. Old and retired as I may be, I am not without teeth.” He once again directs his attention to the computer screen. “Enough of your pretentious protocol my esteemed Doctor. Sit down Haleem. I will address the honorable one directly,” Haifa commands, revealing the automatic pistol and indicating the wood chair before Meghwar’s desk. The irate old man pushes away from his work, surprised at the turn of events, as he watches the humbledpoliceman seat himself. As if viewing the devil, he slowly brings his focus to Haifa, but quickly looks away. 182

“I know who you are. I know your beliefs, and I know why the Pakistani government forced you to retire. I am an Arab woman, foremost a Palestinian, who wants the Jews off her forbearers’ land. And I need your expertise to do it.” “You are an uninvited woman desecrating my home. Put your little gun away and leave me.” Meghwar waves his hand, dismissing her, and re-involves himself with the computer. Haifa controls the anger building within her over the man’s superior attitude. She takes the dead, thin man’s stiletto in her left hand and plunges it into the seated policeman’s neck. Haleem screams, but it only comes out as a gurgle, sounds of air rushing up through a red viscosity, his blood squirtingacross the room. The fatally wounded man stands to escape the room, but can only stagger a few steps toward the scientist, flopping on his desk and twitching like a headless chicken, blood pouring over the man’s notes. “Are you insane?” Meghwarscreams, backing against the wall, his white bearded face frozen in horror. “You just murdered anIslamic man for no reason. Are you going to murder me also?” “This degenerate had to die sooner or later. Better sooner to get your attention. Inferior creature that you believe I am, you will not only talk to me, you will give me the answers I seek.” “I do not fear death, because I am an old man, whose purpose has been taken away from him. I look forward to being at Allah’s side. The One and only God. Blessed be his name. Blessed be His Messenger’s name. Peace be with him.” “A death wish is easy to pronounce, so difficult to experience. Let us see how it is with you, Doctor.” Haifa moves behind the old man and places the sharp blade of the stiletto against his neck. “What if I have a great nuclear discovery to show you, and you die never knowing if you 183

ignored the greatest atomic advancement during your scientific life? Listen to what I say, and you will once again find a purpose to live for, a greater one than your earlier purpose, a means to restate yourself with the Pakistani Nuclear Program.” “Who are you, and what do you want with me.” “I am a Palestinian standing against the Israelis, and that is all you need to know.” Haifa removes the hood covering her face, the cool air from the air conditioner touching her drenched hair revives her, giving her the will to continue her mission, to overcome the sharp pain from the beating she took at the rapists’ hands.. “Sit down. I have a formula to show you.” “How can I sit while the man you murdered still moves.” They both watch Haleem’s spasmodic twitching, until the woman grabs him by the beard, pulling it until the body falls to the side of the desk. She then flings the computer and papers onto the body, clearing the desk. “Now sit down, I will tell you a story of infidel transgressions and how they lost the secret to a mighty bomb.” Meghwar sits down, staring at Haleem in the last throes of death, while Haifa relates the American fundamentalist’s mission and subsequent interrogation under Hezbollah hands in Lebanon. The subject of a thermonuclear bomb pulls the eminent scientist from his dismay over the turn of events. “You talk nonsense. A pure fusion bomb of the type you suggest cannot be made. I have spent my entire life in nuclear physics, and such a thing can never be more than theory. Do you even understand nuclear reaction?” The elderly fundamentalist has yet to look upon the female’s face, addressing his words to desk’s bloody surface. He does not wait for a reply, continuing as if addressing a madrassas teenager. “It is the collision of the atoms under a great force moving at the speed of light, splitting apart, releasing neutrons that split more atoms, creating chain 184

reactions of tremendous force, powerful enough to level a city. These chain reactions must have tremendous heat and pressure to trigger them, similar to what takes place inside the sun. To accomplish this result, creators use the implosion method; they use a fissile explosion driving neutrons upon a target, known as a pit, creating the extreme temperature and pressure on super enriched uranium in order to set off a fusion chain reaction as high as one hundred generations. This is a very complex procedure as the neutrons must be driven to the pit simultaneously and uniformly to the microsecond to trigger the more powerful fusion explosion. The devastation can be ten times that of a simple fission one, such as the one the Americans dropped on Hiroshima. The fissile implosion method is the most devastating weapon known to mankind, not your make believe pure fusion one.” “The thermonuclear bomb you helped design to neutralize your foe, a Hindu India, Doctor, was so huge in size, you had to trade that design to North Korea for missile technology so Pakistan would have the means to deliver such a weapon upon its historical enemy.” “We did what we had to do to protect our nation.” “In turn, I am doing what I have to for my country’s survival. I have a bomb that a youngster could roll down hill into the center of Delhi. If you will not look at me, look at this.” Haifa slams a sketch she made of the formula she acquired from the American, along with the necessary elements. It shows a cutaway sphere, the size of a bowling ball; at dead center are intertwined helixes with two fisheye lasers spinning at both ends. Underneath, she has listed the necessary ingredients--beryllium, polonium, deuterium tritium and plutonium 239 (10 pounds) or uranium 249 (30 pounds). Weight: 25 to 70 pounds. The white haired scientist studies the diagram, speaking more to his thoughts than to the woman holding a pistol. “Beryllium and polonium mixed would make up the 185

reflector, creating a further neutron source. The tritium mixed with deuterium--also known as heavy water, would be injected prior to detonation as a booster. The plutonium is preferable because it is lighter and obtainable from spent nuclear fuel rods that are worldwide. The unproven element here is the laser technology. It would have to create the heat, some 11 million degrees Fahrenheit, creating a pressure a billion times greater than the earth’s atmosphere.” “Can it be done? If so, can this weapon be made by a Muslim?” Haifa asks, for the moment forgetting the pistol in her hand. “If these fish eye lasers can be developed, then the two 600 facet lasers you show here, pinpointing the pit, each fish eye laser collectively creating charges up to a trillion volts, approaching the speed of light, bombarding the plutonium, it would on paper make a pure fusion bomb. The temperature and pressure exerted would be incredible and sufficient. Yes, on paper, it is possible.” “Who can develop such a weapon?” The old scientist ignores the woman holding the pistol, his mind chasing the possibilities of his discovery. “I must take this to my government. The weight is so light, the simplest of missiles could deliver it. Anyone of my students could carry it undetected to any city in India or anywhere in the world, for that matter.” “Who can develop such a weapon?” Haifa repeats her question, realizing the old scientist is preoccupied with his imminent resurrection from obscurity. She taps the scientist on the shoulder with the pistol. He looks directly at her for the first time. “Any nuclear physicist working in the thermonuclear field could. The laser technology is the key. I have heard that the Americans, British, French and Russians have developed cutting edge laser technology. Of course, the Israelis also have. But none of these governments will share it with 186

you, a Palestinian and a woman. Even if you handed them the formula.” “I have heard that everything is for sale in Russia.” “Possibly.” “Doctor, besides you, is there anyone who has the necessary funds, connections and technology to build such a weapon?” “I will not serve you, a woman.” “Who else?” “It is possible the hero of the Russian resistance in Afghanistan could satisfy all the requirements. After the Americans forced him from Somalia, he trains armies of mujahedeenin that wild country to destroy the infidels who occupy Muslim lands. You have no doubt heard of him, Sheikh Osama bin Laden. A great man.” “Yes I have heard of this Saudi. Get your coat, Doctor. The rain is heavy outside.” “I am an old man. My health is too frail for this late hour, let alone suffer this nasty night. I have given you what you came for, now leave me alone.” “You will drive me to the Indian border.” “I am forbidden to leave Islamabad.” “With the knowledge I have shared with you, you will once again be a hero, powerful enough to be forgiven such a small infraction as leaving this city. Let us leave now.” *

*

Haifa and yesterday’s nuclear luminary, the old Islamic, sit in his Buick luxury car across the street from a bus station in the small town of Wazzirabad at dawn’s approaching hour, watching an old, dusty and hand painted purple bus stopping in a market square that has yet to open for commerce. She once again has put on the hood to her burqa; remaining extremely sore from the beating the two 187

dead policemen gave her, but determined to prevail over the challenges beforehand. “Go now,” the old man commands, appearing overly fatigued, as he indicates the gay colored bus. “I hope I never look upon you again.” “I will grant your wish.” The Palestinian raises the pistol from her lap. “What do you intend to do?” He stares at her image in the rear view mirror. “To rid the world of one more fundamentalist. I cannot have you blowing up Hindus before I deal with the Jews.” “No, not now. Now that I can return to my exalted place in the nuclear program. Build my country a great weapon.” “Your glory will be eternal. Beside your God.” “Please dooo. . . . Through the back seat, Haifa fires twice into his heart.” Under the continuous heavy rain, she joins the other burqaclad women boarding the bus, head lowered in submission, and sits next to an old woman, fully robed,returning to India. *HARLAN* The obsessed man, more intent on obtaining the holy nail than seeking revenge on the Palestinian woman who had him castrated, has met every flight into Islamabad for the last eight hours, and the woman who possesses the nail did not appear. Upon his arrival at the airport outside of the city in a place called Rawalpindi, he explained though his interpreter to the immigration officer stamping his passport that his purpose in Islamabad was to interview the two scientists most responsible for developing Pakistan’s nuclear program. He hopedthe official might give him the addresses where he is certain the Palestinian woman will appear at one or both to verify the bomb’s legitimacy. In spite of the promise of a favorable Pakistan story to 188

American readers, the official ignored his request. Frustrated wasting his time meeting flights with no sight of a tall woman traveling alone, Harlan offered the official a hundred American dollars, gaining the location of Meghwar’s madrassas after being told Kahn‘s location was not known. The Israelis had given him a false American passport identifying him as Henry Brown, an independent journalist, and provided him with the funds to hire an interpreter, enabling him to move less suspiciously within Pakistansociety. The fundamentalist has forced himself to carry on in spite of his crude castration at the hands of the Hezbollah imam. He rationalizes that the mutilation of his body was due punishment because of his failure to carry out the preacher’s order to bring the nail back to the church. Feeling exhausted from his ordeal in Lebanon, but committed to finding the nail that he hopes will bring him redemption from his God, Who he believeshas turned from him. The interpreter, who is also his driver, somehow managed to find the nuclear scientist’s madrassas during the late evening downpour amidst mud brick huts, no more than shanties haphazardly fixed together in a maze of dark, muddy streets. He is uncertain as to whether or not the diabolical woman has come to this place or is attempting to contact the other scientist, Kahn. For the time being, watching this location is his best option. Throughout the last half hour, the two men have been watching the second story light falling upon a Nissansedan parked beneath the window. Now shadows have crossed the second story window’s illumination just before the room goes dark. Harlan’s interest perks when the building’soutside light comes on, throwing light across the street. He and the interpreter slip down in their seats so as not to be seen. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he sees a short, round 189

old man in Pakistani dress, followed by a tall figure completely covered in a burqa appear in the illumination. “I got you now, you monster.” Harlandid not mean to speak the words, especially since the interpreter looks bewildered by the utterance. “I mean the old man no harm,” he adds to quite the man’s suspicion, but sees that he not believed. He places the Israeli automatic pistol in the man’s side. “Do as I say and you will live.” Both he and a very nervous man watch the short and tall figures make their way through the slashing rain over the muddy street to the iron gate next door. Under an archway entrance where the name, Ummah Tamee e Nau, is painted in Arabic, the old man opensthe gate. Minutes after the scientist and woman disappear through open,iron gates, a Buick luxury sedan emerges and makes it way though the rain drenched streets. Harlan places the pistol to the interpreter’s temple and speaks one word: “follow.” Once the Buick leaves Islamabad, traveling on secondary roads, the interpreter volunteers they are heading forIndia’s border. The miserably wet night discourages all traffic, except for a few commercial trucks, so Harlaninstructs the driver to fall back, maintain a distance so as not to appear suspicious to the Buick’s passengers. The old man drives the automobile so slow that it takes the woman and him the entire night to reach their destination, a squalor-looking border town of a five or more thousand residents. The luxury vehicle stop in what looks to be the main market square hosting a community water fountain in the center. The fountain is surrounded by vacant stalls yet to be opened for the day’s commerce. Before he can decide exactly how to approach the woman in the Buick sedan, he sees two flashes in the auto’s compartment and realizes she has shot the old scientist. His driver opens the door and tries to bolt free, only to be pulled back by the American and pointblank shot in the chest. Harlan watches the burqa clad figure cross the square to a colorfully painted, run 190

down bus and queue behind other burqa covered women. He pulls the bloody shirt, more like a robe, from the dead man, slips it on and then buttons his suit jacket over the long shirtto obscure the bloody bullet hole. Still bearded and wearing the dead man’s loose fitting kurta, he resembles an Arab racing across the square to catch a departing bus with a few passengers getting soaked on its roof. He manages to board it, before it pulls away from the square. He spots the woman staring disbelievingly at him as he bribes the bus driver with two American twenty dollar bills to give him passage. Harlan cannot take his eyes off the two dark pupils staring back at him through the slit of a black hood, the eyes that studied him in the Hezbollah cellar are burnt into his memory, therefore easy to recognize as the Palestinian who betrayed him. The castrated man thought he was beyond taking revenge for what she ordered done to him, but once in her presence realizes he is not. The bus driver instructs him in Arabic to do something that he does not understand, although the unintelligible words interrupt his compulsion to shoot the woman where she sits. The fundamentalist, believing the driver has ordered him to take a seat, moves into the aisle; seeing no vacancies, he kneels behind the woman. The formless figure stiffens, as the woman realizes he has for the moment gained an advantage on her. He mutters the Lord‘s prayer, “Father, Who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name. Thy kingdom. . . .” to get a grip on the overwhelming urge to kill her. Leaning close enough to the woman that he can smell her robe’s dampness, he whispers: “Seeing the back of your head blown away would give me immense pleasure.” “Do that and these Muslims around you will tear you to pieces with their hands.” 191

“A price I wouldgladly pay to see you dead.” He places the automatic pistol against the napeof her neck. “Give me the holy nail,and I will let you live.” He hears her suppress a laugh under the hood. “Do you think I carry such a valuable object around like a toothbrush?” “Where is it?” In his haste to confront the woman, Harlan fails to noticethat the bus has yet to move and that the driver is not behind the wheel. “At a place where it will be sold to the first buyer willing to pay ten million English Pounds.” “Don’t you think that is overly greedy, since you already have the nuclear formula?” “Not greed. Need is the word I would use. And no, the formula is not enough. We all have our purposes, some are born of reality. Some are not.” As much as he abhors dealing with such a ruthless being as the woman sitting before him, he wonders if the preacher would be willing to pay such an outrageous amount for the holy object he failed to obtain. He decides to escort the woman off the bus, and then force her to take him to the holy nail, only before he can act, he hears the bolt actions of AK47s injecting rounds into the chambers. His heart sinks as he look up to see two black uniformed Pakistani soldiers training their weapons on him at point black range. Seeing the driver standing behind the soldierstells him that the man reported him to the border guards. He now realizes the bus driver ordered him to take a seat atop the bus rather than stay inside. The soldiers shout incomprehensible words at him, although he understands they want him to disembark from the bus. “Where can I find you?’ His question leaves his mouth as a desperate plea. “Amman, if you live.” The realization that he has once again failed to obtain the nail hits him as he stands, both hands above his head; the 192

pistol in his right one, the bloody robe under his suit jacket, knowing the dead interpreter’s and nuclear scientist’s bodies are in the abandon sedans. The Palestinian woman, surely a demon from Hell, has bested him again. *HAIFA* Haifa tosses the cellar phone she purchased at the Cairo Airport out the window of the taxi speeding along the expressway into Shubra, the poorer district of the city. She used it for a solitary call to her long ago humanities teacher at the venerable Cairo University. He was a long time member of the Muslim Brotherhood, a firebrand who has mellowed with old age, his voice quiveringas he answered her question. She inquired of the elderly man about which mosque her uncle, George Hamad, as a leader of the radical Hamas, would worship at. The ex teacher paused momentarily, and she felt the regret in his voice that he no longer was able to pursue the battles of his youth, as he spoke the name of the holy place where radical Sunnis congregated--the Suleiman ibn Solun Mosque. She rolls up the taxi’s passenger window, blocking the hot desert air flooding the compartment, as the day has yet to cool. Having successfully verified the bomb’s formula, the confident woman informs the taxi driver of her destination. He is a young man not much older than the boyish youth she pretends to be, dressing herself in an Egyptian baggy shirt hanging loose outside shapeless pantaloons, obscuring her female shape; a round hat, Cairo men are fond of wearing, covers her recently cut short hair. The opportunity that she has hoped for, the means to cripple an insurmountable foe, the Israelis, who had murdered her grandparents, confiscating their property during Nakba, the Great Catastrophe, and later orchestrated the slaughter of her parents at Shatila has finally been realized. She has the means and the method to bring the 193

occupiers of her homeland to their knees, by a future selling of the ancient nail on the black market for the bomb‘s funding and subsequent development. Although, to design and build such a weapon, she will need more funding than what the ancient artifact will garner, and that is her purpose here in Cairo. The hot evening sun puts a copper tinge on the Suleiman ibn Solun Mosque’s dome and projecting minaret, as the driver brings the taxi to a halt on the ramshackle street a safe distance from the dusty worshiping place. She ordered him to stop the taxi there, because the neighborhood is poor and manymen not having the luxury of motorized transportation walk toward the mosque. She intends to blend in with them. The threadbare worshipers fill the street before the mosque as the mudhdhin atop the minaret calls for the evening prayer: “Allah is the greatest. I bear witness that there is no deity but Allah. Come to prayers. Come. . . .” The chanting the woman has known since infancy has become no more than a senseless drone in her ears. Just the type of a rundown neighborhood the extreme fraction of the Muslim Brotherhood prefersto dwell in, she notes. Here, by giving the needy food and medicine, they win recruits to join their cause of establishing Islamic states throughout Arab countries; by offering free education to their children, they are able to indoctrinate radical fundamentalists for a future generation of their self ordained jihad. The woman presenting herself as a Muslim youth watches the wind agitating the dust over the rubble outside the worn stone walls that are hot, dry and of the same gritty hue as the land surrounding them. Scores of devoted Muslims, presenting themselves for the Friday evening prayers and subsequent sermon by the khatib,walk devotedly up the wide stone steps through the small entrance into the courtyard. To the atheist woman, mosques, such as this aged onewith their formidable walls 194

and grand edifices resemble fortress where men can resurrect their superiority over women. Haifa exits the cab after giving the youthful driver a modest tip and trails behind the men whose eyes are fixed on the Qur’ans they hold. Pretending to read surasas any devout Muslim boy would do, her attention is locked on the few veiled women in their body-covering jibals walking behind the men. Once through the doors into the courtyard, those women not defiled by a menstrual cycle enter a separate door to a separate section of the main prayer room. The disguised boy grimaces over the segregation, but finds some recompense for this man made assault on women as menstrual blood flows from her. If only these pious men knew that a menstruating female fouled their scared sanctuary, they would repel, believing me to be a demon from Hell, she tells herself. Accepted as a teenage boy, Haifa follows the men to the central fountain, a twenty meter oblong ablution pool with stone benches, over which a dome roof supported by marble columns fifteen meters in height emerges. Under the covering, the men will observe ghusul, the ritual bath to cleanse themselves prior to appearing before Allah. She watched her father, before he was murdered by the Phalangists,perform the ritual many times, so has no problem performing the cleansing acts with those men not having the time to previously wash themselves. As Haifa washes her forearms and then her feet, she notes that, so far, not one man, even though her features make her a striking youth, has given her a second look; they are all business in Allah’s house. Her ghusel completed, the Palestinian woman lingers by the entrance to main prayer room, reading her suras until her uncle emerges unaccompanied in a throng of arriving worshipers. Dressed in a jellab, a Bedouin robe, hefiles past her. She follows him to the front of the high ceiling musallah, moving among the marble columns to where he spreads his prayer 195

rug on a worshiper’s permanently outlined square inset in marble in the front row. Having forgotten to bring a rug, she stands barefooted on the cold, crimson marble beside him, pointing herself, as he does, toward the mihrab that indicatesthe direction of Mecca. Her uncle notes her presence without recognizing herand resumes his prayers, standing with his hands by his head. Following his lead, she mumbles what he chants, as he next crosses his hands over his midriff: “Praise and glory be to you O Allah. Blessed be Your Name. There is no God but You.” Haifa mouths the words of praise, as she assumes the numerous positions dictated by the Qur’an, bending at the waist, standing, kneeling andprostrating herself until her forehead touches the cold marble. There are seven various positions assumed by the believer while reciting suras, completing one rakat, all of which makethe woman feel as a trained dog would, for she goes through the motions, believing none of it. She assume the jaloos, a relaxed position like the rest of the male worshipers, her legs tucked under her, as a portly, middle aged, haatib, an imam with coal black hair and beard, takes his place atop the minabar and chants: “In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. . . .” The woman ignores his prayer until he begins the sermon, noting that the imam periodically directs his attention toward her uncle: “Our brothers and sisters in Palestine continue to suffer each hour--high walls separate them from their families, army checkpoints in their homeland degrade them on a daily basis, economically strangling them, depriving them of their livelihood and family. All this suffering is under the apartheid of the disbelievers, the scum Jews and the crusading Americans. The pigs’ heinous acts against the helpless Palestinian women, and children, stealing their lands, then their lives, affront Allah, His Messenger and 196

you believers. The pigs occupation of Arab land is a slap in our God’s face, the Messenger‘s face, our faces. Now infidel troops are defiling Jerusalem, SaudiArabia where our most holy sites are. As I speak, the infidels attempt to destroy Iraq and its Muslim warriors, because Saddam and his countrymen dared to claim what was once Greater Iraq. Because these decedents of pigs and apes have the airplanes, the tanks, the missiles, they think they can manipulate us. We know Allah will send them to Hell. With His blessing, jihad is now the obligation of every Muslim here tonight and every Muslim throughout our holy lands. Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!” The imam’s voice rises to a scream. “Be warned. Whoever does not strike a blow against the war mongering Jews and theAmerican infidels invading our lands will not know the sweet fragrance of everlasting Paradise. With Allah’s blessing,his people will prevail over the unbelievers. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.” The black bearded imam bows his head, his hands fixed at his sides, signaling the sermon is concluded. The scores of men stand, a good many in poor dress, and engage one another in heated conversations pertaining to the Israelis and Palestinians. Others, looking weary from a long workday, exit the prayer room, having completed their devotions. Haifa’s uncle turns to greet her, perhaps, she thinks, he means to recruit her to the Hamas cause. Before he can speak, she asks, “How long are you going to hide out? When will you follow the imam’s command and resume your vacated plan to destroy the Israelis, Uncle George?” She enjoys seeing shock freeze her uncle’s face. “Are you insane, defiling Allah’s temple by praying with men? For such blatant apostasy I should expose you. They would take you to the street and beat you to death, tear you to pieces for the jinn that you are.” His words are such a low growl that she must move closer to hear them. 197

