“ I already have one.”
“ You’ve read my book?”
“ When it was first published. Your conclusions were all wrong.”
“Wrong? Why?”
“You assumed that the ultra-Orthodox culture is homogeneous. It’s not. And violent fundamentalism could grow from modern orthodoxy, as the settler movement is proving.”
“ Against the Arabs, yes, but they’re not engaged in internecine violence. Since your sixty-seven ruling, there has not been a single case of Talmudic advocacy for Jews to attack Jews. Not one!”
“ That’s precisely why I’m here. What do you know about ILOT?”
The professor’s face registered no interest. “Just what I saw on TV. It seemed like a bunch of kids playing pretend-”
“They carried Bar Ilan Law School backpacks.”
“So do thousands of students, alumni, and their family members. These ILOT kids are a fringe minority.”
“I thought you’d be interested, considering your work on the abortion conflict.”
“Oh, I’ve moved on.” Professor Lemelson laughed. “Religious violence is dead, academically speaking. Completely passe. Jews fight each other with words, not weapons. My research focus has shifted to legislative conflicts. Grant money is plentiful, and students are interested in politics.”
“ What about our history?”
“ That’s the reason studies of intra-Jewish violence are conducted in the archeology department. And I’m allergic to dust.” Professor Lemelson chuckled. “I now study overlapping Jewish laws and modern Israeli legislation. It presents a more acute intellectual conflict.”
“ And what if you learned that your students are among the Torah warriors of ILOT? Wouldn’t that present an acute intellectual conflict?”
Professor Lemelson got up and paced back and forth across his small office. “Are you speculating or are you in possession of factual indicia requiring further study?”
“ Have your students raised the question of Rodef or the legitimacy of attacking other Jews for their political positions? Or for any reason?”
The professor seemed shocked. “We discuss many topics in the classroom. in the ae
“ And this particular topic-killing a Jew who’s endangering another Jew?”
“ Yes, in fact we recently discussed it. The issue was raised theoretically as a proposition for debate. But that’s the whole point of free, intellectual exchange in an academic setting, isn’t it?”
“Who raised it?”
“I can’t give you names! My students shouldn’t be persecuted for discussing ideas!”
“Who’s talking of persecution?” Rabbi Gerster smiled at the much-younger professor. “Do you take me for a member of the Zionist police?”
The comment caused Professor Lemelson to laugh. “I’m sorry. I should have realized your interest is merely Talmudic.”
“Exactly. It’s an intellectual interest. I’m sure your student wouldn’t mind chatting with a harmless old rabbi.”
Sitting at his computer, Professor Lemelson searched his students’ list. “I can give you a name, but no contact information.” He scribbled on a piece of paper. “Leave a message with your phone number in the office downstairs. One never knows with these students. You might get a call back.”
*
Friday, October 20, 1995
Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr reclined in the wide chair with the