“Close to Satin as I may be, I will tell you why you won’t expose me.” “Leave me. You are the worst of all curses upon me.” “I am the curse that you created the day you ordered that primitive imam to mutilate me.” “That is in the past. I would not be in Egypt if you had not killed the minister’s son.” “As you say, Uncle George, that is in the past. I came here to offer you the future, a future that will brighten the lives of all Palestinians, and you will be the man to show them a dayof total victory over the Israelis. You will be the man who eclipsesChairman Arafat.” “You talk nonsense.” “I took an ancient, Christian holy object off the dead Jewish tank commander at Aide. The Jew’s father, the current Israeli Defense Minister, had made arrangements to trade it to American religious radicals for a. . . . listen closely. . . for the formula to make a pure fusion nuclear bomb in a very small container. This bomb will unleash a devastating blast, enough to level adjacent cities. These American fanatics somehow stole this formula from their armed forces, sending it with their trustworthy messenger to trade the Jews for the nail they believe pierced the hand of their lord. I intercepted that messenger. After revealing the bomb‘s formula to me, he is soon to be dead in primitive Pakistan. Now I am in possession of the formula, the design and the ancient nail. You look as if you have seen the devil, Uncle George. Let us leave this mosque, before your friends inquire about the nature of your contorted face.” The Palestinian woman dressed as a boy and the older man exit the prayer room through the courtyard onto the dust blown street. They stand near the old wall shimmering under the low lying sun, protected from the force of the desert wind. “You and I will share this bomb, share the means to neutralize the Israelis. But first you must leave 198

the safety of this community and seek the financial means from the man who will give it. He is your friend and has funded Hamas in the past.” “You speak of Sheikh bin Laden?” “You must go there and solicit his aid.” “If by some rare chance I can convince him that you are not a raving maniac, he will want the bomb for himself.” “You must bargain sharply: we get the first one, he can have the rest.” “Haifa, he is sworn to destroy the Americans. Such a weapon could lead to a worldwide holocaust.” “Do you fear such an event, Uncle? I do not. The sheikh is a wise man, and as much as he wants to fill Hell with the unbelievers, he will not be so capricious as to fill heaven with all the believers by destroying an American city and unleashing their retaliatory nuclear power.” “I am not so sure, because those particular believers will be where they want to be, in Heaven at Allah’s side. But you are correct;it is time for me to resume the fight against the Israeli dogs. I will go to Afghanistan and find the sheikh. You must give me this formula so I can show it to him. As you said he is a wise man who will not throw his money away needlessly.” “Tell him that Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar verified its validity. Remind him that the Russians will supply the ingredients for a price. If you are to lead the Palestinian people to a life free of apartheid, then you must convince him on the strength of what I have just revealed. When your mission is concluded, we will meet in Palestine.” The tall woman disguised as a boy turns her back on her uncle, believing she has convinced him to do her bidding. *GEORGE* The Hamas leader leans back into the front seat of the small Toyota truck, bouncing over the rough road from Kabul to 199

Jalalabad, biding his time on the drivethrough the rockstrewn, blistered mountain terrain of Afghanistan. Sheikh bin Laden’s men had first wanted to blindfold him as a security precaution, but a cell phone call to a higher-up waived the procedure, allowing him to travel to the mujahedeen training camp, al Farooq, as an ally in the war against the infidels. Two armed mujahedeen soldiers ride in the bed of the truck, their Ak47s at the ready should he attempt an improper move. One Toyota truck in front bounces over the road carrying in its bed four armed mujahedeen dressed in long shirts flowing to the knees of their pantaloons with sandals covering their dirty feet. All armed escorts are fully bearded as demanded of observant Muslims, who George suspects are guards on loan to the sheikh from the Taliban. Another truck in back with more armed men accompaniesthe truck transporting him. He marvels at the road’s desolate, broken surface, the surrounding bleak, treeless mountains, having never made this trip before, although he did earlier endure the uncertain routes of Sudan to seek funds from the great man. Coming from the bountiful land of Palestine, this journey across the desolate, dusty, snaking link between two major Afghan cities only ventured by the compelled traveler, seems to him like a trip across the moon’s surface. Busted stone buildings along the road outside Kabullay deserted. When he inquires about the abandoned dwellings, the guards inform him that the inhabitants were driven out by continual fights between the querulous war lords and their tribal armies. He had flown from Cairo to Kabul, and once on the ground shocked to see the bombed out buildings and destroyed neighborhoods from a decade of continuous wars. As a taxi transported him from the airport to a contact house, he viewed entire residential blocks destroyed by the Russian invaders’ bombs, the destruction exacerbated by the current Taliban government when they attacked the warlords who 200

earlier drove the Sovietsfrom Afghanistan. The Taliban bands of mullahs and religious devotees, originating in the untamed Pakistani tribal area of fundamentalist Waziristan near the border, took control of Afghanistan, except for Mazir I Sharif in the north where the displaced war lords and their small armies found refuge; the destruction that he sees everywhere reminds him of Palestinian villages destroyed and leveled by the Israelis during the Great Catastrophe he witnessed as a boy. As he looks at the burnt out remains of two Russian tanks pushed to the side of the road, when, he wonders, will the infidels stop invading our lands. He also wonders if he is on a fool’s mission, about to lose his credibility with God’s chosen warrior, the man many Muslims call the Caliphate, should he fail to convince him of the bomb’s potential. His unmanageable niece convinced him about the truth of her declared discovery; she, a female, was of all the Palestinian jihadists, the one that loosened Mattath’s iron grip on the Palestinian people by her victory at Aide. Her accomplishment there gave credibility to her claim, that of possessing a deadly bomb’s formula. Haifa is more like his father, her grandfather, then her father. His father and her grandfather, Khahd, had resisted the Irgun terrorists’ attack on his people and his village to the end, in what is now the illegal Israeli state. Their forbearer saw his house burning as he lay dying, shot in the stomach and spine, his wife dead at his side. He held out against the Israelis while his sons, George and his younger brother,escaped into the darkness. Two decades later, as young men, he and Haifa’s father, returned to Palestine from Jordan, only to be driven from Jerusalem when the Israeli Army routed the Jordanian Army in the 1967 war. Her father choose to flee to Lebanon with his young family, living like rats in a refugee camp named Shatila, until that fateful day when the Christian Phalangists attacked the camp, encouraged by Minister Mattath, then the commanding general of the 201

Israeli Army that invaded Lebanon and drove Arafat‘s PLO Army from the country. Haifa saw both her parents and siblings murdered in that unprotected refugee camp, although not before the Christians raped her mother and older sisters. Being the tempestuous woman that she was, she slit the throat of a murdering Lebanese Christian with a concealed knife, as he attempted to rape her, took his clothing and escaped with the murderers when they vacated a devastated Shatila. During the Israelis victory, the enemy refers to as the Six Day War, over combined Arab forces, they seized Palestine and the holy mosques;George had escaped behind the fleeing Jordanian Army, finding refuge, like so many other refugees, in the bleak desert villages across the Jordan River. There, he elected to follow Yasser Arafat, recently arrived from Egypt with a small band of freedom fighters, who launched guerrilla raids on the Israeli settlements springing up throughoutPalestine. Arafat was in the early days of taking arms against the invaders, the first resistance leader to openly fight them after a string of Arab defeats at the enemy’s hands--standing as a hero to a downtrodden people. Then he was a resolute leader, clearly seeing the Palestinian purpose, one of driving the enemy from Muslim land, not today’s vacillating politician he degenerated into. George relives the night he participated in a night raid, falling into an Israeli trap crossing the river into occupied Palestine. He spent the first month beaten and water logged by the Israeli Shabak at the notoriously brutal Dahariya Prison in the West Bank, squatting naked, hands bound to his ankles, in a bare cement cell, no bigger than a closet. Withstanding the torture, he refused to give up Arafat’s location in the Jordanian desert or the name of any Palestinian refugees taking part in the raids upon Israeli settlements. Beaten unconscious by Shabak interrogators, suffering from a broken arm, the captured Fatah member spent the next three months recovering under 202

unsympathetic prison medical care. Thought of as unimportant to future intelligence, Shabak agents sent him to an Israeli prison, named Ketzoit, but called Ansar by the Palestinians, in the Sinai desert, somewhere near the Dead Sea. He spent the next forty-four months surrounded by barb wire, sharing a tent with twenty other prisoners that became a insufferable sauna under the desert heat. His sentence had no end, until Arafat’s Fatah soldiers captured an Israeli soldier on the road to Hebron, stupid enough to relieve himself while on sentry duty. The capture was a godsend for George, for after four years, he and twentyfour other Palestinian prisoners were exchanged for the single Israeli soldier. Having paid his dues to the struggle to drive the Jews from Palestinian land, Arafat honored him with the command of a Fatah platoon that he led against the Israeli and Jordanian Armies in Jordan, later fighting the Israelis and their Christian puppets in Lebanon; both times, he was thoroughly routed, defeated along with the PLO Army. Early on in the struggle for freedom, George was not fully committed to Allah, not following Shariah, the perfect path that the One and only God sent to earth through his Messenger, His last and most important prophet. In the Ketzoit prison, he met a Muslim Brotherhood imam, who was a devout adherent to the Wahabbi secthe embraced while studying Islam in Saudi Arabia. Alone and forgotten, helpless at the hands of his captors, George was receptive to the words of the fiery Wahabbiimam, who, time and time again, said the reason Muslims were being subjugated and daily humiliated by the infidels on their own land was became they had not followed Shariah as Allah so saliently spoke through his Messenger. Only when the Muslims became devout again and obeyed the Qur’an to the absolute word of Allah, could they drive the unbelievers from their lands. Against enemies as powerful as the Israelis and their guardian--the Americans--he saw no other course than to 203

fully embrace the most powerful One, to win His support by giving Him absolute obedience, if necessary give his life to the fight against the unbelievers. Years later, after suffering many setbacks by the Israeli Army, George was in Jerusalem, meeting with the Wahabbi imam, when the oppressor, Mattath entered the holy mosque, al Aqsa, a transgression upon the holy place. Given their repression under Israeli hands, the transgression became the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back, outraging Allah’s followers. In response to Mattath’s irreverence, the Wahabbi imam created Hamas, Islamic Resistance Group. George, disgusted by Arafat’s continual compromises with the hated Jews, left Fatah, becoming the imam’s acolyte, dedicated to inflicting punishment upon the transgressors. Ahead of him, he scrutinizes the hazy smog laying over Jalalabad, until the convoy ofthree Toyota trucks leaves the main highway, taking a dirt road toward the Hindu Kush; the gray outline of the high Safed Koh Mountains visible in the distance. Two hours later, the convoy comes upon a stream flowing from the inhospitable foothills, where George and an accompanying party of guards leave the Toyotas and follow a donkey trail paralleling the cascading water. For the remainder of the day and the subsequent night, the party follows the trail paralleling the stream into the mountains. George, aware of the arduous trek before him, knew to wear the same long, loose shirt and pantaloons as his guards, although wearing boots instead of the sandals they wear. But even though his feet are protected from the harsh, uneven rocky path, moving in such a high altitude physically drains him. His thoughts return to his niece, an impetuous, uncontrollable girl when she, after escaping the massacre at Shatila, first came to his house in Al ‘Ayzariyah, near Jerusalem. Honoring the memory of his brother, he sent her to the best school in their patch of Palestine, hemmed in by Israeli occupied territory with 204

themany military checkpoints. Having seen her parents and sisters murdered, having murdered a man herself at Shatila, the teenager refused to conduct herself as a proper Muslim woman, flaunting her womanhood, smoking, dancing and he suspected whoring like a decadent Westerner. The teachings of the Wahabbi imam clearly told him what to do, and that was to stone her to death as all harlots must expect. But out of respect for his dead brother, he sent to Somalia for a holy man,and when Haifa returned home late at night from one of her debacles, she faced four women, whom he had hidden in her bedroom. They forcibly undressed her and held her down while the Somaliland imam castrated her with a sharpened piece of obsidian. The holy man had wanted to close the lips of her vagina with a suture, but George thought the castration paymentenough. As he labors along the foot path, he firmly believes he should have killed her, now it is too late as the castration has turned her from an unmanageable teenager into a ferocious wrongdoer, a jinn, beyond his or any man’s control. Just as the sun touches the tops of the Safed Koh Mountain range, George and the armed men accompanying him, begin their descent down a slope in the foothills. Before him he sees al Farooq, the sheikh’s main training camp for the mujahedeen, the strugglers, spread out by a river flowing from the mountains. On the near side of the river, sprawling over a kilometer on the high plateau, he sees tents and yurds--the round straw and mud huts--too many to count, guessing three to five hundred. The recruits, after morning prayers, mill about waiting for the new day’s campfires to heat their breakfast, perhaps as many as two thousand displaying full beards, if they are old enough to grow one, an impressive number. Those too young to grow a beard he knows came from the many madrassas in Peshawar across the Pakistani border. The religious schools are favorite recruitment fields for the Taliban. He surmises many of beardless Peshawar youths are sent on 205

loan to Osama bin Laden, a great friend of the Taliban holy warriors. In the distance, he sees sheep herders tending huge flocks of sheep on a slope where a few patches of green exist. His eyes travel to the bluffs across the river, perhaps forty meters from the water, where carved out doorways lead to rooms within the granite rock; in front of the openings, atleast fifty heavily armed men, the sheikh’s guard, stand; here is where the devout warrior sleeps. After his escort is challenged by two sentries on the trail, and allowed to proceed, the party wadeknee deep across the river to the large gathering of guards before the rocky bluff. The oldest of his escorts speaks to a very large guard blocking a doorway. The man’s beard shows streaks of gray, a white battle scar cuts diagonally from a sundarkened cheekbone to his chin. The scarred man disappears inside a room carved out of the bluffs, and returns with two men who spread out a rug and construct a gossamer sun shield above it. The gray bearded guard approaches George, greets him by saying, “God is great. There is no other God but God. May His blessings be upon you.” The Palestinian visitor greets the guard in a similar manner, and when the formalities are over, the scarred-face man relates: “Our prince extends his greeting and will join you shortly. He wishes you to refresh yourself after your long journey. Please seat yourself, and I will see that milk and bread are served, so that you can replenish your body.” George walks to the river unescorted, understanding the uneducated guard uses the title, prince for Sheikh bin Laden, as the ultimate honor he can pay to the man he serves--the only well-bred Saudi who was willing to lead mujahedeen volunteers against the Soviets. At the river, he washes his hands, face and feet in the cool mountain runoff. Out of respect for his host, he slips his clean jelab over his soiled shirt and pantaloons and wraps a length of white cotton around his hair and ties off the end, forming a turban. 206

After partaking of the milk and bread, he reclines on one elbow, resting on large pillows, fighting the fatigue from the night march that demands he close his eyes. Feeling seduced by the warm day’s embrace he no longer can keep his eyes open. Providence is on my side, he tells himself, as the sheikh’s many guards stir about, metallic bolts of their weapons clicking, jolting him from his slumber, sparing him the embarrassment of falling asleep before his audience with the great man. The sheikh’s bearded guardsmen, their fitness apparent in their trim torsos and bare muscular arms, point the muzzles of their rifles to the heavens, demonstrating readiness to protect their leader. Soon, the tall majestic form of the bearded sheikh materializes from a dug out room, dressed in a white robe over pantaloons. The sun shimmers majestically on his white turban as he walks before his guards, towering over them, leaning heavily on his cane, but to the Palestinian witness the cane is a potentate’s staff, royally touching the ground before each step. George, realizing he has been mesmerized by this experience, bolts to his feet, intimidated by the great warrior’s clear, perceptive eyes trained upon his own. The man stops on the rug opposite him and says in the softest of tones: “Allahu Akbar. There is no God but God. May His blessings be upon you.” The very tall man, some six inches taller than the Palestinian, brings both hands together before his face and bows his head, and adds: Slalaam Aleikum.” George, overcome by the man’s graciousness, replies: “And upon you, peace.” Bin Laden kisses the shorter man on both cheeks, as is the Arab custom. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting Ahmed al Qassam my Palestinian brother. Important matters needed my attention.” Flattered that the significant man remembers the honorary name he has taken; the first name a tribute to the Wahabbi 207

imam blown up by an Israeli missile in retaliation to a Hamas bombing in Tel Aviv; the surname he took from the militant arm of Hamas--Izz al-Din-al Quassan. George addresses the sheikh by his full name, demonstrating he is also knowledgeable: “it is I who seek your forgiveness, Sheikh Osama bin Mohammed bin ‘Awad bin Laden, for imposing upon your time when you must use it for such an important undertaking as this.” George indicates the training area across the river where men run obstacle courses, where they scale walls, hand walk along stretched ropes; others running at full speed, while carrying combat gear, firing their weapons at targets with accuracy. “Never will you be an imposition. I always welcome a visit from you, my friend. Please be seated.” George stands awkwardly as the man who shunned a privileged life in Saudi Arabia to fight the Soviets, turns to his scarred-face guard and says, “please bring our guest tea and sweets, if they are available.” He waits until the guard moves in the direction of the outdoor kitchen, then awkwardly seats himself on the pillows across from his visitor. George realizes how much he loves this leader of men, how much he would follow him through the fires of hell, as he realizes that the hard life this extraordinary man has chosen for himself has prematurely aged him, graying his beard, stiffening his limbs, making the simple task of crossing his legs difficult. “It troubled me to hear that the Israelis drove you from your house in the West Bank. I pray no harm has come to you since that time.” “No harm, my Caliphate.” The visitor uses the title given to ancient rulers of the Muslim people, when there was only one ruler over their vast empire, when they ruled over the most powerful kingdom in the known world. Sheikh bin Laden smiles modestly at the tribute. “That terrible experience, although not forgotten, is in the past. In staa 208

Allah, I must return and drive the Jew infidels from my homeland.” “Yes, God willing. Yes, are a true soldier in the service of Allah, the One and only God.” “Driving the Israelis into the sea is the reason I seek your help, once again.” “I am honored to give it. Two hundred and fifty thousand Jordanian dinars will arrive at the bank as before.” “That is most gracious of you. But, I do not seek that type of help. The aid I seek, if it can be given, and the goal of that aid achieved, then I in Palestine, you the chosen one, will have the means to drive the infidels off of Muslim land. Forever, I think.” George feels the great warrior’s eyes probing his psyche, studying his demeanor for the longest time, before he speaks: “If the aid is within my power to give, it is yours. But you. . . . Ah, the tea.” The Palestinian visitor attempts to steady his nerves as he watches the thin man take the service from an aide and pour the hot, sweet brew into two demitasses. George takes the proffered cup as his host takes a platter of chocolate covered candies from a second aide. So powerful, yet so gracious, the seeker of funds thinks about the man before him. A man who could live in any palace in any part of the world, yet he chooses to serve Allah in this harsh, unyielding land. He finds himself gazing at the mountains, beaten to treeless, rocky soil by the relentless sun. “Please have a chocolate sent here from Beirut. A rare treat, for I thought the supply exhausted.” The tall host laughs as if he holds a forbidden delicacy. George accepts a piece from the extended tray, the chocolate begins to melt in the mid morning heat. “Now my trusted friend, be good enough to tell me about this gift that you hope to obtain from me, the one that will serve the purpose of Allah.” 209

“I have been offered and I, in turn, offer the same to you, the formula to make a pure fusion nuclear bomb, powerful enough to level Tel Aviv, yet small enough to put inside a soccer ball.” The Palestinian finds himself beginning to sweat after drinking the hot tea, which he sees does not have the same effect on the sheikh. He prays his perspiration is not mistaken for nervousness. “Does such a weapon exist?” the man’s question is asked so softly that George must lean forward to hear it. ‘It does.” “How came you upon such a formula?” “The information was taken from an American Born Again Christian. These extremists have permeated the highest level of the American government in order to obtain such a top secret weapon. This man intended to trade the information to the Israeli, Mattath, for a crucifixion nail believed to be the one that pierced the hand of the prophet Jesus of Nazarene.” George sees that he has captured the powerful man’s imagination, because for the first time, the man‘s calm demeanor becomes energized. “Our despised enemy has this nail?” “No. My niece has it. She took it off the minister’s dead son after she killed him at Aide.” “Your niece took part in the victoryat Aide. How is such an achievement by a woman possible?” The mujahedeen leader directs the question more to himself than to his visitor; disapproval is evident in his voice. “And this pure fusion formula?” “She also has it.” “Your niece is remarkable for a woman, but a woman who clearly does not know that her place is in the home. Did you bring me such a formula.” “She has refused to give me more details other than complex lasers are needed. She also said money is needed to buy Plutonium 239 and 235 and a leader needed, such as you, with the will to build the weapon.” 210

“Excuse me my friend. Guard, ask Doctor al-Zawahiri to join me, if he can spare the time.” The camp’s commander explains to his visitor: “my colleague and friend knows more of these nuclear matters than I do. I ask you to tell him what you have told me. As you know, Doctor al Zawahiri has joined forces with my army, the one we now call al Qaeda. Allow me to direct your attention across the river. The men in formation approaching us are the elite of the elite of our foundation.” George swings his head toward the river, only seeing a large dust cloud blowing in his direction. When the dust cloud passes over the river, he sees that it has been kicked up by the feet of running mujahedeen, as they make a right turn out of the dust. Black turbans cover their heads and scarves wrap around their faces, so that only their resolute eyes can be seen. He counts twenty ranks of five men abreast running at full speed, their boots hitting the water’s surface in perfect unison, their right hands extending AK47s above their heads. The formation, moving as one, runs for fifty meters following the river’s flow, splashing water in all directions in front of their Saudi leader, firing a short burst from their weapons, their heads turned toward him. As suddenly as they emerged, the elite troops disappear, leaving the river, returning in the direction they started from, once again behind a dust cloud created by their feet. “No enemy can stand up to such a force,” George comments, truly impressed by the precision unit. “Most of the fighters will leave to fight in places where Islam struggles against its enemies--Somalia, Chad and Algeria. The best of fighters will stay here to train volunteers from all over the world. My friend, send your young men to me, and I will return them to you as fierce soldiers in the Army of God. Our detractors think of us as a force without a country. With Allah’s blessing, the world will become His country.” 211

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More than ever George feels the fatigue exacerbated by the hot mid-morning sun as waits for an answer while Osama bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri, sitting opposite him, study him in silence. Both men ponder the information he has brought them. He believes he is in the company of the two greatest Muslims alive. The tall one having sacrificed so much for the Muslim cause; the short, more introspective, more studious man, known as The Doctor, suffered so much in an Egyptian prison for the resurrecting Islam as set down by Allah. The brilliant doctor, a true exponent of Born Again Islam set down by the martyred Sayyid Qutb who subsequently became the catalyst for Muslim Brotherhood militants in Egypt. Doctor alZawahiri, dissatisfied with the passiveness the Muslim Brotherhood evolved into after being scourged by retaliatory government, formed al Jahad, a militant organization dedicated to eradicating leaders in Muslim lands corrupted by western influence. Like Sheikh Osama, he has sacrificed a privileged life, having been born into one of the most preeminent medical families in Egypt. The doctor, prematurely aged by three years brutal imprisonment after the execution of Anwar Sadat, is the first to speak: “Almed al-Qassam, the money and the plutonium can be readily supplied, the scientists and place to build such a weapon found. But I must inform you that Allah would not look favorably upon us if we receive such an important contributionfrom a woman. I speak for the Sheikh when I say we must decline your offer.” George feels regret grip his heart, not only will he not get the bomb and the means to replace Arafat, but he has lost face with these two great men. Unable to disguise the disappointment drowning his psyche, the Palestinian drops 212

his gaze to the rug before him. He looks up when he hears the softer words of the tall Saudi-born leader: “My friend, if you can find a way to take this formula from your niece and present it to us with your own hand, then we will build the destructive weapon for you to eradicate the Israelis occupying your land. Until that time, it is my belief that the strong hand of a Muslim man is needed to guide your niece to her proper place under Shariah.” Out of the corner of his eye, the Palestinian sees the Egyptian doctor nod his head in agreement. All George can bring himself to do is nod his head in understanding. “This holy nail that you spoke of, we must have it at any cost. Offer your niece any price. I will pay it. I am building a mosque in Kandahar, close to the village Singesan, where the Taliban leader of the Afghan people was born. This holy place will be called the Mosque of Mullah Omar, and such a wonderful find as the crucifixion nail of Allah’s prophet, should rest there, a gift demonstrating our love for our ally Mullah Omar and our respect for the peace he has brought to Afghan people. “So that your journey here will not go un-rewarded, two hundred, fifty thousand dinars will go to the Hamas bank account. Go now my friend and pursue those tasks Allah has lain before you.” George remains resolute to seeing the bomb built, although he realizes the ancient nail has impressed the sheikh and the doctor as much or more than the nuclear weapon. The tall thin Saudihas difficulty rising, necessitating the doctor to assist him to his feet. George stands and bows his head in deference to the two extraordinary men that the Muslim people place their hopes upon. As the training camp, al Farooq, disappears behind him, he realizes he must force his niece to give him the bomb’s formula and the nail the two devout al Qaeda leaders where so interested in. For himself, he wants the formula; with it he will have the means to neutralize the Israelis, 213

subsequently replace the ageing Arafat who has betrayed the Palestinian people by recognizing Israel as a legitimate nation. Now that Osama bin Laden is aware of Haifa, he cannot afford to have her running loose, creating havoc that will compromise him with the al Qaeda leaders, therefore even though she is his beloved brother’s daughter, she must be sacrificed. Whether or not Haifa tells him what he must know, she must die, for he knows she will never observe Shariah as the sheikh commanded. *DOVID* Prime Minister Bimar dispatched his aide to personally pick up the Defense Minister and bring him to his residence in Jerusalem, a modest four room apartment in the poorer Hassidic district. The stress of the recent Iraqi War that the Americans masterfully handled, but failed to finish by leaving Saddam Hussein in place, must have taken its toil on Israel’s aging prime minister as rumors in government circles report him to be in poor health. Dovid is glad the Gulf War, as it is called, is behind him, and one more enemy is greatly weakened, but leaving another, Iran, emboldened by its enemy’s defeat. Birmar’s aide is unusually silent as the sedan weaves through the evening rush hour traffic, leaving the minister to think that maybe his involvement with the American fundamentalist has been discovered. It has been almost a week since the disturbed man left for Pakistan and no word of success or failure pertaining to finding the Palestinian woman has reached him. The old soldier knows, but cannot fully admit it to himself that he wants revenge on the murderer of his last surviving son, more than he wants to stop the woman from developing the bomb’s formula. The sun, at a direct angle, radiates off his white shirt, as he and the aide exit the sedan and ascent a building’s outside steps to the prime minister’s second floor apartment. 214

Ascending the interior staircase, he nods to the solitary boyish guard saluting him from a seated positionon the top step. Perhaps, he hopes, another guard, less relaxed, is on the prime minister’s balcony to stop any unwelcomed visitor. Rachel, Bimar’s wife of fifty years, a small, matronly woman, in a housedress and pre-WWII hose rolled at her knees, greets them at the door. Upon entering the apartment, Dovid is taken back by the small size and modest furnishings, more befitting a junior government official than the Prime Minister of Israel. The apartment smells from the chicken soup simmeringin the kitchen. The gray haired woman hugs Dovid before leading him to her husband’s office; her grip is strong, befitting a woman who has supported Israel’s first and foremost guerrilla fighter, standing by the old warrior’s side throughout his long career in the Knesset. The cheap metal desk that Bimar uses when working at home is pushed to one side of the small room to accommodate a hospital bed where Israel’s leader lays half upright, fully dressed in a business suit. A half dozen telephones of various colors, connected to members of his cabinet, occupy a work table next to the bed. On the wall behind Bimar, is an old picture of a Polish styled menorah; on the adjacent wall is a picture of David Ben-Gurion, Israel’s first prime minister and past political rival of Bimar. The only other picture on the old metal desk, which Dovid has not noticed until now is a photograph of an ancient Roman arch. His attention rests there. “That is the Arch of Titus, some fifty feet high by thirty feet wide, built to stand the test of time. I took the photo in Rome when I attended an economic conference of Mediterranean countries there.” The voice is much weaker than Dovid remembers from their last meeting, bringinghis attention to the aging man. Never physically strong, although notorious for being mentally tough, the small man seems a skeleton of his former self, his once vibrant mane 215

of dark hair now white and thin; his once durable face ashen and sunken. “Look closely, Dovid, and you will see the relief carved in stone, depicting Jewish prisoners carrying Jerusalem’s golden menorah back to ancient Rome, after Titus’ son, Tiberius destroyed the temple and leveled the city. The 50,000 Jewish captives, some depicted on the stone relief, built the arch, toiling stone by stone, many Israelites dying as slaves before the arch was completed. Thus this arch depicts the world’s longest Diaspora—our people’s—from 70 A.D. until this twentieth century. I keep the photograph to remind me what is in store for Israel, if it so much as pauses to take a deep breath in the fight against our enemies. Our enemies are all around us, Dovid, and they will not desist in their onslaught until we Israelis are all dead or pushed into the sea.” “Israel’s defenses will not falter under my watch, Yitzhak.” The larger man notes the heretofore fervor of undaunted commitment has left the man’s eyes, leaving them dreary. “And that is the very reason I asked you to visit me. You and I, Dovid, are warriors, descended from a long line of warriors—Abraham, Jonathan, David. We have fought for this new nation since its inception.” “You more than any one, Prime Minister,” the junior of the two old men points out, wanting to draw attention to the man’s accomplishments in the never ending fight for persecuted Jewish people, first he fought in Poland against the anti-semantic Soviet government, then as a member of an underground unit, Irgun, putting pressure—bombings and raids--on the British to withdraw their troops from what was previously knownas the Palestinian Territories. He was at the forefront in the War of Independence against the many Arab armies, capturing several Palestinian villages and seizing land that increased the size of tiny Israel. Just recently, the Americans denied him the opportunity to strike back at an old enemy, Iraq’s Saddam 216

Hussein, who lobbed SKUD missiles upon Israel. Dovid knows that not being able to protect the people he is sworn to protect from the Iraqi attacks has frustrated the prime minister as much as it has him. “Do not be modest, Dovid. When I entered politics after our great victory in 1948, you subsequently took on Israel’s battles, first as a young soldier raiding Palestinian strongholds in Jordan from where raiders attacked our people to become a general of the IDF leading tanks across the Sinai against Egyptian forces, driving them back into Cairo. You are the only surviving high level officer who was there in the beginning, bringing victory after victory to our beleaguered country. That is why I will recommend you to the cabinet to take my place when I step down next week.” “Yitzhak, our people feel secure under your leadership. I guess there is never an appropriate time, but, I must inform you that I will be opposing you at the head of a new party, as the Lukud Party no longer represents my views.” Dovid candidly volunteers his intent, regretting the timing of it. “Dovid, I remember that you almost resigned your office when I signed the Oslo Peace Agreement, acknowledging the enemy’s right to become a nation. I tell you now that it was just pages of paper, meaning nothing. The terms of the agreement were written in such a way that many conditions must be negotiated before the awful reality of a Palestinian nation takes place. I am dying. My heart is worn out. Whether or not you agree with my past policies, you are my only choice to carry on the work we have started. Egypt and Jordan have signed treaties with us, but Arab bombings still terrorize us. That is why Israel will negotiate past being blue in the face with these so called Palestinians, giving them nothing. We have some one hundred settlements in the Palestinian Territories, isolating Ramallah, Jericho, Bethlehem and other Arab villages in the West Bank. During the forthcoming negotiations that 217

will produce no result for Arafat and his PLO, you must continue my policy of seizing Arab land in any manner that you can engineer and build a series of settlements east of the West Bank. You must separate these terrorists from arm shipments coming from Syria though Jordan and Lebanon. Once the territory is acquired and settlements built, you will link the settlements with roads and set up military checkpoints on them to frustrate Palestinian movement. Continue to build an isolation wall completely around the West Bank and Gaza. As before, these walls must be fifty feet high with gun towers every 50 meters, razor wire atop the ramparts, buttressed by two meter deep trenches and high voltage lines before the walls; have the engineers place sensors along the wall’s length, fifty meters from it to detect untoward movement. Seize and clear Palestinian land for one kilometer before and behind the wall. If we cannot force these Arabs from the land, we can cage them like the beasts that they have proven themselves to be. In this endeavor, do not be dissuaded by foreign or domestic detractors.” “I knew the post Oslo negotiations were forced on you by the Americans, but I had no idea it was your intent to let the agreement with Arafat languish. Thank you, Prime Minister for restoring my faith in you. I have been waiting to finally neutralize these Palestinians for some time now.” “My friend, Israeli politics can be a very fickle business. For now, stay with the bird we have in our hands, the Lukud party. Mold it to your philosophy, and there will be no need for a new party. When I step down, you will have a majority vote in the Knesset to implement the policy I just detailed. The moderates will screech and howl, but they have little clout to stop you. The Israeli people want security and will support you in your endeavor. Whichever party you head, I know you will set the right course for Israel after I am gone. The current American administration admires you, but do not take them for 218

granted. Be a supportive partner to the Americans in our war against mutual foes, for without the continual American support, life in Israel would be very precarious. Compromise as much as you can with them, but not on the segregation tactic. These Arabs occupy land Adonai promised Avarham. I trust you to see that these things are done.” “You have my word, Prime Minister.” “I hesitate to ask, but is there anything in your life that could bring your government down after the Likud Party selects you to take my place?” Dovid saw the old man scrutinizing him, so felt a hesitation in answering would jeopardize his chance of becoming prime minister. “No,” he lied, because directing the nation’s policies would give him the chance to once and for all castrate the Palestinians. “I thought not. Now leave me, I have much work to do before I resign, and you have much preparation before you.” Dovid stood before the dying man, regrettingthat age was about to take another of Israel’s great leaders. Being Prime Minister of Israel would throw him into the world’s limelight, where the slightest exposure of the American murderer or the Palestinianwoman would rock the nation. But the stakes were high enough to risk it. *THE PREACHER* “The Save Me Jesus Sunday Evening Hour, brought to you by The Christian Majority, continues with its founder and your host, Paul Hansom.” The preacher never tires of being identified as the founder of the televised show he started long ago in an abandon bowling alley, using an antiquated transmitter, video camera and microphone, covering the walls with egg cartons, converting the storage room into a sound room. In 219

the beginning, he only transmitted to the countryside, east of Richmond, Virginia; perhaps he reached five hundred households, with not one spectator seated before him. Now, three decades later, with state of the art video and audio equipment and five sound stages, the equal of any major television network, the show he originated by demanding the gospels’ absolute written word be obeyed, currently reaches twenty-five million Born Again Christian homes. As founder, he has expanded the original spiritual broadcast from the original thirty minutes to the most watched two hour show in Christendom, adding a Christian daily news hour, a family enrichment hour, teenage and toddler guidance programs with over thirty paid reporters and hosts, plus scores of writers and technical people. He stands on the sound stage, in middle of his religious empire, very much a man controlling his environment, surveying the thousand seat theater, packed with devoted followers, some even standing in the rear aisles. “Thank you Lord for giving me all these wonderful friends seated before me in this marvelous auditorium on this gorgeous summer night.” He expects and hears thunderous applause and is truly grateful for the bountiful blessings the Lord has bestowed upon him. “My friends, before we get to our question and answer part of the hour, I cannot allow our guests to depart without delving further into the most important event in a Christian’s lifetime. This departure from the program will probably make our show run over and interfere with your plans for the evening, so I ask your forgiveness.” Applause from the audience signals consent to his deviation allowing him to continue: “in her marvelous book, The Second Coming; The Last Sign Is Upon Us, Patty Duncan has written that the most wonderful, most anticipated event is in our imminent future.” The preacher seats himself in a leather reading chair across from his two guests, sensing the television camera focusing on him for a close up picture. He asks: 220

“Patty, this sign, the rebuilding of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem, the final sign before the Second Coming of the Lord, what events do you foresee following His descend from Heaven?” “It will be the end of the earth as we know it. The peoples of the earth will file before the Lord Jesus, and He will separate the true believers, the ones who openly and totally accepted Him as their Savior, from the non-believers, those who failed to express their everlasting devotion to Him.” The preacher can feel the blood pounding in his temples as he vindicates the author’s vision: “So it has been written. Glory be to God. Matthew wrote, ‘He shall sit upon the throne of his glory. And before Him shall be gathered all nationsand He shall separate them one from another, as a Sheppard devivideth his sheep from the goats.’ Yes my friends, the faithful among us, on His right, shall ascend to Heaven into everlasting peace and glory. And if I am not there to see that approaching day, I will greet you when you arrive.” Lamenting murmurs over his possible mortality stir throughout the audience. “Before you, my faithful friends, ascent to the Heavens, you will see Satan forever conquered, thrown into Hell’s abyss never to tempt another soul with his evil, and the non-believers, the Godless, will fall into a lake of fire before your eyes where everlasting torment awaits them. A torment so vile, they will writhe in unspeakable agony. I will now speak to the vast viewing audience outside this auditorium: if you are one of those who have failed to accept Jesus Christ as your Savior, it is not too late to save your soul and avoid eternal damnation. As Matthew said, ‘repent thee for the Kingdomof Heaven is at hand.’ I beg you to get down on your knees as I speak and accept Jesus as your everlasting Savior, and avoid the everlasting torment of hell’s damnation.” The old man, even as fit as he is, struggles to lower himself to his knees, finding the author and the general assisting 221

him. “Repeat after me. Save me Jesus. Save me, and I will worship you until my dying day. Give me everlasting life, and I will forever honor You as my one and only God. Amen.” Even though his eyes are shut, the preacher senses the author and general knelling beside him, and hears the audience repeating his words in unison. He lifts himself upright, again with the help of his guests, and wipes the perspiration from his brow, before taking a seat in his chair. His two guests also seat themselves. “General, you were in the Middle East as a battlefield commander during the recent Gulf War that saw the Iraqi Army thoroughly defeated by allied forces. And you have just heard Miss Duncan proclaim that the last ingredient to the Second Coming of our Lord is the rebuilding of the Jewish temple in Jerusalem. If our Jewish friends in Israel tore down the Dome of the Rock Mosque, which I might add was intentionally built directly atop the destroyed Jewish temple by Muslims conquers around the year 785 A.D., could their army withstand a united Muslim attack? This attack would be from a vast population infuriated by the destruction of their supposedly third most holy site and the subsequent construction of a temple rebuilt there by the modern day Israelites, a people with a Holy Bible mandate.” The general, lean and fit, who has just taken his seat opposite the preacher, allows a knowing smile to occupy his normally ridged face, as he answers: “pound for pound, the Israeli Armyis as tough and capable as I have seen. In some ways, they are the equal of our own U.S.forces. No army of any nation in the Muslim world can stand up to their advanced technology in the air and on the sea and their capability on the ground. In a word, the Muslims are outgunned. And if that isn’t enough, these Israelis will fight as one people, a tiny nation with its back against the wall, as it has demonstrated in the past. The Muslims, a divisive combined force as they have proven themselves to 222

be in the past, will not attack tiny, but mighty Israel in force, having learned their lesson from past wars. The Israelis could bring a big iron wrecking ball out and knock that golden dome, into a piece of bent junk, smash the prophet’s rock into poppycock dust and barely break into a sweat fighting off the outraged Muslims.” “Thank you, General for giving us such a forceful evaluation of Israel and its many enemies.” Thunderous applause sounds from the audience, accompanied by shouts of “glory be to God.” “So you see, my friends, life as we know it on this earth is about to change. Blessed be the children of the Lord. Now, as is our custom, I will answer questions from you my very patient audience.” Normally, this part of the Sunday evening show is his favorite time, as it allows him to be one on one with his followers in the audience, to hear their concerns and address them from his heart, but tonight he finds himself impatient to end the show, for the general’s appearance on the program is just a pretense for being here; the real reason, as stated in an earlier telephone call, concerns urgent news about Harlan, God’s warrior, who he dispatched to Israel to bring back the holy nail. Something has gone wrong, and he does not know what that wrong is, but suspecting the worse because Harlan should have sent him the holy object by now. He uses all his skill not to rush through a young couple’s genuine concern about whether or not it is a sin to enjoy sex during marriage and awidow’s concern about not being able to forgive the criminal who beat her husband so badly that he must now use a wheelchair. He has heard the same concerns many times before and he has, as now, calmed their torment with promises of the Lord’s spiritual guidance. The one question he is not prepared for comes at the very last minute from a woman who has graduated from his divinity college on a campus less than a half mile from 223

where he sits, a woman to whom he personally handed a diploma. “Doctor Hansom, you have told us many times that the tiny nation of Israel and its Jewish people need our prayers, our political and monetary support, for they are our friends, our breathern before God. Our Lord was raised in a Jewish household, lived a Jewish life and obeyed the laws set down by Moses, before His ultimate sacrifice to mankind, which includedthe Jewish people. What troubles me is that on the day our Lord descends from Heaven, and we all stand in judgment before Him, how can these Jewish people, who have had two thousand years to accept our Lord Jesus as their Savior and have refused to do so, ascend to eternal life in Heaven? How can they not be sent to eternal damnation?” “The young woman posed the very question that has troubled the preacher all the years during the time he has unfalteringly supported Israel to keep that nation alive so the Bible’s prophecy could be fulfilled. He has told himself that the Lord Jesus has forgiven the Jewish people for instigating His crucifixion, and he, the head of the nation’s fastest growing church, must find it in his heart to also forgive them, but he has not been able to come to grips with the reality that the Jews would rather face eternal damnation than accept Jesus as the Son of God, the Messiah the ancient Israelite prophets said would come. “Trust in the Lord to show our Jewish brothers and sisters the true light, the true path to Heaven and everlasting life, so that they may join us in eternal glory.” He can see that the woman is about to ask how such a change of heart can come about so gives the cue for the show’s finale to the director: “My friendslet us give thanks to our Savior for this wonderful time we have spent together.” He stands, takes the hands of the author and the general and bows his head in prayer. The music sound track of “Oh Happy Days” 224

resonates from the many speakers in the auditorium, as the soundstage fades into darkness. *

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The preacher and the general have finished the vegetable soup, toast and tea the head of the church ordered from the cafeteria, light nourishmentfor the end of the day. The preacher considers the general, Dale Buchman, a close friend, admiring his professional commitment to the military and devotion to God, especially appreciating the risk he has taken acquiring and passing on the bomb’s formula in the service of the Lord. The general, a man who maintained the physical prowess of his youth seems calm, and the preacher long ago learned to control his anxiety over calamitous events he cannot control, and he suspects the military man is about to relate one such calamity. “Dale, exactly what has happened that you feel such urgency to discuss it in private?” “Our courier to the Israeli minister has not only failed to obtain the holy nail, he is in custody of the Pakistani police in some backwater providence near the India border.” The general puts his index finger on a world globe at a spot southeast of Islamabad at the border with India. “My contact in the U.S. foreign agency informs me that Harlan has not been charged yet, but when he is, the charge will be the murder of a Pakistani taxi driver and a pending second murder charge of greater significance. The eminent scientist, Dr. Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, was also found murdered nearby, only by a different caliber pistol than the Israeli made one found on Harlan, so there is some delay in connecting our man to that killing. If the authorities make the connection, and subsequent news of the renowned scientist’s death by a stanch American Christian, found wearing a bloody Arab robe, it will send reprisal waves throughout the Muslim world.” 225

“The man I sent to the Middle East has had to take life in the Lord’s service before, so I am sure his acts, if proven true, can be justified,” The preacher, recalling the Born Again Christian’s avenging service to the church, rationalizes to the general. “Be that as it may, this same government agent was privileged to read the Pakistani Secret Service report and later granted the opportunity to speak to our man. In all likelihood, he has revealed the fusion bomb’s formula to someone other than the Israelis. That someone being a Muslim.” “Harlan would die before doing that.” “Doctor, I regret to inform you that the Pakistani report indicated Harlan has been castrated.” The news of such a horrendous act inflicted on his born again prodigy shakes the preacher, forcing him to bite his lip to silence the anguish he feels building within his throat. “He refused to talk to the U.S. agent, so that man checked his past movements and found the Israelis rescued him from a Hezbollah stronghold somewhere in Lebanon. He was subsequently hospitalized, indicating to me that Hezbollah thugs probably were the ones who castrated him. Someone in the Israeli government, Minister Mattath, I suspect, assisted our man with his movements in Pakistan. Why? I don’t know, but it indicates to me the Israeli minister is up to his neck in this business. The murder of an eminent nuclear scientist, a stanch advocate of nuclear power for all Islamic countries in such close proximity to Harlan’s arrest, indicates to me that Harlan shot the scientist before he could pass on the formula to groups committed to this country’s destruction.” “General, our man may have failed in his mission, but he has acted noblygiven the suffering put upon him. We must move to rescue him. No expense or effort can be spared.” “I truly wish rescue was an option, only events have moved past that. Once the Pakistani government learns of his 226

mission, subsequently my and your involvement with the Israeli government, only our government will have enough influence to secure his release. And they would only negotiate his release to prove treason against you and me. I have no fear for myself, but I fear for you, your church and the ministries that you created for the Lord. You and your work would be irreparably damaged, and that cannot be allowed to happen.” “Harlan would never betray us.” “No one, including me, can stand up under such torture as these primitive Arabs will inflict, it will be slow and horrendous. He will break and reveal all, as I suspect he did with Hezbollah. He must die before the interrogation begins.” The usually calm demeanor of the preacher begins to show stress, as perspiration forms on his forehead. “He has become a son to me. How can I consent to his death?” “Paul. . .” The general kneels beside his friend, taking his hand and continues, “Abraham meant to sacrifice his son, Isaac, to the Lord to demonstrate his love. Can you do less? The greater good lies in protecting the ministry you have built in the Lord’s name.” The preacher realizing Harlan, the man he long ago saved from committing suicide, must now be sacrificed, cautions, “he must not suffer.” “I have your consent then?” The preacher can do no more than lower his head to answer yes. “All U.S. foreign agents carry a cyanide pill, so swift to bring death that it is painless. I will use my position in the pentagon to visit a Pakistani military base in nearby Rawalpindi on a fact finding mission, and while in that country give this cyanide pill to our man. He is no fooland will recognize his only option.” He squeezes the preacher’s hand to reassure him. 227

“The religious crusader, feeling his age, can only say: “the holynail. Tell Harlan that I must know who has it. He must reveal the whereabouts of this sacred object before you issue him the cyanide pill. Now let us get on our knees and pray that the man’s soul will find peace in everlasting life.” *HAIFA* The Palestinian woman once again dresses in a stylish, although modest, dress that a professional woman would wear as she sits, feeling very secure, in a conference room in the Bank of Jordan. Outside the sealed windows, the traffic flows freely, but silently,in Amman’s modern business district. She is content to watch Doctor Saadi Zahi Zalet, the scientist and teacher who first verified the ancient object’s authenticity, discuss his findings with another archeologist whom her Uncle George brought with him from somewhere in the Arab world. The object of everyone’s interest lies in the center of the expensive wood table, looking worn and mangled with the dent, its pointed end still caked in ancient dirt. Even on the royal purple cushion Haifa placed under it, it hardly seems worth the ten million English Pounds that Osama bin Laden has agreed to pay through her Uncle George, acting as his agent, once the second scientist, Doctor Mahmud Randani, gives the go ahead. The female seller’s attention strays to the fifth person, the banker at the table, who is becoming impatient with the long scientific discussion, because for the last fifteen minutes, Randani, rubbing his dark beard and furrowing his bald head, has been reading his colleague’s, Zahi Zalet, report on the ancient object, occasionally questioning a scientific point. She, her uncle and the pudgy banker have sat silently at the table. She wonders what the well groomed, heavyset man thinks about the transaction taking place; does he believe it is illegal or shady at best? She decides it does not matter what he thinks, because the 228

prospect of a ten million English pound deposit in his bank prompted him to offer her this conference room and a lot of personal attention. Therefore, she comes to the conclusion that money is his main concern, not legality. Haifa smiles reassuringly at the banker, who glances at her each time he checks his watch. Earlier, she once again purchased a throw away cell phone with usable minutes, making one call to her uncle, leaving a message at a radical West Bank mosque for him to telephone her. When he returned the call within four hours, she thought the rich Saudi finding refuge in Afghanistan had agreed to finance the bomb. She inquired about his trip to that country still gripped by a stone aged mentality and his subsequent audience with Osama bin Laden, the supposed liberator of Afghanistan. Fully expecting to receive a positive answer to the bomb proposition she made through her uncle, she was somewhat surprised to hear him say “the first issue to be discussed will be the purchase of the object you obtained at Aide, the one that crucified Jesus the prophet.” She insisted he tell her of the mujahedeen leader’s decision about the bomb, but her uncle would only discuss the nail. Informing him of the price, she fully expected him to balk at the figure, instead she heard urgency in his voice as he said he would call her back in tenminutes. When, her cell phone rang, he said, “theprice is agreeable. The sale must take place immediately. Let us agree upon the arrangements.” Again, she asked about the funding of the fusion bomb, and her uncle normally straightforward, answered that “if and only if the nail is genuine, Sheikh bin Laden will favor your second proposition.” The banker getting impatient waiting for the two archeologists to conclude their discussion, picks up the nail from its velvet cushion to examine it, probably wondering what all the fuss is about, she thinks. Her uncle, seeming more anxious than normal, reaches across the table and 229

jerks it from his hand and replaces it upon its cushion. Embarrassed by his act, the executive offers his apology to the group at the table, which gets the attention of the two scientists. Doctor Randini volunteers: “trios minutes more, s’il vous plait.” The careless mixture of French and Arabic tells Haifa that the scientist is probably a Sunni contact of bin Laden’s from Syria, a country once governed by the French, as getting a knowledgeable archeologist out of the West Bank through Israeli security would be too risky. The connection prompts her to recall the opportunistic Syrian law enforcement officer whose throat she slit in Damascus after fleeing from the West Bank, at the time not knowing the importance of the object she took off the Israeli minister’s dead son. Her thoughts next take her to the raw American fundamentalist who desperately wanted the nail for powerful church leaders in his country. Seeing him alive at the Pakistani/India border stunned her, disbelieving that he could escape the Hezbollah killers in Lebanon and trace her to Meghwar in Islamabad. His overcoming a crushed psyche from the castration demonstrated to her that he possessed more resolve than she thought he had in him. Then again, she thinks, he is a religious nut who believed his god gave him the power to overcome every crisis, finding the fortitude to locateher in Pakistan. His god given fortitude morphed into a god given caprice when he stepped onto a bus full of Muslims and brazenly addressed a Muslim woman, as she pretended to be, respectfully attired as the men of Allah dictate. The assault on a devout woman’s modesty caused the bus driver to fetch the Pakistani border soldiers, bringing on the end for the foolish fundamentalist. She almost feels sympathy for the American, knowing he will not escape from a Pakistani jail as he did from a Hizballah cellar, especially after Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar’s body is discovered. 230

“My respected colleague’s thorough report has assured me that the nail, found in Jerusalem can be dated to 1 B.C, plus or minus one hundred years. Therefore, Mr. Hamad, I conclude that this object before you is a genuine Roman crucifixion nail of the very same type that crucified the prophet Jesus.” Her uncle smiles broadly, the banker sighsrelief that the examination is over. The two archeologists give each other a knowing look. The small, compact balding archeologist, resembling a well conditioned athletic as much as a scientist stands and addresses the Hamas leader: “if you have no further need of my service, Mr. Hamad,then I will be on my way. Merci beaucoup.” With a French thank you, the scientist takes his briefcase, closing the door behind him. “Please excuse me while I make a telephone call.” Haifa studies her uncle while he exits to another room, the executive’s she guesses. The banker opens a laptop computer in front of him and occupies himself with it. “I have a listing of all incoming deposits on the screen. If Allah wills, a deposit to your account should appear soon,” he addresses Haifa in a matter of fact way. Before the woman can look at the screen, Doctor Zalet stands and offers his hand in a parting gesture. The Palestinian woman takes it, while stating, “when the deposit is verified, I will send the thirty thousand dinars for your service to the Palestinian Red Crescent Relief in Jerusalem, as you have requested.” The studious man nods hisappreciation. Haifa, if she could admire any Muslim man, she could Zalet for not accepting a fee for himself. Her uncle reenters the room, removes his own laptop computer from his briefcase and sits opposite the banker, watching whatever domain he has activatedon the screen. Within a few minutes, whatever signal he has been waiting for must have appeared on the screen, for he shows the banker a sheet of paper, then asks, “is this the correct account number? The banker indicates that it is, and her 231

uncle uses his cell phone to call his bank, merely saying, “please transfer the money to the account I previously indicated. A few minutes later, the satisfied bank executive turn his computer screen so Haifa can view it; she sees the entry of ten million English Pounds Sterling blinking on the screen next to her bogus name and account number. Boxing the nail and its velvet cushion into a wooden case, she stands and hands it to her uncle. “Give this to your master, and tell him for me that I am waiting for him to contact me.” She can see that her condescending use of ‘master’ has bruised her uncle’s ego, but that is exactly what she intended to do, hoping to provoke a response from him. “If our business is concluded, please allow my associate and me to talkin private,” the Hamas leader requests of the banker. After the man departs, he reprimands Haifa: “the less anyone knows about our contact in Afghanistan the better. Now, allow me the time to get this precious object to the sheikh and you will be contacted.” “I will send my new cell phone number to the same mosque,” Haifa replies, all the time thinking, the contact won’t come from your god likesheikh, Uncle George, because your phone calls revealed your agenda. Religious zealots can be so predictable: bin Laden will not deal with a woman or he would have wired me the money directly. *HARLAN* The prisoner, wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, watches the flies swarm over the untouched plate of curried rice on the dirt floor at his feet, having little appetite to eat anything in the sweltering heat inside the old warehouse converted to a jail. A few careless flies fall into the rice’s thin broth, struggling to escape, but Harlan knows there is no escape for them; even though he faces the same dire reality, he cannot bring himself to accept that he is equally 232

doomed. The high overhead roof has leaked enough runofffrom the recent downpour to form numerous muddy puddles on the dirt floor. Prisoners, mostly East Indians arrested crossing the border into Pakistan, mill about his small barred cage in their dirty pajama like clothing, their sandaled feet indifferent to the stagnant water and mosquitoes breeding in pools throughout in the gutted expanse of the two story building. The incarcerated East Indians, putting forth a cacophony of Arabic and Hindu, unlike the important Anglo prisoner, are free to move about their confine, although finding little unoccupied space to walk. Many of the dirt caked faces and bare torsos are marked with sores from unsanitary conditions. The stench from the one toilet used by hundreds of prisoners gagged the Anglo on arrival, now he is as indifferent to the smell as he is to the flies crawling on his exposed limbs. Harlan, because he is an American and a suspected murderer, in addition to being caged, is shackled around the neck and chained to the wall behind him; his captors are taking no chance that he will somehow escape before they decide what to do with him. The soldiers, who took him off the bus turned him over to local authorities, before the two dead bodies were found, therefore he escaped the more sophisticated national security police interrogation. The chained man was not aware that a second murder had taken place until the next day following his capture when rough jailers showed him a photograph of a dead scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar slumped over the steering wheel of his Buick sedan. He now realizes the dead Pakistani is the victim of the Palestinian woman. His questioners, crude and rudimentary, had beaten him during his first two days in captivity, preferring to knock him about blindfolded in a circle of six men. This rough interrogation went on until a more sophisticated and bilingual internal security agent from Islamabad questioned him about the nuclear scientist 233

that the Palestinian woman had murdered; after the agent from the government left, failing to get a confession from Harlan, the jailers realizing his importance to Islamabadceased to beat him. Harlan inferred by the tone of the security agent’s questioning, that they thought him to be either an American or Israeli agent sent to kill Meghwar, to stop further nuclear development in the Muslim world. The prisoner only admitted that he was following a woman who had stolen a valuable possession from him; as far as the two murders in the vicinity, he stated he knew nothing about them. Of course no one believed him, since he was arrested with a pistol that had been recently fired. The government internal security agent, dressed in a suit, instead of the traditional kurta and shalwar, wanted to take him back to Islamabad for a more thorough interrogation, but the local authority, a mullah, was not about to release such a valuable prisoner without something valuable in return from the national government. Then last week, a CIA agent, saying he represented the U.S. Embassy in the Pakistani capital,questioned him about events leading up to his capture, especially why he, an American, was in such an out of the way location with a professionally forged passport and Israeli automatic pistol. Harlan refused to answer, as he had with previous questioners. The man reminded him that given his circumstances he was behaving unreasonably—cooperation was needed to spare him untold discomfort--only to receive an ironic smile from Harlan. Frustrated by the fruitless questioning, the American agent took the prisoners fingerprints, looking very surprised that no one had taken them before that time. The fundamentalists has shown no fear of his captors nor of his circumstance, believing his God will not allow harm to come to him as it did in Lebanon. He was sorely reminded that he had moved and executed the Lord’s will so easily in the United States, the baby killers’ executions, the bombings of the unfaithful. But here in this heathen part of 234

the world, even in Jerusalem where the Lord once walked, he has been anything but successful, being deceived by the Israelis and debased by the Palestinian woman. He yearns to escape this hot, insufferable captivity, find the woman, subsequently the holy nail; he is resigned to losing the bomb, for in his mind, it is secondary to the object that pierced his Lord’s flesh. Harlan looks past the flies covering his meal at the Pakistani agent who earlier questioned him, dressed in the same striped business suit and an American, also in a suit, following a small, bearded man in black traditional loose fitting shirt and pantaloons. The trio accompanied by two thuggish jailers, create a dead silence as they move through the milling prisoners, sidestepping the stagnant water pools, andapproach the two guards at the entrance to his cage. Harlan’s slumped torso bolts upright when he recognizes the general who gave him the facsimile of the fusion bomb and its formula at the New York Airport. Distaste covers the fit military man’s face when he sees the younger American’s filthy condition, his bruised and battered face, the chained man sitting in the dirt with flies swarming about him, his bare feet muddy from the water trickling down the wall into the dirt. In the cramped cage, not more than ten by ten feet, there is no bedding, just a bucket for his excrement. Once the cage door is unlocked, he leaves the accompanying men outside. Standing over Harlan, he says, “I am sorry, son. If I knew you would end up like this, I would never have agreed to send you off.” The military man speaks through a handkerchief he holds over his nose and mouth to mitigate the stench. “Don’t worry about me, general. I am in the Lord’s hands. And I shall fear no evil.” The general squats beside Harlan, his hand on the filthy shirt covering the man’s shoulder. He whispers so the men outside the cage will not hear: “Harlan, the Lord may not be able to stop what is already in motion.” 235

“He forsook me because I screwed up the mission in Israel, but I have given recompense for my failure.” The general stiffens at the thought of the man’s unholy castration, at the same time admiring his resolve. “As long as I intend to carry out the mission, He will not forsake me a second time. Once I get out of here, I will get the holy nail for the preacher. I would swear to that upon a bible, if I had one.” “I truly wish I could give you such a holy book, but these heathens would only burn it. I know your heart is good and your soul pure, only it will not be enough to save you from a horrible fate. I, the preacher, no one will beable to secure your release. These primitive Pakistanis will question you about the two dead men. No benefit will come about by you staying alive, only damage to those free to carry on the Lord’s work. You must forfeit your life for the Lord’s purpose.” “What are you saying?” “Harlan, your situation is hopeless. These people are inhuman. They live and function like cave men. And if you do not tell them what they want to know. . . well. . . their methods for extracting information will be gruesome. These people have no qualms about reducing human life to a mass of quivering flesh.” “I broke once, because I fell out with the Lord. It will never happen again. With the Lord above me, I can withstand any torture that these heathens can inflict.” “I believe you, only the preacher cannot risk your breaking under torture and revealing what you know.” “Are you saying he wants me dead?” “He wants you in Heaven with your Maker.” Harlan can only stare at the flies swarming about the enclosure, as he cannot think past the thought that the reverent man wants him dead. The general removes the handkerchief from his mouth, so his words are not muffled. “I only have a few minutes 236

more, so please listen carefully. These backward jailers don’t have the facility to x-ray gifts brought to prisoners. They have agreed to let me give you a bar of soap, tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. Break the toothbrush handle and you will find a cyanide pill. Swallow it. Death will be instantaneous, and you will feel no pain. Do it as soon as I leave. Because of my high rank in the U.S. military, the Pakistani government’s security policeman, watching us from the other side of this cage, will wait until I leave to take the Sundries away from you.” The general places a paper bag with the toiletries beside the chained man who says nothing. “You must tell me who has the holy nail.” “The Israelis did not posses it when I met with them. A Palestinian woman previously took it from the son of the Israeli Minister of Defenseafter she killed him. She knows its value and wants ten million English Pounds for it. She is the same woman who broke me, and to whom I revealed the bomb’s formula. She is the same, unswerving woman, who probably verified the bomb’s legitimacy before she killed the nuclear physicist, whose death I will be charged with.” “Do you know where she can be found?” “Amman, Jordan is all she said. She is very tall for an Arab woman, and very striking in appearance. And very deadly. That is all I know of her.” “Go with God, my boy.” The military man stands and nods to the jailers to open the door to the makeshift cell. The fundamentalist watches the general, the Pakistani internal security agent and local authority, followed by two guards, push their way through debased humanity to the exit door. He picks up the paper bag, stands and moves as close to the barred enclosure that his chain will allow. He shouts, “hey you,” in English, until he catches some prisoners’ attention and tosses the paper bag through the bars at them, thinking, captors scourged the Lord before 237

He fulfilled His destiny, can I His faithful servant not follow in His courageous footsteps?” *GEORGE* Sevenmen prostrate themselves before an imam in the dark orchard, barely uttering their evening prayers for fear of drawing unwanted attention. All seven Muslims raise themselves to a knelling position, repeating the final verse of their prayer: “Most Gracious, Most Merciful, show us the straight way, the way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace.” George as the official head of Hamas, changes places with the imam who has led them in prayer, and faces his cohorts, his bodyguard taking a place behind him. “Ahmed al Qassam, the Israeli thugs are systematically disfranchising the Palestinian people in every imaginable way, desiring to drive us from our lands.” George grits in his teeth in anger, not at the man who uses his preferred alias but at the hopeless situation Palestinians find themselves in. He barely is able to discern the face under the moonless sky, but he knows his cohort’s voice well, a Hamas leader of a small cell in Ramallah, right under Fatah’s nose. Omar Said is a man thin as a rail, prematurely gray and with a twitch from the waterboarding and electric shock suffered in Dahariya, the notorious prison of the Jew enemy. The Israelis seized his house and land after they bulldozed his well, stating he had no permit to dig it. When he, in protest, pushed an Israeli officer from his doorway, they arrested him for subversive activities. “Walls encircle our land, cutting families off from one another!” a voice from the dark cries, which sets off a barrage of grievances from the Hamas devotees. “They seize Palestinian land so they can build their walls!” “Soldiers at checkpoints insult our women!” 238

“The Shabak arrests our men, even our children, and hold them without charge.” “In Nazareth, settlers throw garbage at our women and children as they make their way to markets and schools. They hurl these insults from land once occupied by the very same women and children being insulted.” “How long must we bear these injustices without punishing the Jewish swine?” The questions and accusations coming from the six Hamas men sitting in the dark are loud enough to alert the many Israeli spies living among them. “My brothers please lower your voices.” George, agitated that he and these six Hamas leaders have become so weak that they must meet in an farmer’s orange orchard in the dark so as not to be arrested, or worse yet, assassinated by the Israelis’ favorite method, rockets by American made attack helicopters. “We must make them suffer for their devilish acts. The Jews have reduced us to creatures fearful of our shadows. The only weapon we have is shaheed bombing, and we rarely use that weapon,” the thin Omar Said whispers. George in an equally hushed tone, replies, “when the boy shaheed, Mahmoud Hassiessi, blew up the Jews in Jerusalem during their Passover celebration, the army destroyed my house. I escaped, but othersdid not when the soldiers bulldozed ten houses in all directions around my one. Four men were shot down during a protest against the destruction, one woman and baby crushed under a bulldozer. You, Omar Said, saw what they did to your village at Jenin, after an Israeli bus carrying twenty soldiers outside of Tel Aviv was destroyed by our shaheed.” George uses the battered man’s alias, a name taken from of an infant, a hero in the eyes of Islam fundamentalists, who died in his mother’s arms at Jenin from an Israeli bullet. He adds, “in Jenin, there were hundreds of Palestinians murdered and wounded, hundreds more displaced and driven to refugee camps in Lebanon for the deaths of a few 239

Israeli soldiers,” George concludes, no longer certain the death exchange is worthwhile.” All the men obscured by the darkness wear Jalabiya over their western attire in reverence to their God and heritage. George gazes at all six men, who have taken the names of Palestinians honored as heroes. George respects the aliases the men seated before him have taken: one man’s name comes from the shaheed who bombed trespassing settlers in Hadera as they drank their coffee at a street side table; another name from a Hamas soldier who was assassinated as he prostrated himself in the street for evening prayers; his aide’s name comes from a three year old boy blinded and both arms amputated when an Israeli rocket hit his parent’s car; another name taken from a Hamas imam who died under torture rather than give up the names of freedom fighters. “Allow me to express my outrage,” The words directed to George come from Doctor Ismal Juma, a physician from Bethlehem, whose wife and three children were mistakenly hit by a errant rocket fired from an American made F-16 attack jet, intended for the car ahead that the attackers said was filled with terrorists. “Our people are starving, our little ones malnourished, because their parents cannot get through the checkpoints to work. Farmers’ produce and fruits blocked by checkpoints rot on trucks waiting to get to the marketplaces. Water from the Sea of Galilee that used to be plentiful to our people, is diverted to settlers to water their lawns and fill their swimming pools while our women queue for hours at a single spigot that occasionally pours water. Those, too infirmed to fill their bucket at the water spigot, drink from stagnant pools of filthy water. During the heat of the day, electricity is turned off for no reason other than to make house fans cease to cool rooms. I believe these Palestinians would say it is better to suffer death fighting the occupiersthen continue to be oppressed as they are. I am for increasing the shaheed bombings. We 240

must demonstrate to the Israelis that they cannot continue to terrorize our people. This I believe is Allah’s will.” “Praise be to Him, the One and only God” the seven men mutter in unison. “Yes, we must increase the bombings,” sounds from the five principals facing George. “Abu,” the Hamas head man speaks to his aide, more his bodyguard, standing behind him, a young and very fit man, who has just returned from intensive training at al Farooq in Afghanistan. He has learned Sheikh Osama’s mujahedeen combat skills, the very same training that George witnessed on his last visit there. “How many bombs can we manufacture in a week?” “As many as we have demand for. It is the indoctrination of the shaheeds that slows down the process. If we could reduce the time to a week or ten days, then we could dispatch many soldiers of death at the Israelis.” George dislikes overruling his subordinate, but his devotion to the dictates of Allah compels him to do so: “the time cannot be shortened, because it is necessary for future shaheeds to prepare to join Allah in an eternal life, to spend their last hours with family and friends, mentally preparing for their journey to the afterlife.” “Ahmed al Qassam, there are many young men attending my mosque in Nabius who are devoted to our intifada, willing to sacrifice their lives in the service of Allah, praise be to Him. I can send you as many as you need.” The words come from Farhat Zayyad, an imam who took the name of his son who died as a volunteer in the Egyptian Army, fighting the Israelis in the Sinai. “I, who have fought the Jews and their American weapons in Jordan and in Lebanon during two wars, as you have in Jerusalem, now speak as a veteran warrior. We must convincethe Israelis that they cannot terrorize the Palestinian people with impunity. We must retaliate in all the ways that Allah has chosen to bequeath usthrough his 241

messenger. Peace be upon him. I am tired of hiding like a rat in the daylight, sneaking around in the dark as we do at this moment. Of course, the Jews will retaliate. Some of us talking here will be eliminated or imprisoned, our loved ones scattered in the winds. I speak for myself, my wife and two daughters: we will risk those consequences just to punish these murderers.” “Thank you, Zahi Fa’id,” George says to the heavyset man sitting next to him, an ex Fatah commander, who left Arafat for Hamas after the PLO leader recognized Israel as a nation. His oldest son is in an Israeli prison, his youngest, shot while throwing rocks at the occupiers’ soldiers, is now paralyzed from the neck down. As is the custom of Arab leaders, George sits silently, pondering his cohorts’ words. He wants to tell them about the fusion bomb’s formula that he plans to personally deliver to Sheikh Osama and the possibility that within a year’s time, Hamas will have the means to bring the apartheid government occupying Palestinian land to its knees, but cannot risk word leaking out to his niece before he eliminates her. Even among these true believers, she, a woman disobeying Shariah, has earned admiration forher jihad against the Israelis. He believes that increasing shaheed bombings among the Jews will endanger everyone sitting near him and their organizations, but if he wants to hold Hamas together, he can find no other way than to comply with their consensus. “My brothers and friends, many of you were with me when Hamas became a cry in the dark against injustice, because the pig infidel, Mattath, invaded our holy temple in Jerusalem. Ever since Narkba, the catastrophe that displaced a half million of our people and the subsequent Right of Return and repatriation have been denied us by our enemy, inflictions-- one assault after another has been piled upon us, until our fundamental demand, that of driving the occupiers from our land is lost in a labyrinth of ongoing 242

assaults. I will cite these injuries to you: they are our continual loss of land since 1948 to where we are small islands surrounded by the Israelis. Now the separation wall is being built around us, the unhampered building of settlements on Palestinian land, the IDF checkpoints, the mass imprisonments of our people. Given the endless assaults, I concur that we must fight the enemy in any way we can and suffer the consequences no matter what they may be. Let us now set a goal of one shaheed bombing per week in heavily populated Jew areas. God willing, we will send a message to them that their everyday inhuman acts cannot go unpunished. Since many of our bomb makers are in prison or dead, Abu will train and assist you in arming the martyrs that Allah, blessed be His name, will send forth against the infidels. Before we disband, let us all pray that Allah will give us the means, perhaps a mighty weapon to render our enemy helpless.” *DOVID* The imminent Prime Minister of Israel glances at the scattered clouds intermittently blocking the sun, cooling the morning in the process, thinking, I should be thankful for a reprieve from the heat, only I think I am about to feel political heat from this American. He studies the fit general, hair cut in a past era flattop, who has arrived in Israel unexpectedly and requesting an audience, stride purposefully across the lawn. The heavyset old warrior, himself once a full general, sits at the far end of the walled off, landscaped expanse behind the Knesset building. He wanted to deny the audience, citing affairs of state, which would be true, as he is about to be appointed prime minister by the President, afterward he will be required to address the Knesset. His momentary address will pertain to stopping the rash of suicide bombings hitting Tel Aviv, Haifa and 243

two settlers’ temples near Bethlehem and Jenin, but the two star general carries too much weight within the American Pentagon to be denied an audience. He glances around him, thankful that the many tables scattered about the private compound are sparsely occupied; most of the 120 members of the political body have taken their seats inside the Knesset chamber, studying the speech he is about to deliver. Dovid stands to greet the general, his aide immediately pulling hislawn chair away. He notes the American dresses in civilian clothes and does not have an escort, so concludes this visit pertains to the missing artifact or the bomb, probably both. “Dale, an unexpected, although welcomed surprise.” The American takes his extended hand, but does not return the older man’ssmile. “Join me for some coffee. I have fifteen minutes before I address the political protagonists and antagonists in our Israeli drama.” He indicates the Knesset building. “Ariel, if you please,” he says to his aide. The attendant immediately pulls a lawn chair away from the table, pouring coffee as the visitor sits in the shade of the table’s umbrella. “Let us have some time alone, Ariel.” The general waits until the prime minister’s aide moves to a distant table, out of ear range. “First allow me to congratulate you, Dovid. Israel needs a true soldier in the driver’s seat. In these volatile times, you are the best man for the job. Now tell me, what the hell is going on? I just left the courier your admirer in the states sent to you chained to a wall in some Pakistani shithole near the Indian border. He is about to be put on trial for murdering Doctor Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, the nuclear bomb maker.” The Israeli does not allow his concern to show, even though he has fretted over the American’s whereabouts, realizing their association could bring his government down before he has a chance to implementpolicy. 244

“He informed me that the Rabbi you sent to negotiate the trade gave him the phony crucifixion nail that we rejected, and then tried to get the formula from him by force. The Pakistani police in Wazzirabad took an Israeli Desert Eagle pistol from him after his arrest. I assume you sent him to Pakistan to stop the Palestinian woman who has the bomb’s formula. I always believed you to be a man of honor. Why did you make the arrangements to trade, knowingly deceiving us? With the exception of Harry Truman in 1948, our mutual acquaintance in the states has been the best non-Jewish friend Israel has had.” “Dale, I can only state that sending the Rabbi with the fake nail was a mistake in judgment on my part. In retrospect, I should have personally met your courier, requested time to find the ancient nail and safely send him back to U.S. This Palestinian woman, whom we have no solid description of, ambushed an elite IDF platoon and a tank squadron that my son commanded in a Palestinian refugee camp, gutted Jonathan and took the nail from his dying body.” “You have my sympathy, I didn’t know you lost your son.” “My last surviving one.” The prime minister sips his coffee, struggling to obscure the pain overtaking him at the image of his son agonizing in slow death while the female heathen looked on. “Please, enjoy your coffee. It comes from Kenya. Would you like a Danish roll.” He pushes the basket of rolls toward the general.” “No, I don’t want any goddamn Danish. “In all due respect, Prime Minister, you have really blotched our arrangement. Not only don’t we have the priceless holy object, we have just given the most deadly weapon mankind has created to a bunch of crazy fanatics who have a penchant for blowing themselves up. Now they can blow up the Middle East, including your tiny country. And once they see how enjoyable that can be, they can roll a few bomb balls down Madison Avenue in New York City, perhaps a few more down Santa Monica Boulevard in 245

Beverly Hills, not to forget Pennsylvania Avenue where the president resides. I will bet the farm that your Palestinian female was in Pakistan to verify the formula’s potency.” “I don’t believe this woman has had enough time to develop the weapon. The Pakistani military has been after our government for sometime to sell them a dozen of our earlier designed Merkava tanks. In the past, I could see no reason to arm an Arab nation. That is until now, if they will release your man. He is the only one I know who can truly identify this woman.” “Our man is dead. Gone to meet his maker.” “I see. What do you suggest then?” “This woman is in Amman, trying to peddle the holy nail and, God only knows what else. Harlan Stegal, gave me a skimpy description of her. I am going to find her, recover the nail and then execute her and anyone else that might have knowledge of the bomb.” “A high ranking officer in the United States Army executing a Palestinian woman in a friendly country overrun with Palestinian refugees. I believe you may have a difficult time convincing your superiors about that stratagem.” “The dice have been thrown: I am through as a military officer. I resigned my commission after realizing how dire the free world’s situation will be if this fusion bomb gets off a Muslimdrawing board. You are to stay out of the picture, except to give me cooperation in getting into Jordan undetected.” “I admire your sacrifice and especially your courage, Dale. Of course I will be only too glad to furnish you with a car, driver and travel pass through Israeli security lines.” “With God’s help, we shall secure this nail that pierced His Son’s flesh and clean up your mess in the doing.” “With God’s help.” “Prime Minister, the members of the Knesset are waiting for you,” General Noat, the past commanding general of 246

IDF, now Dovid’s replacement as defense minister, accompanied by the aide Ariel, speaks to his longtime military companion. “Thank you, Solly.” “General Buchman, what new weapons can we expect from your great country in the future?” the new defense minister asks, subsequently taken back by the American general’s dark look in response to what he thought to be a lighthearted question. *

*

To the new prime minister, sitting in a stuffed chair before the desk he once occupied as defense minister, he feels juxtaposed, gazing upon Solly Noat, long time comrade in arms, sitting there in his place. The head of Shabak, Avarham Katz, the old Jew liberated by the Russians at Treblinka, sits next to him, feeble in body, resembling a withered mound of flesh, his trousers hitched over his pot belly. So emaciated is the old man’s chest, the trousers look to be belted at his neck, but inside that oversized head the prime minister knows there is a mind still sharp and quick. Dovid pats the knee of the white haired internal security policeman and gets a toothless smile in return; the old man has once again removed his false teeth, the ones replacing the teeth he lost in the Treblinka death camp as a teenager. The Israeli head of state next focuses on Meir Poraz, the head of Mossad, a younger man, a past IDF general and son of a general. He does not know this agency head, who has earned a PhD in structural engineering, nearly as well as the other two veteran agency heads in the room, except for the man’s exceptional bent for intrigue, of which there is ample supply in the territories. Poraz could pass as a diplomat, wearing rimless glasses and a neatly pressed 247

striped suit, his reddish blond hair conservatively parted on one side. Dovid’s aide sits on a wood chair by the door. All the men’s attention is on him, the new head of state, as he summarizes the urgency of the meeting: “Fatah is obligated to respect the treaty Arafat signed. The new terrorist group we once supported to neutralize Fatah, known as Hamas, the Islamic Resistance Movement, has transformed into a pack of murderers. Israel has sufferedsix of their suicide bombings in six weeks. One hundred, forty three dead, four hundred wounded. There is only one way to stop them. Cut off the heads of Medusa’s snakes.. No more waiting for undeniable proof of their complicity. Any hint of their leadership role in these murders is proof enough. Avarham, identifyingthese murderers must be your first priority. Meir, once identified, executing them will be your agency’s task. Solly, if for some reason, executions are not possible, then you are to use every weapon at the army’s disposal to destroy their neighborhood, their entire village if necessary. If the IDF must level every Palestinian habitat in the West Bank in the hunt for these animals,that is acceptable. The terrorist bombings, murders and maiming of our people must stop. Start with the biggest snake, this George Hamad. Does anyone know where he is?” “He has returned from Egypt, Prime Minister. We believe he has rented a house somewhere in the Bethlehem area,” the Mossad officer answers. “Dovid stands. “Locate him and keep him under surveillance until he leads you to the lesser snakes, and then simultaneously execute them all. Ariel.” He indicates for his aide to open the door. He takes the hand of the old man seated next to him and helps him stand. “Avarham, be so good as to escort me back to my new office.” At the door, he turns to the two agency heads and says goodnaturedly, “gentlemen, don’t forget to observe the Sabbath tonight.” 248

*

*

As the two old men walk arm in arm—one large and rotund, the other wizen--through the long hallway to the prime minister’s office overlooking the ancient wall--all that remains of the Israelite temple the Romans destroyed almost two thousand years ago, now dominated by the golden dome of the Muslim mosque built over the ruins, he softly asks the Shabak leader, “is everything in place?” “As we now speak, the officer, a Palestinian Jew I suspect of supplying information to the PLO, is escorting the American general through the territories.” The old man’s voice quivers, but his eyes are as steady as the desert wind. “This Israeli born, but Palestinian officer is a bi-lingual captain of the infantry, an appropriate guide for such an important guest as your American general. We can kill two birds with one stone.” The heavyset prime minister must slow his stepto stay in pace with the old Nazi camp survivor’s shuffle step. Getting this old man, who continually defies the mortality of old age, to execute an American ally was not as difficult as he first thought: Avarham has never forgiven the Americans for denying his family sanctuary before the Nazis gassed them. “It must look like a Hamas bombing.” “And so it shall. At the military checkpoint east of Jerusalem, ten miles this side of the Jordanian bridge, a vehicle with a Palestinian license will ram their car, trigging an explosion--very much resembling the recent Hamas suicide bombings.” “You have such a man willing to sacrifice his life?” “I have contacted a father who lost his wife and two children when the cyber café in Tel Aviv was bombedby a maniac. He has been told that the American and the Israeli captain have been linked to the recent bombings in Israel. His need for revenge burns greatly in him, sohe does not 249

question the source. The man will never be identified as an Israeli, but as a Muslim, because of the Qua’an and other Arab items he will carry. The Americans will believe that their general died by Hamas hands.” “See that only one Israeli soldier is at the checkpoint. No more than one can be sacrificed.” “Dovid, it would look suspicious if a sentry was pulled before the allegedHamas bombing. I chose that particular checkpoint, because there are only two soldiers manning it.” “So be it. Once these martyred Israelis stand before Adonai, they will know we had no choice but to sacrifice them,” Dovid adds, believing the American general, knowing what he knows, cannot live to destroy the plans he has to ensure Israel’s existence. Avarham, will you bow your head with me in a prayer for the souls of the three Israeli men?” *HAIFA* It only cost the plotting woman one thousand dinars to have the executive banker give her a letter stating that she acts in the Bank of Jordan’s behalf, executing foreclosures on Palestinian farmers in arrears on their loans. The Israeli guards at the border crossing welcomed her with a rare warm greeting, once they viewed her forged Israeli passport, and contacted their superiors informing them of the letter of intent she carried. Haifa knew before hand that any foreclosure of Arab land is a godsend to the Israeli government, because they will pay the highest price for it in order to build their settlements on what was once Arab land. Even with that awareness, she is taken back by the number of new ultra-orthodox Hebrewsettlements springing up between the Jordan River and the West Bank. After crossing the King Hussein Bridge, she has counted fifteen newly built or being built since her last crossing of 250

the river. The new Prime Minister of Israel, Dovid Mattath, the man she loathes, has demonstrated his commitment to displacing Palestinians from their land and isolating the Arab West Bank from outside contact. During the short drive from the bridge, she has shown her letter of intent and her forged Israeli passport for the fourth time to the occupiers’ soldiers at fortified checkpoints. Dressed somewhat more provocative in a form fitting blouse and short skirt, and speaking fluent Hebrew as a native Israeli would, she, the driver and her taxi have been allowed to pass through each checkpoint, while countless Arabs queue up like livestock in fenced off corridors to continue their journeys. She returns the soldier’s flirtatious smile, while he gets instructions over the two way radio he uses. When his conversation is over, the young Israeli leans into the passenger compartment and says suggestively, his blue eyes twinkling, “I am told I must search your body before you pass.” For an instant, Haifa is alarmed, until he adds: “if only I could, sexy, it would be a very thorough pat down. You may pass through. Have a good trip.” The Palestinian woman holds back her repulsion as she squeezes his arm, uttering a throaty “thank you.” *

*

Now in the Arab town of Bethlehem she waits in the taxi’s back seat, while the driver gets directions from a street vender selling bread to Al Hindaza, a suburb on the southeast of the ancient town where her uncle’s house is located. Her uncle put her suspicion on full alert when he insisted she come to the West Bank to make arrangements for the bomb’s development, stating Sheikh bin Laden’s representative would not travel to Jordan. She has little belief that the mujahedeen leader would lower his principle 251

to deal with a woman, even through she is the niece of a high placed Hamas leader. She is convinced her dead father’s brother is scheming to get his hands on the bomb’s formula, probably planning to eliminate her in the process. Therefore, she realizes it is extremely risky to meet him at his house, but convincing herself that forewarned is forearmed. Besides, events have unfolded as she planned, and the opportunity she has wanted ever since her teenage years is about to emerge. Haifa takes a death breath to steady her nerves, taking in the rundown neighborhood with intersecting dirt streets, around her uncle’s small house. His dwelling is just another mud brick hovel blending in with surrounding hovels so as not to draw Israeli attention to him, a leader vowing to push Israel from all land they occupy. She waits until evening prayers are over and then dismisses the taxi cab driver with a Jewish hundred shekel note and giving him half of a second one hundred note, telling him the other half is his if he waits for her fifty meters down the dirt road. She knocks on the front door and is instantaneously met by her uncle. He, after showing his disapproval of her modish clothes, clasps her hand, leading her down a dim hallway to the dinning room in the rear of the house. The room is more in keeping with a man of her uncle’s status, polished cherry wood table, tasteful chairs and dininghutch. The Hamas emblem—crossed swords before the Done of the Rock Mosque with Islamic Resistance Movement written underneath—hangs on the wall, along with pictures of her grandparents with their arms around her father and Uncle George when they were pre-teen boys. Haifa is more interested in the muscular young, man sitting at the table, who jumps to his feet when she enters. “Asalaam Aleikum,” he customarily greets her. “And upon you peace,” she replies using the Muslim response. And to test this clean cut, good looking man in a very tight tee shirt and jeans, she adds, “Allahu Akbar.” 252

His face lights up, showing a perfect set of white teeth, as he repeats, “God is Great” and adding “Mohammedis His messenger. Peace and greetings be upon him.” George, who has stood aside though the exchange, offers: “allow me to introduce Abu Shair, a close aide to Sheikh bin Laden. He has travelled here to witness our business, and if successful take possession of the merchandise. Abu, this is my niece, Haifa.” “Well then, let us get down to business,” she replies. “First things first, Haifa. If you don’t mind I must search you for a weapon,” her uncle states. “I would prefer that this delightful looking man do the searching.” “Haifa! I will not tolerate that type of talk from a Muslim woman,” the irate, older man scolds. “My apologies Uncle,” she responds, all the time studying the al Qaeda man, who grins rather than being offended by the remark. “I am curious who will search you and who will search Abu Shair?” “As you can see, I carry no weapon.” George opens his arms wide and turns in a circle so that his niece can examine him. “And you, “Haifa directs her words to the muscular man. “I carry no weapons. You have my word as a devout Muslim man.” Haifa laughs as she sets her laptop computer on the dinning table. “Sounds like a man’s deal in that I must trust you two have no weapons and one of you gets to search me for a weapon. Proceed, andlet us get it over with.” She walks to her uncle and holds her hands above her head. The pious man’s hands move across her back, sliding down her buttocks to her legs. He faces her, displaying embarrassment and awkwardly pats her thighs. “Forgive me, but a search had to be made. Now let us all sit at the table and eat.” He indicates a chair opposite Abu for Haifa to sit. “Allow me to serve you, my brother’s daughter.” 253

From a tureen, he ladles out corn chowder into a bowl in front of her. Haifa sips from a glass of orange soda while her uncle and Abu help themselves to the chowder and hard bread. “Abu Shair, if I am to turn this fusion bomb’s formula over to you, then I must know what guarantees I will have that it will immediately go into production, and I will receive the first one.” “You have Sheikh Osama’s word.” “I don’t see his word on the table. Did you bring a written statement with you?” Her voice rises, accusatory. She stands and begins to pace back and forth, sipping her orange soda. “My niece, please calm yourself. As a gesture of his good intent, the sheikh will deposit another ten million English Pounds into your bank account.” “And I am to turn over the bomb on the strength of that sum. I am not selling this bomb, merely offering to share it, after I get the first one.” “Please sit down and enjoy your meal. Osama has given me his word, upon which his honor rests,” the Hamas leader lies. “Approach his offer this way: even if he fails to build the bomb in a timely fashion, you now will have twenty million English Pounds and still retain the bomb’s formula. How difficult will it be to find another Muslim backer? I see you brought your computer. Turn it on. I have installed a wireless signal for internet usage.” Haifa increases the rapidity of her pacing to dramatize her uncertainty. “You did inform your banker to stand by as I earlier suggested, did you not?” her uncle asks. The woman stops pacing and turns on her computer, setting it to her web mail page. “You are right about twenty million pounds gettingme started on my own bomb. Although, I am holding you and our Afghan funder accountable if I fail to receive the first bomb from him.” 254

Both Abu and Haifa, resuming her pacing, wait while her uncle uses a cell phone to instruct a second party, “oil is needed to light the lamp.” Within five minutes another deposit of ten million pounds sterling appears next to her bank account listing her phony name on the computer screen. From her computer case, she removes a diagram of the bomb’s casing she sketched, plus a description of the fly eye lasers and the necessary nuclear atomic ingredients. While her uncle examines the information, she resumes her pacing, only to hear her uncle request that she take a seat at the dining table while he studies the information. She ignores his request. “After a few minutes the Hamas man inquires: “how do we know this is authentic?” “The eminent nuclear scientist, Doctor Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar of Pakistan has seen this information and stated that such a small device will not only explode, but will do so with the fury of hell.” She emphasizes ‘hell,’ capturing the fundamentalists’ imagination. “Any nuclear physicist working in the weapons field can verify what Doctor Meghwar told me.” “And how do I know what you are stating is true,” the clean cut Muslim asks. “The Pakistani scientist has wagered his life on the bomb’s validity,” Haifa calmly answers, enjoying the irony of her statement. “Very well, we will just have to trust you, my niece.” “If you are lying, Sheikh Osama will find you. There is no place on earth where you can hide,” Abu adds dryly. “Let us all be seated and finish our dinner,” George says, ladling a spoonful from hischowder bowl. The younger man follows suit, only Haifa paces as before. He uncle gives her an irritated look, but does not insist she seat herself. Haifa waits until both men invest themselves in the meals before them and then speaks, “Uncle George, would I be 255

correct in saying that if you have the first fusion bomb in your possession, then you would own the capability to replace Chairman Arafat as official head of the Palestinian people. You could rid our torn remnant of a people of his corrupt government, and put an Islamic government in place, one that follows your version of the Shariah to the letter, keeping us women in robes, deny us schooling, keeping us secure in our domestic cells.” “Haifa, I told you the Sheikh has given his word that you shall have the first developed bomb. Why are you so uneasy? I have never seen you this way before. Please sit down and eat something before you return to Jordan.” “Abu, as the Sheikh’s close aide, you would know to whom the firstbomb would go. Is that true or not?” “Haifa stops pacing, and stands behind the muscular al Qaeda man, awaiting an answer. The man turns toward her and smiles to calm her nerves. “It is true. The first bomb will be yours.” He turns back to finish his bowl of corn chowder. “The truth is that you never talked to bin Laden regarding the bomb. Now that my uncle has the formula, you are here to murder me.” Before the powerfully built man can turn and deny the accusation, the woman grabs his hair, at the same time slitting his throat twice to the neck bone with the razor blade she removed from between her buttocks. She holds his hair until he stops thrashing and drops the quivering body atop the bowl of chowder. Her uncle splattered with blood, pushes away from the bloody table, but can do no more than stare in horror at Abu’spulsating body. “My hunch about him was right, let us see if my second one, that he carries a weapon, is also correct.” She kneels beside the dying man sprawled across the table, while her uncle stands and backs away slowly toward the door. “Not so fast, Uncle.” The woman reveals a small caliber revolvershe has removed from Abu’s ankle hoister. “It 256

seems that your phony al Qaeda man was not a man of his word. He was carrying a weapon. Sit down and finish your dinner, Uncle. Another course has been added to the table.” She wipes her blood covered hand on the barely breathing man’s shirt. After the man who intended to betray her sits, the woman circles behind him, holding the pistol to his head. “You really believed I was naïve enough to think that your great religious warrior would deal with a woman. With so many wives, he only knows one way, the Wahabbi way, to deal with women. Religious zealots are so predictable. So high and mighty that they can twist the word of god to conform to their idea of how another person should conduct their lives.” “Sheikh Osama is an honorable man.” “I am sure he is, within the parameters of his narrow minded world. I not only refer to his twisted ideas about women, I refer to yours, my uncle.” “What do you mean?” “You know very well what I mean. Eat some soup, the blood will do you good where you are going.” “What do you mean?” She cocks the pistol next to his ear, until he ladles a spoonful into his mouth. “I wanted you to believe you would have the bomb in your possession, the means to lead the Palestinian people from under the Jewish apartheid yoke, to a time when your greatest dream would be fulfilled, the day you freed our people from the Israelis. Had it worked out, your name would live in glory and your place beside Allah guaranteed. Having a future bright with hope--that’s a great feeling, isn’t it? “I know that elation, because I had it as a teenage girl with life greeting me with open arms. Not some shapeless robe serving from the kitchen, her mind shackled by the dictates of thoughtless men, but anenlightened woman free to chart her own course, live where she wants, marry whom she 257

chooses. I thought I could make those choices, only they were not allowed in your vision of a woman’s future.” “You were staying out late, drinking, and only God knows what else.” “Where did the Prophet write that God said to slice off a woman’s clitoris? Don’t you think that mutilation for staying out late is overkill?” “I warned you.” “So you did. Eat some more soup.” Haifa waits until the man reluctantly puts a spoonful of bloody corn chowder in his mouth and shoots him in the back of the head three times. “No woman, at least one with brains enough to step out of the rain, wants to live under your version of Shariah. Arafat’s government, as corrupt as it is, tends to be more understanding of women.” *HARLAN* Hooded, and yanked along by a rope tied to his wrists, the prisoner has been riding in the bed of a truck for about twenty minutes, since being unchained at the Wazzirabad jail. The midday sun burns his skin through the thin, crusty shirt hanging from his emaciated body as the men pull him from the truck’s blisteringly hot metal bed, leading him to a spot where someone knocks on a door. He feels weak from his bout with the dysentery plaguinghim for the last week. Under the hood, he hears three different footstep patterns, telling himis fully guarded, leaving no room for escape. The door opens before him, and one of the guards shoves him in, pushing him down a long hallway, wherehe hears a second knock on a door. This time, the men grasp him by both arms and guide him into the room, where his hood is pulled off. He stands before an huge, elderly man, who must weigh three hundred pounds. The man, obviously the leader of the men positioned on cushions around the room, 258

tugs on his white, scraggly beard, as he studies Harlanthrough slits in the fleshy face. The prisoner notes the man wears a Karakul, the furry peaked cap that important Afghans prefer. A Kurta, the loose fitting shirt popular among these archaic Muslim men, covers his huge body as a tarp would an overstuffed chair. The American counts thirteen other Pakistanis, local tribesmen, all wearing similar Kurtas, with Pakuls, the common man’s round head covering, atop their tangles of wild hair. These feral men recline on cushions pushed against the walls of the oblong, windowless room. Everyone wears a heavy beard, except for the short, trimmed one on the man sitting next to the corpulent leader; all have Kalashnikov rifles, either placed before them on the floor or leaning against the walls. “Did you beat him before bringing him here?” the old, fat man asks in Arabic. “Yes, Mullah Subarif, we did,” the guard holding the rope bound to the prisoner’s wrists answers. “And. . . .” He did not cry out. He did not even grit his teeth.” “Idiot, you did not beat him hard or long enough.” “We did as you instructed, Mullah: lashed him thirty minuets with a wet knotted rope. He is a devil who does not feel pain,” the same guard answers. “Even devils feel pain. This bearded infidel will be no different.” The mullah’s words change to heavily accented English: “your beard does not fool us, Jew. We have the pistol found on you.” He indicates the Israeli weapon lying at his knee. “We know you are a spy, Jew pig. Why did Americans visit you in our jail on two different occasions?” Harlan does not answer, even a woozy as he feels, he shows his contempt for the questioning by sneering at the mullah. The guard holding the rope speaks Arabic to the fat mullah, “someone has sliced off his penis.” 259

For a moment, there is stone silence in the room, as the Pakistani men digest such an unusual happening. Then, the fit, lightly bearded man sitting next to the mullah, fondling the Israeli pistol, stands. He is the prisoner’s size, more muscular and ten years his junior, wearing more expensive Afghan clothing than the cruder occupants of the room. He stands before the prisoner and yanks down his trousers. The fourteen bearded men, some maturing in age, some barely past their teenage years, gather around the half naked prisoner, roaring with laughter at the still red stump on the American’s groin. Harlan bears his shame, praying to his God for the opportunity to kill these primitive Muslims. “You have sinned against Allah’s people and He—blessed be His name—has marked you,” the mullah comments in English from behind the younger Pakistani. “Your Allah—blessed be His name—can lick the waste dripping from my ass.” the outraged prisoner counters, only to be struck in the mouth by the pistol’s butt. He staggers after the blow, falling to his knees, but finds the strength to regain his footing. “There is no God but God. And His name is Allah. You will not defame him,” the young well built man screams in Harlan’s ear. Through bloody lips, the fundamentalist manages to scream back: “there is no God, but the God of my fathers. The Lord Jesus is his SonWho gave his life for scum like you. Hallow be His name.” Harlan manages to pull up his trousers without interference from anyone in room. Arabic words of, “blasphemy, heretic, profanity, wickedness,” from the Muslims reach the prisoner’s ears. “The government police in Islamabad have given you to me to do with as I judge.” The huge mullah lifts his bulk from the cushion and stands, aided by two of the younger men, casting his eyes over the men in the room. “I find this man guilty of the two murders in our village and guilty of apostasy. Allah has spoken to me. This infidel is to be 260

burned at the stake for the unholy apostate that he is. Those in agreement, raise your hands.” All fourteen Pakistanis raise their hands. “Jew, before you die you will tell us everything that you know. In the end, we will drag you, a blabbering fool, to your damnable end. My son, who has been educated at Chicago University in your country, will conduct the questioning. Omar, show this dog-pig your methods of persuasion.” The neat, more sophisticated man unrolls a cloth before the prisoner. He whispers in Harlan’s ear and then subsequently translating his words to the observing Pakistanis: “I fought the Sovietswhen they invaded Muslim land.” He removes a corkscrew from atop the unrolled cloth. “I had the pleasure to use this imaginative device on many prisoners’ skulls. They squealed like little pigs when I drilled into their heads, pouring these hungry insects into the hole.” He reveals a half inch long capsule swarming with African soldier ants. Omar, the second in command to his father, the mullah, waits for the prisoner to show fear; seeing none he seats himself next to his parent. Harlan glances down at the array of sharpened spoons, surgical knives and hacksaws. He notes that his guard has not picked up the length of rope lashed to his wrists, so picks up a surgical knife. Immediately, the bolts of the Russian rifles slam shut, injecting rounds into the chambers. The emaciated prisoner shows them his bloody teeth as he grins, before plunging the scalpel into his thigh. The pain becomes a dull burning one, rather than a stinging, unbearable one. “Let me kick off the festivities for you by drawing first blood,” he says to the mullah standing before him. The old, fat man, and his son, Omar who still holds the Israeli pistol, and the remainder of the tribesmen stare at the blood soaking Harlan’s filthy, threadbare trousers where the scalpel remains stuck, 261

astonished at seeing such caprice in a man facing a ghastly death. *HAIFA* The Palestinian woman, portraying a sophisticated beauty idling away time at the pool, rubs sun screen overher long, bare legs. Aware that she has drawn attention from the flabby businessmen lounging under poolside umbrellas, their chunky hands holding cool alcohol drinks, she rubs more sunscreen on her bare midriff, meaning to tease them. Other scantly clad women lay about on deck chairs or float oninflated rafts in the oversized pool; the Marriot is, after all, the most posh hotel in Amman, a secular city with a progressive king. Haifa feels confident that no one, even the few gawking government officials she taunts with a warm smile, will recognize her under the wide brim hat and sunglasses. The setting brings back memories of her teenage years before her dead uncle mutilated her genitalia, when she travelled to Beirut to lounge about the beach and flirt with rich Arab boys. This decadent lifestyle means nothing to her now. She would not be wasting her time basking in the sun if were it not for the affair she is having with Peter Bentley, the Deputy Head of Jordanian Missions attached to the British Embassy. From a moneyed aristocratic family near London and use to the best accommodations, he rented a luxury suite of rooms for the weekend, asking her to wait for him until he concludes some diplomatic matters at his embassy. Even though he would not discuss what matters he must attend to, she strongly suspects it has to do with the Israeli/Palestinian problem. American, Israeli and Saudi dignitaries are in Amman to celebrate the king’s birthday at a ball, his son the future king is hosting, so they use the event to tackle the insolvable problem without its major players—the 262

Palestinian Liberation Organization and Hamas. As far as she is concerned, the problem could be easily solved: restitution to the Palestinians displaced from their land; the right of return for all Palestinian living outside Palestine and an Israeli return to United Nations mandated borders of 1948. Only the problem remains a quandary for the Palestinians aslong as the Israelis are the predominate power in the Middle East. Her eye catches Peter, the dashing, young Brit, waving to her from the tenth floor balcony. She smiles and waves back, thinking, Briton where she studied, for all its pretenses would be a decent country if it didn’t have fifty percent men living there. Haifa previously planned to seduce an influential embassy official at this posh hotel near the foreign embassy district of Amman, to use his connections to find another source for funding the bomb. And, the well bred Brit, a high ranking embassy official, happened to bethe first opportunity. She hadbeen in a quandary over how to build the bomb for the last week, ever since disposing of her uncle. Prior to meeting Peter, she had equally distributed the twenty million English Pounds at Amman and Zurich banks, but she estimates she will need close to one hundred million to complete construction of the fusion bomb. Young, attractive, personable and extremely flirtatious, Peter became an easy conquest for the tall, shapely woman lounging about the poolside in a skimpy two piece bathing suit. She looked on as an experience hunter would her prey, while he gave the poolside visitors a splendid exhibition of performance diving. Afterward, he intended to join friends at a table, only to have her hand him a towel as he left the pool, commenting in perfect English, “I see you haven’t lost your touch since Atlanta,” referring to the Olympic Games where he competed in the diving event. “You were there?” he asked, giving her a wide grin. “No, but I recognize your winning smile.” 263

“Do you now. Tell me, what could it be that I could win from you.” “For now, you have won my attention. Only time will tell what future winnings lie in store for you.” He pauses, brazenly surveying her skimpy clad body. Intrigued by her curvaceous body and bold manner, he volunteers, “let us not waste any time then. Join me and my friends for a cocktail?” “I have a better plan: join me at the pool bar for a drink. We will have more privacy that way,” Haifa laced her words with as much amorous suggestion as she could. She did not want to expose herself to an onslaught of curious questions from a gathering of British embassy personnel. The first encounter in which he chose to join her at the bar was three weeks ago. A week later, they were having sex during every evening he could free himself from his diplomatic duties. The Brit pantomimesthat he will change into his swim trunks and join her pool side. She nods her agreement, feeling no regret that she cannot enjoy sex with the consummate male over whom most women would be wildly desirous. Faking an orgasm at the moment he ejaculates, is enough to prompt him to say, “I think I am falling in love with you.” She does not return the expression, sensing she will have more control over him if he stays hungry for her affection. Perhaps, she tells herself, she was hasty executing her uncle and his henchman, even though the moment was right find revenge for the outrageous and hypocritical assault he ordered the imam to inflict upon her. As it turned out, Hamas officials believe the Israelis murdered her uncle, as Mossad has been expeditiously executing other high ranking Hamas members. She has learned that the surviving members of the Hamas hierarchy also believe the Israelis confiscated the ten million English Pounds her uncle removed from a Hamas bank account on the day of 264

his death and transferred to her account in the name of bin Laden. Haifa finds some solace from the reality that her uncle did not get the ten million English Pounds from the Saudi; he took it from Hamas funds, not bin Laden, to trick her into trading for the bomb’s formula which he intended keep for his own interests, fully intending to get the money back after he murdered her. Feeling somewhat desperate carrying the bomb’s formula in her head, knowing the Israelis, the Americans and al Qaeda want her dead or worst yet, willing to torture her until she reveals all she knows, she removes the legal pad from her bag, studying the columns where she has noted the pros and cons of contracting bin Laden or the American fundamentalist’s superior in the United States or the heretofore unthinkable possibility of contacting a third person whose name she sometimes finds it difficult to pronounce. Bin Laden has not answered her letter soliciting his aid to complete the bomb that she sent through her Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood contact in Cairo. She calculates it was ignored because she is a woman, doing what the sheikh believes is a man’s obligation, but more probably because the great mujahedeen fighter has just orchestrated the attack that put the navy cruiser, the U.S.S. Cole out of commission in a port in Yemen, killing seventeen American sailors. And, his head, now buzzing with accomplishment, cannot consider the means to send a greater death blow to Israel and the United States. Even though the Saudi millionaire has the means to construct the bomb, she cannot afford to wait until his principlescatch up to the twentieth century. The woman turns her attention to the fundamentalist’s superior in the states. Surely, whoever this person is, he would most probably know his lackey is wasting away in a Pakistani jail, ready to blabber all he knows when the torture begins, incriminating the unknown person and who 265

knows how many others. Whoever it is in that vast, populous country would be ready to pay millions to stop the formula lost by the fundamentalist from reaching Muslim hands. Discovering and contacting that person would necessitate employing means that she does not possess, unless she brought Peter with his diplomatic contacts, into her confidence. She calculates that the Brit diplomatis enamored with her, but not enough to put his promising career in jeopardy by making suspicious inquires in the U.S. At the moment, she considers the last option to fund the bomb. A contact bizarre in its conception and so improbable to hers or any Middle Easterner’sreality as to be possible. “Let’s have a swim before we dress for the king’s ball.” Peter’s hand cups her bare knee, interrupting her thoughts, his finger tapping a beat on her inner thigh, his eyes suggesting they have sex before leaving for the ball. She brushes his lips with hers, saying, “my only pleasure is giving youpleasure.” Suddenly, a possible answer to her dilemma materializesin her head. If the sex with Peter goes as well as it has gone in the past, he will grant the very small favor she intends to ask him. *

*

Once the English Bentley doors open, Haifa and Peter, exit outside the Raghadan Palace, one of many the royal family uses for such high affairs as the king’s birthday party. The young English official rushes Haifa through the doors, past the attendants, into the ball room where King Hussein, Queen Noor, Crown Prince Abdullah and his stately young wife are greeting the last of the reception line. Haifa, dressed radiantly in a fashionable white evening dress she spent an exorbitant amount on for this occasion, takes a deep breath to relax, barely noticing Vivadi’s Four Seasons 266

softly playing in the corner of the ornate reception room. Being the last couple to step into the greeting line, she wantsto get past this royal family with the least scrutiny. Good fortune seems to be on her side, as the heir to the throne, Abdullah takes her escort’s hand, commenting: “Welcome Peter. So glad you and your friend could attend tonight’s party, even if it is at the last ringing of the bell. Pressing business delayed you, I take it?” He smiles goodnaturedly, his eyes going to Haifa. The Palestinian female smiles at the suave Hashemite, a younger copy of his short, yet regal, father. “Thank you for inviting me, Crown Prince. Allow me to introduce my friend, Haifa Hamad.” “You are most welcome here. Palestinian, are you not?” “I am a Palestinian born in Lebanon, but privileged to reside in your gracious country,” Haifa replies, extending her hand to the prince, and then to his wife after she is introduced. “My wife, Princess Rania is also Palestinian.” Haifa gazes upon the woman, radiantly beautiful, her double in beauty, poise and size. She is renown for pioneering opportunities for women and education for all children, Jordanian and Palestinian. The princess grasps Haifa’s hand and holds itwarmly. “I hope we can talk later. There are many issues for women to be solved in my country, and many opportunities for women to solve them.” “I would be honored Princess,” Haifa lies, thinking, there was a time when I would have been so honored, but now I have more deadly issues to consider. “Haifa finished her post-graduate work in England, as you did Crown Prince,” Peter volunteers. “Not at Sandhurst, I take it?” The dapper young heir apparent laughs kiddingly, referring to his extensive military schooling in England and later duty with the British Army. “We are most fortunate to have you both 267

attend our party. Please, don’t let me detain you from wishing my father a happy birthday.” Haifa notes the prince’s more than curious gaze upon her or connected her surname to her dead uncle. She wonders if he has somehow learned of the Israelis’ search for her or connected her name to her dead uncle. Her attention goes to the aging Queen Noor, a still attractive and gracefulwoman in a pale green evening gown. She is taller than her husband, who dresses in a tuxedo. The balding man, no longer the dashing monarch often photographed in the cockpit of a jet fighter plane, wearing the Arab Kaffiyyah, appears weaken by his bout with cancer, although every bit as gracious as his supporters claim him to be. He holds Peter handshake until introduced to Haifa, then extends his hand, saying, “so pleasant to see such a lovely couple as you two are. Dinner will be served soon. In the meantime, mingle with our friends.” Haifa, for the first time gazes at the room, its walls covered with painting of the Hashemite royal family and filled with dignitaries in tuxedos and military uniforms, elegant women of all ages dressed in fashionable evening wear; everyone, champagne glasses in hand, seems to be chatting in small groups of four and or more. Before they can move into the crowd, a waiterappears with a tray of filled champagne glasses. Peter and Haifa each take one and touch glasses. “To us,” he toasts. She takes a sip and smiles sweetly at him. “Now let me see if I can find the Israeli ambassador and deliver the small favor I promised you.” “Peter, if it will compromise you in any way, then let’s forget it.” “Nonsense. A promise is a promise. Give me the note.” “I left it unsealed, in case you want to read it.” “Why would I want to read it? It is only an innocent request to the Prime Minister to visit your grandparents’ 268

graves in Israel. Palestinian or not, you should not be denied. You do have a British passport after all.” Haifa squeezes his hand in appreciation, and then seals the envelope with her tongue. In the note, she has identified herself to her hated enemy, Prime Minister Mattath, informing him that she is willing to negotiate the bomb’s imminent detonation. If he chooses to deny her request, then she will have no option but to use it. She includes a time and the number of an untraceable, black market cell phone to contact her. She hands the envelope to her escort, her fingers touching his lips. “Good evening Peter. How good to see you again.” Haifa and the Brit turn to see a Saudi, dressed in an expensive white robe and headdress held in place by a gold spun cord. Well groomed and extremely handsome, he displays perfect white teeth between his neatly trimmed mustache and beard. “Good evening, Prince,” Peter returns the greeting, acting very much like the diplomat that he is. “Are you going to introduce me to you lovely companion?” Of course. Forgive me my friend, this is Haifa Hamad. Haifa I am pleased to introduce Prince Muhammad Nauf, special representative of his Highness, King Khahid Al Saudof Saudi Arabia. Here tonight, I suppose, to extend his country’s best wishes for a happy birthday to the King of Jordan.” Haifa infers that the two men are friendly by Peter’s sudden informal reference to the visit. “You suppose right, my friend. I am honored to meet such a beautiful woman as you, Ms. Hamad. Where have you been hiding? Or better yet, Peter, where have you discovered such a rare beauty?” “Right here in Amman, Prince” “Your gain is my loss.” He takes Haifa’s hand. “I pray you will save me a dance later.” “It will be my privilege,” she relies, noting his lingering gaze upon her. 269

“You are so gracious.” The debonair prince kisses the back of her hand. “Until then.” The robed man moves to a gathering of Jordanian senior military officers. “He is a notorious womanizer outside of Saudi Arabia, a pious Wahabbi inside that country’s borders,” the Brit comments. “We all have our faults, “Haifa adds, making a mental note to make the most of her promised dance with a member of the Saudi royal family. “Some more so than others, Peter comments, his eyes fixed on the Saudi Crown Prince. “See that squat, ugly toad over there drinking water and standing by himself. That is Meir Perez, the Israeli ambassador andone tough biscuit. Let me see if I can remind him of past favors her majesty’s government has extended to his country.” He leads Haifa by the arm to where the short, rotund Israeli ambassador stands. Perez smiles, showing a set of crooked, yellow teeth; one large mole prominently resides on the upper lip of his pugnacious face. “Ah, Peter, so good to see an old friend among so many friends. And who is this beautiful, young woman that you bring to me? My dear, you make an old warthog feel like a prince, a fairy tale one, not the Saudi kind.” The ambassador refers to the Saudi prince chatting with the Jordanian officers. Haifa, in spite of despising all Jews, notes that this one, an unattractive old man, has an engagingpersonality. “Ambassador Meir Perez, allow me to present Haifa Hamad.” The Israeli ambassador does not extend his hand, after hearing the Palestinian surname. “My pleasure, Ms. Hamad. Do you reside here in Amman?” “For the time being, I am pursuing the opportunities available to a professional woman.” “Yes there are many opportunities for an accomplished woman. Do you speak Hebrew? I only ask as we Israelis 270

are in the need of bi lingual people speaking both Hebrew and Arabic.” “Unfortunately, Mr. Ambassador, I do not,” Haifa lies once again, this time to put off the Israeli’s probing. “Too bad. Israel’s loss. And you, Peter, what have you been up, since I last saw you this afternoon?” Pete shows a blushing grin. “I see. Well, it is a young man’s world.” “Ambassador, I have a note I would like you to give to Prime Minister Mattath.” A grimace of displeasure overtakes the Israeli’s round face. “Think of the delivery as a token of our friendship and continuing cooperation.” “There are proper channels for writing the Prime Minister.” “And this is one of them, Meir. Haifa’s grandparents are buried at Deir Yassin, a village that is no more, with a graveyard that is no more. She only requests to visit them there and say a few reverent words over the place where they died. Your prime minister has put restrictions on all Palestinians desiring to visit Israel. I believe that once he reads her note, he will make an exception for her.” “Exceptions make dangerous precedents, leading to more exceptions.” He scowls his disapproval. “But if it is as harmless as you say, I will do it.” He takes the envelope from the Brit’s hand and tucks it inside hisjacket pocket. The king’s hostess rings the dinner bell. “Now, let us approach the moment I have been waiting for. Food! You are a lovely, charming woman, Ms. Hamad. I will approach the prime minister in your behalf.” *THE PREACHER* The old man, who is the leader of the largest fundamentalist church in the United States, known as Born Again Christians, and with a huge TV viewing audience, cannot resist eating the last bite of his sirloin steak, one of 271

many gourmet entries served at the gala dinner in the prestigious New York City hotel. Lately, events have led him to overeat; he realizes it is a nervous manifestation, one that that has put weight on his frame, unhealthy for a man approaching seventy years of age. He leans back into his chair, and, before he can loosen his belt, a waiter immediately removes his empty plate; the desert chef appears with the tray covered with various cakes, tarts, macaroons, cream filled canopies, chocolate mousse and other sweet delights. The preacher waves the chef off, requesting a cup of teainstead. The keynote speaker, a previous Israeli prime minister and once hawkish head of the Lukud Party, is about to conclude his speech. The preacher has heard various versions over the years of the Survival of Israel speech the important man usually gives to Zionist Christians. But, tonight the audience is mostly Jewish. “God promised the ancient land of Israel, you know as Galilee, Judea, Samaria, to the decedents of Abraham, the Jewish people, and His people have returned after two thousand years of Diaspora to reclaim it. The land from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea, we call Eretz Israel, belongs to us, the Jewish people, and we will never, never relinquish a foot of it,” the distinguished politician states to thunderous applause. The Christian fundamentalist, one of a few gentiles at the gathering of Jewish elite in the large Waldorf-Astoria Hotel ballroom, scrutinizes the one hundred or so couples, seated four at a table with a waiter standing in attendance at each exquisitely set table. He recognizes famous actors and actresses, movie directors, powerful owners of newspapers, presidents of television networks, executive editors from the most renown book publishers and of course, writers with household names, all generous donors to nation of Israel. High ranking White House officials, doctors, hospital executives, lawyers with a nationwide reputation 272

are in attendance. Seated at the rear of the large dinning room are the less known, but perhaps the most powerful, the movers and shakers, the true money raisers for Israel, the lobbyist—American Israel Public Affairs Committee and representatives from lesser Israeli Political Action Committees. These lobbyists influence the U.S. Congress to send billions of dollars, along with multiple high tech weapons to the Jewish nation. Intimidates Congress might be a better word than influences, he thinks. This is the crème de la crème of the Jewish population in America, the famous, rich and powerful, the preacher tells himself and then adds with certainty: they are all going to burn in Hell at the second coming of my Lord. History—Jews refusing to abandon their God in the face of an imminent Roman massacre and subsequent attacks on their faith throughout history--have proven to him that these American Jews or any Jew for that matter cannot be persuaded to accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, therefore will be doomed. But he does believe that it is possible for all Jews to return to Israel, setting the stage for the Second Coming. He is in attendance tonight, honored because over the years, his ministry has raised millions of dollars for Zionism to accomplish a worldwide return of the Jews to their ancient land. But tonight, he plans to even exceed that sum of money, as soon as the one time prime minister concludes his speech. “Thanks to everyone seated here tonight, Israel is secure amongst a surroundingsea of enemies. The might of our tiny nation, backed by our true friends, the Americans, is our current security. Since the Partition Plan, sanctioned by the United Nations, and codified by Israel’s War of Independence, she has,through her many victorious wars, doubled the size of her land. But many enemies still occupy land within the borders of greater Israel. The Arabs there are of a different religion, different culture and cannot be assimilated. They are sworn to destroy our small 273

country therefore they must be made to find land elsewhere. Let them go to Jordan, to the Sinai or other lands belonging to Arab people. As hard as Israel has tried, and she has diligently tried, to coexist with these people, many Israelis now realize that there is no place for the Palestinians between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea. If they cannot be bought out, then they must be forced out. Either way, it will take millions of dollarsto remove them. That is why the state of Israel is indebted to everyone in attendance tonight and why your continual support is so necessary and so valued.” Another round of thunderous applause sounds throughout the dinning room. The preacher finds applaudsas vigorous as the other guests. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for allowing me to address you tonight. Now, it is my extreme pleasure to introduce a great friend of the nation of Israel, a great humanitarian who heads the most respected Christian ministry in this country. I give you the Reverent Doctor Paul Hansom.” The preacher stands, bathed by applause from the distinguished people. He walks to the small dais at the head of the room. At a time such as this, when he should feel honored by the plaudits of so many influential people, he feels vexed since losing the holy crucifixion nail, and not being able to present it to the Lord Jesus at the Second Coming and much grieved over losing the most favorite member of his flock, Harlan Stegal, and recently losing his friend, Dale Buchman, whom he encouraged to travel to the land filled with damnable Muslims. The Muslims responsible for their deaths must be punished; hopefully, his announcement tonight will be the means to do it. “My dear friends, I am truly honored to be sharing a meal with you during this regal occasion. I am determined to see Israel survive, as I know each one of you are. The United States of America, the nation that we are blessed to 274

be citizens of, stands behind Israel, committed to her survival.” The preacher must wait until the applause dies down to continue: “just this month, proof of our commitment has been demonstrated: an American has given his life. General Dale Buchman, my close friend and an officer in the American Army, a decorated veteran of Vietnam and the recent Gulf War,was viciously murdered by Arab terrorists on what is currently Palestinian occupied land. I have a letter of condolence from, the Prime Minister of Israel, Dovid Mattaththat I would like to read to you.” The silent room is all the permission the fundamentalist minister needs to continue. “My dearest friend, Paul: I dispatch this letter to you at the same time I inform your government of the following matter and before word reaches the world media. I am deeply sadden to inform you that General Dale Buchman, while on a personal fact finding mission in the Middle East was struck down by Palestinian terrorists, members of Hamas, the enemy of free people everywhere. While passing through an Israeli Defense Force checkpoint in the Palestinian occupied West Bank, near the Jordan border, his vehicle was struck by a car bomb, instantly killing him, an Israeli officer and two young soldiers on duty nearby. It is a terrible loss for both our nations to suffer, therefore no stone will be left unturned until Israel finds and prosecutes the plotters behind these dastardly murders. Please accept my and the nation of Israel’s deepest condolences. I remain your devoted friend and admirer, Dovid Mattath Prime Minister of Israel.” The preacher pauses to allow the letter’s grave nature to fully influence the many dignitaries seated before him, and then declares: 275

“It is my firm belief that Israel can never feel secure while terrorists, like the ones who viciously took the lives of a great American and innocent Israeli soldiers, live within the borders of her ancient land, therefore I announce tonight, in the name of the American general Dale Buchman, a campaignto raise one hundred million dollars from Christian followers within the next six months. Once this money is in Israeli government hands, I hope it will be used to rid the Holy Land of terrorists.” For the moment, not one sound is heard in the room as the guestsdigest the fundamentalist’s announcement. Then to the preacher’s heartfelt joy, the entire gathering stands in unison and applauds him. *HAIFA & DOVID* Seeing that her bluff has worked, the woman, dressed completely in white to ward off the desert sun, watches the very distinct shape of the extremely rotund prime minister exita taxi some hundred meters from her. Not sure whether or not the Israeli has set a trap, she tenses some as the taxi circles and then retreats to a kilometer in the distance. Scanning the flat alkali plain and the sky above in all directions, she sees that not one sign of life moving. Standing before the taxi that brought her, Haifa instructs the man to pull his vehicle back a kilometer and wait for her signal to return. Mattath phoned her after receiving the message though his ambassador to Jordan, expressing doubt that she was able to build a sophisticated fusion bomb in such a short time. Knowing she needed big leverage to get the head of the Israeli government to meet her without an escort, Haifa fabricated the scenario for its construction, telling the Israeli the plutonium was purchased in Russia, the other high energy components she purchased through Meghwar’s past connections inNorth Korea. She added that the 276

American fundamentalist informed her that the Israelis had acquired a facsimile of the bomb design in the form of a bowling ball, although lacking the means to ignite it, so she described that designto him. She then described the duel lasers, but not the missing link—the lasers’ firing sequences--that she had acquired from the fundamentalist. Baiting him further, she related how easy it had been for a Muslim soldier of God to steal an automobile with an Israeli license plate and drive to Tel Aviv, carrying such a small, indistinct object as the fusion bomb. That soldier of Allah, an Israeli Arab by birth, is prepared to detonate the bomb if he refused to meet her. With enough truth in her threat to convince him, the prime minister said he could not meet her for a week as he was due to meet the American president in the United States in two days. “Cancel the trip or you may not have a country to come back to,” she replied, not wanting to give him time to entrap her. He responded by saying, “where are we to meet,” thinking a disgruntled president is a lot less harmful than this vengeful woman. She gave him the coordinates of a dry lake in Negev Desert, a perfectly flat and perfectly desolate five mile patch. She demanded that he travel alone to Beersheba, hire a taxi to drive him to the spot some hundred, thirty kilometers to the southeast. Dovid feels the morning sun burn into the front of his white shirt as he moves toward the figure in white. The woman he had sworn to hunt down and kill has positioned herself with the sun to her back. He puts on his polarized sunglasses to get a better view of her, as he treads heavily in her direction, feeling burdened by his excess weight. He notes that she is tall and shapely, her carriage proud, as she moves to meet him halfway, as her instructions told him to likewise do. Also according to her instructions, he 277

travelled in the dead of night, only identifying himself at the IDF checkpoints to sleepy sentries, who either did not know who the prime minister of Israel is, or were too mesmerized by his presence to react to an unprecedented appearance. The woman, monster in his mind, whom he gazes upon brutally murdered his son, attempted to murder him and his wife at his son’s funeral, executing two children and wrecking a mother’s life in the attempt. The very same woman, he is positive, who shot the Mossad agent at the Amman airport. He is also certain she tortured and castrated the American to gain the bomb’s formula. But as much as he hates her, he does not underestimate her. As a woman in an Arab world, her accomplishments are uncanny: she has pulled off so many incredible feats that he cannot discount her claim that she has developed the fusion bomb, therefore risks everything, including his life, by appearing here unarmed and unescorted. He raises his arms, removes his hat and turns full circle so that she can see he has no weapon. Ever since her parents were murdered by the Phalanges, the Lebanese Christian militia, this blood thirsty Israeli standing before her--now old, fat and slow--sent into Shatila, the Palestinian orphan has wanted to destroy theman. This aging, but very deadly man represents everything she hates in the Jews who stole her grandparents’ land, murdering them in the process. How easy it would be to gut this white haired executioner who engineered the apartheid state the Palestinians now must suffer, as she did his son, but now that they are face to face, she has a bigger purpose in mind. She raises her arms to demonstrate that she has no weapons and turns, feeling the last of the hot morning breeze press the lightweight shirt and slacks against her body. “What insurgent state funded the bomb?” are the first words leaving her enemy’s mouth. 278

“Funded by men living in caves,” she lies. “You gave the bomb to those madmen?” “I got the first one, the sheikh and his followers get the rest,” she lies again, enjoying the alarm spreading across the Israeli’s wide, deeply lined face. “Since your country has never admitted to possessing a nuclear bomb, I believe your best weapon against enemies has been to create your foes’ worst fear by allowing them to think Israel has a thermonuclear bomb. In reality, your nation only has a bulky fission bomb, enough to level some Arab cities, but not the bigbang that I have and you want. But, all will not be lost for your outlaw nation. I intend to give you the formula, and you can go home and build your own destructive device. The man many call the mufti will then be reluctant to destroy your country, knowing full well the caves of Afghanistan, where he is said to reside, will be well within range of Israeli missiles carrying lethal, yet small packages.” “You are demented.” “Perhaps.” “What is it that you want?” Dovid tells himself to stay calm, understanding that he is bargaining from a weak position and not wanting to take the chance that she is telling the truth, and the bomb is in Tel Aviv.” “For starters, blow up thesegregation walls. Evict all settlers in the two hundred settlements in Palestinian territory, starting with the ones surrounding Jerusalem. Open all roads to Palestinians, so they can live a normal life, and pull your army checkpoints back to Israeli borders. Your borders will be much smaller, after you denounce Israeli claim to every foot ofland seized after the U.N. mandate of 1948.” Dovid cannot help but chuckle over the impossibility of her demands. “I have two more conditions: allow all displaced Palestinians to return to the land that Israel has stolen from them and compensate them for fifty years of exile.” 279

“You obviously do not understand how the Israeli government functions or you would not demand such unworkable conditions. I would be voted out of office in a month, after I implemented just one of your demands.” “What office will you retain after Tel Aviv is leveled to dust? Understand, Minister, you have no choice.” “It will take years to carry out your demands. If I do as you say, I will need sufficient time.” “You have one month to destroy the segregation walls. Another month to evict the settlers; their houses must be left standing for Palestinian occupants. Within six months, all my conditions for the survival of Israel must be carried out or Hiroshima and Nagasaki will look like distant supernovas compared to what will happen to your modern, metropolitancity. That is all I have to say, except that the bomb will be yours when my conditions are met. Are we in agreement?” The prime minister, damning the day he proposed trading the ancient nail for the bomb, now directed against Israel, reluctantly nods his head in agreement. Haifa turns her back to the aging prime minister, signaling her taxi to pick her up as she walks toward it. Dovid ambles back toward his taxi, a man stymied over finding an option to complying with her terms. *HARLAN* “For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him. For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him. For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him. For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him. For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him,” the fundamentalist mutters to himself, the same biblical verse he has muttered for the last two weeks, at first amusing his captors, then disconcerting them with his lack of control. Hallucinating as he is, he is still aware of a tarp 280

being pulled away from the cramped cage that holds him in the Wazzirabad mullah’s compound situated on a windswept plain outside of the border town, believing the time he prayed for—his ascent to Heaven—will soon be upon him. He feels the wind from the unsettled day cut through his thin shirt, hears the bleating of goats and clucking of chickens, but what they represent has no reality for him. Through his one remaining ear, he hears the cage’s lock being opened and the metal door swing out. He feels the stumps of his hands being lashed together with a rope and then being yanked free from the cage by another rope around his neck. Stumbling about on cramped legs. he keeps muttering, “for if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him,” for even in his dementia, he is certain his end, which is his beginning,is imminent. His mutterings are drowned out by the roar of the spectators, as the rough captors pull him to the outer gate of the bleak compound where he will appear as the star of today’s show. The administration in Washington D.C. decided not to interfere with the primitive execution of a fugitive they believe to be a right wing terrorist; the thought being that he will be eliminated out of the American public’s sight, and the Christian Right spared a high profile trial in the states for one of their own. Hearing taunts of “burn the Jew,” the captive cannot see his hecklers, for the mullah’s son, the American educated extremist, plucked out both his eyes and tried to force him to eat the ovals. When he would not chew his eyes, his tormentors chopped off the fingers of his right and left hands, one finger each time he ignored subsequent demands eat his eyes. At the time, he saw no irony in the fact that the preacher had denied the sadistic mullah’s son the two fingers he shot off so long ago in Hazzard, Kentucky. Not crying out in pain, Harlan bore the disfigurement in silence, until he glanced down at the bleeding stumps where all his fingers were cut off at the 281

third joint, then he groaned and passed out. His captors, wanting to keep him alive for further torment, cauterized the stumps while he remained unconscious. After surviving the session, when he lost his eyes and fingers, he knew he would not break under further torture like he did in Lebanon. The blind captive, hair and beard matted stiff with months of grim, his Afghan shirt and pantaloons soiled and bloody from and the torture sessions and being confined in a cage, is indifferent to the rotten fruit and debris with which the spectators pelt him. He is oblivious to the blood trickling down his face from a rock hitting him the forehead. In fact, ever since the mullah’s son, had him strung up by the wrists to a pulley attached to the ceiling, separating both shoulders from his arms, he has felt little pain from the subsequent torture to make him confess to being a Jewish assassin. The words from the ancient Christian hymn that he now mutters came to him in the session when his captors clipped all ten toes from his feet; this time he did not faint. The mullah’s son left him alone for a week after that gruesome session, until yesterday when he made one last attempt to get him to confess to being a Jewish assassin, threatening to cut off his nose, receiving only a blank stare as a reply. The doomed man continues to stumble on swollen, toeless feet, the rope around his neck chokinghim to the point that he can no longer repeat the inspirational lyrics. He falls to his knees, gasping for a breath of air. The captors leading the American by the rope, attempt to yank him to his feet with a series of violent jerks on the rope, calling him, “Jew infidel,” only to have the fallen man lose consciousness. If Harlan was lucid and not completely deranged as he now appears, he would have laughed at being called a Jew by the primitive men, as he did during the three months of similar accusations. During that time he never once said he was an American Christian and not a Jewish assassin and never admitted to any complicity in the two murders of 282

Meghwar and the Afghan guide. Harlan has lost all sense of the past, except for a thin reminder floating somewhere in his head that he is a Born Again Christian, saved by his Lord Jesus, believing his Lord appreciates the baby killers he assassinated, the bombings of the unholy houses where the disbelievers practiced their evil deeds. He also knows the Lord has forgiven him for his past whoring and boozing, forgiven him for the fiery deaths of his wife and child, forgiven him for eliminating the Christian pilgrim from Florida, because the horrendous torture he has endured from the hands of these heathen Muslims has atoned for the sins and especially the loss of the holy nail. Jesus will greet him in Heaven with open arms. Water is thrown over his face, and he feels it being slapped. He continues to chant, “’For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him.’” Someone lifts him to his feet and shoves him toward his destiny. “Burn in Hell, Jew pig,” now becomes the cry from the spectators. Their incessant taunts increase to a frenzied howl, indicating to Harlan he now approaches imminent glory. “Confess your crimes to my father and before Allah’s faithful, and I will have you strangled, spared the horrific agony of a burning death,” the Mullah’s son whispers into Harlan’s remaining ear, so close to the condemned man that his breath caresses the captive’s wild hair. The battered and maimed man has no conception of what this Arab requests. Mixing English and Arabic in what becomes a lucid moment, the condemned fundamentalist states: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art. . . .” The mullah’s son spits in his face to the delight of the spectators and orders the captive bound to the awaiting stake. As his legs are lifted into the middle of three automobile tires, the captors lash him to a thick stake and 283

stack brush and cut wood around him. He feels at peace, aware that he did not betray the Lord this time, withstanding punishment from the minions of Hell. Hungry flames engulfing him snap at the sky, their heat igniting the combustible tires. Harlan can hear his skin sizzling, but cannot feel pain. The spectators loud clamor softens to a bare murmur, as they consume the infidel’s burning death. In broken, although intelligible Arabic that he has picked up during his captivity, the Born Again Christian, the flames licking at his head, singeing his beard, shouts with all the power the Lord has installed in him: “‘Hear me, Muslims. For what you do today, thy wives shall be harlots and thy sons and thy daughters shall be dividedby line and thousands shall die. For, behold the Lord cometh forth out of His place and will come down upon you. And the mountains shall be molten under him, and the valleys shall be cleft, as wax before the fire.’” The ancient prophet, Micah’s words, screamed by a mangy lunatic, consumed in flames, mesmerizes the spectators. The darkening sky overhead unleashes a clap of thunder and a subsequent flash of lightening. A fierce gust of wind causes many in the superstitious crowd to pull away from the delirious fundamentalist engulfed in flames. *EPILOGUE* In the six months that passed since Haifa coerced the Israeli prime minister to act on her demands, except for tearing down some sections of the segregation wall and abandoning a few settlements in Gaza, her enemy has reneged on her every demand. She knew he would, for the Israeli government’s penchant is to promise and then stall. No settlements have been abandoned in the West Bank, and ultra-orthodox Jews still live on Palestinian land. Soldiers still harass Palestinians at checkpoints, and no exiles have 284

been allowed to return to Palestine. The murderer of her parents must believe he has called her bluff, in that he does nothing he agreed to and she has not leveled Tel Aviv to dust. His belief does not matter to her, as destroying Tel Aviv was never her intent; her intent was to defuse Mattath in order to buy time to find the resources to build the world’s most deadly bomb. After accomplishing her goal of building the bomb, she has dropped a genuine Israeli passport into an airliner’s toilet receptacle on the plane she and an escort provided by Prince Nauf have taken from Riyadh to Jeddah—the thriving Saudi city on the Red Sea. The city the Muslims call the birthplace of the biblical Eve. It is the gateway to Mecca. Subsequently, because no trains or airplanes go into Mecca, she and the escort, like all pilgrims, took a bus from Jeddah to the holy city, to fulfill a Muslim’s obligation to perform the Hajj at least once in a lifetime. She took the Israeli passport from the woman named Liya, the same Israeli woman whose children she earlier ordered kidnapped and later executed and who was once a friend of the prime minister’s family. Haifa found the unstable woman, forgotten by the prime minister, living alone in a modest apartment on a small pension near Tel Aviv University, her husband having left her for an emotionally stable female. After shooting the woman once in the head, she disposed of the body in a Tel Aviv industrial area dumpster. She counted on the probability that a cleaning attendant would find the passport she dropped in the trash receptacle after the flight returned from Jeddah to Riyadh, as the underpaid always search the trash for anything of value. Since the passport was of no value to the finder other than being an item of suspicion, it would find its way to the Saudi police. Her intent was to leave the impression of a Jewish terrorist impersonating a Muslim woman making a Hajj, in this case a woman seeking revenge on the Muslim 285

world for the murder of her two children,. Making certain, no one missed the trail, she also left a dress and sandals purchased in a Tel Aviv clothing store, in a Riyadh hotel, unmistakably the discarded attire of an Israeli woman. She then changed into her preferred covert burqa to wear on her final journey. Before the scheming Palestinian woman met with the Israeli prime minister, she encouraged the Saudi prince she met at King Hussein’s birthday party, to seduce her. Being a womanizer outside of pious Saudi Arabia with unlimited wealth, he purchased a lavishly furnished condominium in the wealthy section of Amman with the condition that she discontinues her relationship with Peter Bentley, the British diplomat. Dropping the good looking Brit was exactly what her plan called for, as the Amman diplomatic circle would think of her as an opportunist dropping one man for the attention of a much richer one, certainly not a woman intent on destroying Israel. She knew, as all highly placed Muslims did, Prince Muhammad Nauf, special representative of his Highness, King Khahid Al Saud of Saudi Arabia, when not carousing outside of his country is a devout Wahabbi Muslim who has funded and continues to fund insurgent groups such as al Qaeda vowing to destroy Israel and do harm to the United States. Once Haifa addicted the Wahabbi playboy to her body and acquired his trust with passionate words of affection, it was a logical step to relate her past acquisition of the deadly bomb and her intent to destroy Tel Aviv, driving the Jews from the Middle East in the process. After the prince got over the shock of a woman who had given her body to him acquiring such a deadly weapon, funding the bomb, finding a location in the Sudan and nuclear scientists to construct it were exactly the challenges the rich Saudi sought, because in the narrow straights of Islamic fundamentalism, a practitioner cannot swerve from a hatred of Jews and the temptation to destroy them. 286

Unlimited money can acquire almost anything, especially information, and the prince possesses the brain power to utilize his fortune to its fullest extent: once he sent felonious word to the many extremists, financed by his donations to their various causes, that he wanted to obtain nuclear technology for a salt water purification plant to be built in the Sudan, word came back from T’bilisi in Georgia. The phone call informed hem that nuclear scientists from Rosnergoatun, the holding company for the entire Russian nuclear industry were for hire at bargain prices. As any informed Arab would know, since the breakup of the Soviet Union and subsequent bankruptcy of the Russian government, payments to government scientists were almost non existent. Haifa and Prince Nauf flew to the Georgian city, T’bilisi and then, after renting two Japanese SUVs, crossed the border into Russia as tourists visiting the ancient city, Rostov on the shores of Lake Nero, said to one of the oldest settlements in Russia. After perfunctorily viewing the medieval Kremlin and monastery with their onion domes protruding into the sky, the caravan of two SUVs diverted their travel from the venerated sights to where they found scientists sitting at tables of a local bar near the nuclear power plant, nursing the one drink they could afford for the day. They waited for employment as common day laborers, struggling to keep their families out of harm’s way. The prince hired six very grateful scientists, one in particular was an acclaimed nuclear physicist, and directed the SUVs to retrace their path to Georgia, after paying sizable bribes at theborder crossing. At the crossing, it was a no brainer for the duty officer to take money to allow the scientists to earn a living outside the country. The party of eight and fifty pounds of easily attainable Plutonium 239, extracted from spent uranium rods, the prince purchased for the wholesale price of three million English Pounds, flew to Port Sudan on the Saudi’s private Boeing 727 airliner. The irony that Osama bin 287

Laden, an enemy to the Saudi and to the Palestinian, built the airport never occurred to either of the nuclear intriguers. Port Sudan is Sudan’s busy industrial port on the Red Sea, established by the British during their imperialistic outreach. Once in the Sudan, Haifa, her partner in intrigue and the Russians carrying Plutonium 239 boarded a train on a rail line, also built by the British, linked to the Nile River, getting off at Tokun, a sizable, although poor town by the sea, where a scientific laboratory could operate without detection and authorities paid to ask no questions. The water purification plant they started construction on was never intended to have nuclear power. Being constructed to run on conventional power, it would be the prince’s gift to the Sudanese people, a token of his gratitude for the use of their land. The prince and Haifa, presenting themselves as a Saudi philanthropist and his mistress devoting their time to the betterment of the predominately Muslim north half of the country, were able to move back and forth between Port Sudan and Tokum smuggling necessary ingredients for the bomb’s development and supervising the construction of the bomb. The thermonuclear bomb, the most deadly ever to be detonated, Price Nauf intends to use to destroy Tel Aviv—the hub of Israeli commerce—immediately after as his pilgrimage to Mecca is completed. Haifa carefully arranged the timeframe, knowing the prince would not want to destroy Tel Aviv until after he performed the Hajj. She, playing the role of a practicing Muslim, expressed her desire to the married Saudi to also complete the Hajj in Mecca. T Totally enamored with Haifa and not wanting to give up one moment without her, Prince Nauf arranged for her to stay in Riyadh while he prepared his family for the trip to Mecca. The day before he left, he hired a chaperon in the Saudi capital to accompany her so she could properly visit the holiest of holy cities on her own. Once the prince left Riyadh with his wives for Mecca, she diverted her destination from 288

Jeddah to Port Sudan. Leaving the chaperon asleep in his economy room, she, after discarding the pillow attached to her stomach, changed from the effacing robe to clothing befitting a secular woman with whom the Russian scientists were used to seeing and thendrove to the remote laboratory at Tokum near the Red Sea. Since the enamored prince felt Haifa totally captivated by his affection, he trusted her to come and go from the laboratory; the six nuclear scientists showed no concern for her appearance as she was the cocreator of the bomb. Collecting the six Russians in the laboratory’s lunchroom and convincing them to surrender the first version of the completed fusion bomb became easy. She revealed six bank drafts, each for one half million English Pounds and pledged to send one draft to each of their families, knowing beforehand the families had been barely existing on the five hundred rubles a month Prince Nauf paid their spouses. Her next move was to present the Russians with a very expensive bottle of Stolichnaya Elit Vodka. She previously used a hypodermic needle to lace the bottle’s content with chroral alcholate-a tasteless knockout drug strong enough to stay potent in one hundred percent proof alcohol. Sensing the Russians were anxious to drink the rare vodka she proposed a toast, singing a boisterous “prost” to their new prosperity, feigning to sip her glassful as the six drank deeply from their glasses. Haifa foresaw the impossibility of leaving six Russian nuclear experts with the knowledge to sell the deadly fusion bomb to anyone willing to pay their price, so waited for them to fall asleep at the table. When they all had passed out from the drugged vodka, she executed each one with a bullet to their temple. Her next move was to set fire to the laboratory, destroying all information pertaining to the bomb and its fish eye lasers. Boarding the train from Tokum to Port Sudan, she heard the awful explosion coming from the remote laboratory when the industrial size propane tanks, whose valves she fully 289

opened, detonated. Now all the loose ends had been trimmed, so she found herself unencumbered to pursue her deadly end. Once back in her Port Sudan hotel, Haifa put the bomb, untested but guaranteed by the Russian scientists to be lethal, in a baggage trunk a high placed Muslim woman would travel with and shipped it across the sea to the Hotel Qasr Al Sharqg in Jeddah to await her arrival. *

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The woman visualizing her finale has changed into a white hijab, an Arab robe, and head covering along with a veil covering all but her dark eyes and exchanged the pillow fastened to her stomach for the ten inch sphere containing the fusion bomb. She now walks amidst a shoulder to shoulder throng counter clockwise around the black stone set in a fifty foot high by thirty-five wide marble temple known as Kaaba. She is surrounded by at least three hundred thousand worshipers--women dressed similarly in white robes or the more modest burqa and men wearing only two white sheets; the top one draped over their torsos, the bottom sheet cinched by a white belt. Those worshipers not close enough to kiss the black stone point at it. Even though the men try to increase their pace around the Kaaba, progress is extremely slow due to the mass of humanity pressed into the holy courtyard of the Great Mosque, Masjidul Haram. Haifa has made one circle, and needs to lose the escort provided by Prince Nauf, a courteous older man appropriately named Muhammad, before completing the required seventh circle around the stone. The Hajj, this fifth pillar of Islam, a submission to Allah, was observed by Muhammad the Prophet, and the black stone is said to have been set in marble by Ibrahim, Allah’s first prophet, and his son Ishmael. All this means little more than ritualistic mumbo-jumbo to her. Today is the greater Hajj, the eighth 290

day of the twelfth Islamic month Dhul Hijja, , very appropriate for sending 300,000 of the devoted surrounding her and another two million Muslims in Mecca to their paradise above, if such a place exists--free them from their religious enslavement here on earth, she reasons. Haifa never intended to level Tel Aviv, for that would be too simple for a woman obsessed by hate, the pure kind that comes from being victimized by victimizing religious practitioners. In her mind, religion is evil, creating more misery than bliss, more harm than good. Men use it to acquire power; women use it to acquire identity. She uses hatred to acquire revenge: in this her final effort, pretending to be a Jewish agent, as the trail she has left will indicate, she will destroy Mecca and some two and a half million Muslim worshipers with mankind’s most powerful nuclear bomb. This catastrophe, Haifa calculates, will turn the world against Israel, isolate that racist country like they isolated the Palestinians; that is the longer and better revenge. Both her hands fondle the bulge where she has fixed the bomb to her stomach. Muhammad, her escort, smiles benevolently after observing her holding her belly, believing she is pregnant. Prior to this day, knowing the prince hired Muhammad through a broker, she met him in the lobby of her Riyadh hotel wearing a burqa covering the noticeable bulge made by a bed pillow fasten to her stomach, planning to replace the pillow with the bomb once in Jeddah. Blood soaks the white sheet covering her escort’s leg where she has nicked him with a razor blade. The Palestinian woman grabs his arm and, once she has his attention,indicates the bleeding. The older man glances at her in disbelief, having felt nothing when the sharp blade slashed him. Pushed on by Hajj participants, he is unable to stop to inspect the bleeding, so looks to her for instructions. 291

“Go seek help from one of the many aid stations situated by the walls. Once I finish my Hajj, I will find you.” The man seems uncertain that he won’t bleed to death before he can push his way through the throng of worshippers to an aid station. She gives him a hundred Riyal note, saying, “buy the best of medical attention for your wound.” Haifa has completed a second turn around the black stone and is still unable to push her way through the mass of men, thirty or more circling and at the same time trying to reach the stone in order to kiss it. Closer to the stone and a few steps behind her pace, she spots the Saudi prince with whom she copulated and who financed and built the bomb, walking with his four wives. The elegant young women are dressed in ivory white, spun silk robes, headdresses and veils. Before she can turn away, his eyes find hers. His two jeweled fingers form a V on the white sheet covering his chest, signaling their secret bond. The slight smile his lips form twists in horror when his eyes lock on the protrusion the bomb makes under her hijab. The diabolical woman, giving the appearance of being pregnant, sees that her lover has guessed her intent, as he franticly pushes his way toward her. To Haifa, it is important to get to the black stone to ignite the bomb, for it is the center of Islam, symbolic of the mentality that took her womanhood, depriving her of a ordinary life and symbolic of everything erroneous to a developing society, so she tries to push closer to it. “Please, let me through. I must kiss the Kaaba for my baby’s good fortune,” she pleads to the men as she pushes her way to the stone, all the time noticing the prince shoving and pushing his way toward her, attempting to intercept her before she can detonate the bomb,causing other men to push back, creating a disturbance. Within three bodies of reaching the stone whose black marble base is covered with men and women kissing it, she feels the 292

prince’s arms encircle her torso in a bear hug, pulling her away. “What are you doing, Haifa? Are you insane? This is not what we planned to do.” His hands pull up on her robe, as he tries to take the bomb from her body. “Help! Someone help me. This man has gone mad. He attacks me, a pregnant woman of Allah.” She can see that in his haste to get to the bomb, he has pulled her robe up over her knees, a terrible sacrilege in this most holy place. The men around her accost the prince and not recognizing him, restrain him. “Let me go. It is this woman that must be stopped. She has a bomb that will destroy us all, turn the world into a hell on earth,” he shouts, his normally composed face now twisted into a frightful mask. “Please take this lunatic away before he shames me further. I am faint with child and only seek to kiss the holiest of the holy, the black stone that Ibrahim and his son Ishmael placed here and the Prophet, peace be onto him, kissed.” Two of the many Saudi security policemen stationed throughout the mass of humanity to keep order, reach the upheaval amidst the procession and grasp the prince by his bare arms. “This man acts like a fiend, molesting this woman and insulting Allah and His devoted followers,” a male worshiper informs the policemen, reinforced by other accusations from angry Muslim men gathered around the prince who appears wild eyed and disheveled, his once perfectly groomed hair and beard sweaty and in disarray. “You must listen. This woman is not pregnant. She has fixed a nuclear bomb, more powerful than anything the world knows,to her stomach. It will annihilateeverything within a hundred kilometers. You must believe me.” “Take this madman away,” a man within the fracas shouts at the policemen. 293

The two security policemen tighten their grips on the struggling, unstrung Saudi prince. One policeman speaks in an authorial voice: “we do not wish to use force, but if you do not come with us now we will incapacitate you.” Haifa’s coconspirator breaks free, struggling to get to her, crying out, “why have you betrayed me.” Only before he reaches her, the Saudi security policeman shoots him in the back with electrodes from a taser stun gun. The Prince of the House of Saud drops to the ground before a circle of worshippers, writhing in agony. Two more security policemen arrive on the scene, and together, all four men carry the prince away, his four wives struggling to get to the Saudi policemen to inform them of just whom they haveimmobilized. The white sheet adorned men part ranks, giving way for Haifa, allowing her to finally reach the ancient black stone. Once she presses her face against the stone, allegedly black from absorbing centuries of sins from worldwide Muslims, the disrupted worshiperscontinue their pilgrimage. Haifa, with her forehead pressed against the stone, has both hands within the skirt pockets of her hijab, her fingers touching the small electronic transmitter that will activate the fish eye lasers on the bomb attached to her belly. Once activated, they will create the immense heat of the sun and subsequent pressure to drive the atoms inward at the speed of light. She thinks, had the Germans been made to give the Jews a piece of their country rather than Palestinians, maybe then my uncle would not have become the religious fanatic that disfigured me. Had not the Israelis used their alleged God’s bequest of land to steal my grandparents land, maybe I would not be doing this. Her finger finds the small transmitter’s button, and her last thought is: too bad the sheikh in Afghanistan, the prophesized mufti, cannot see a female shahida,in action. This is what Allah would call a real bomb. 294

Not even the dead nuclear scientist, Doctor Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, knew the exact power of mankind’s first pure fusion bomb, although he did estimate it would be somewhere in the realm of two hundred megatons of dynamite. Whatever the extent of its true force, the bomb that the Palestinian woman detonated decimated the black stone, the city of Mecca and two and a half million faithful Muslims, leaving not one trace of mankind and his industry for forty kilometers in all direction; a mushroom cloud hung over the vanquished place of the Hajj for nineteen days, a respected number in Muslim theology. The radiation fallout, although less than a fission bomb, was large enough to pollute Jeddah, eighty kilometers away, forcing two and a half million residents to evacuate that city. *

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After the dead Israeli woman’s passport and her supposed articles of clothing were found and, as Haifa expected, the armies of the world, mandated by the United Nations and led by Christian Russia and the United States and by Muslim led Saudi Arabia and Iran, move to cordon off the tiny, Jewish nation of Israel, isolating it before an attack. The only hesitation for the allied forces being whether or not to use nuclear weapons on the holy land, as they believe Israel used on the Muslim’s most holy place. Haifa would have enjoyed the irony surrounding Prime Minister Mattath, a staunch advocate of regaining the land of biblical Israel, knowing he would have been quite pleased to see the Palestinians, finding themselves on the wrong side of a forthcoming invasion, flee Israeli occupied land by the tens of thousands. The boy soldier, who became Israel’s most devoted warrior, and subsequent apartheid prime minister had a massive stroke after losing American support. He now lies in a stupor, spared 295

witnessing the imminent demise of his country. Haifa would have relished seeing Sheikh Osama bin Laden’s graven face upon hearing the news that Islam’s most holy site and most holy city is a pile of radiated dust. She probably would have commented that a man so sure of Allah’s will, could do no less than misjudge it. What sweet irony it would have been for her to live to the day when enemy bombers destroyed the holy nail—the object that initiated all the excitement--along with the Temple of Mullah Omar in Afghanistan. What Haifa did not intend and what she never thought of is that she gave the Born Again Christian leader, Paul Hansom, and his devoted flock in America rapture beyondexpectations. The preacher, the earlier, young fundamentalist champion who produced the millions of Christian political activists who work diligently to influence government and control society, has forgotten the loss of the holy nail, regaining the vigor of his youth, humming, “they will see the Son of Man in a cloud with power and glory,” as American Jews and the Jews scattered over the planet are scurrying to Israel to protect their last haven on earth before it is completely cut off by United Nation forces. The hundred million dollars he promised to raise for the tiny nation, along with the proceeds from recent sales of his university, hospital and television network he now uses to assist loyal Jews from all over the world to enter Israel, because once all Jews return to defend the biblical land, what need does he or any of his estimated sixty million followers have of money, now that the Second Coming of Lord Jesus is imminent; in his mind this is a much greater gift than possessing the holy nail. *

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Haifa, a woman mishandled by man, proved to be too much woman for man. 296

*END*

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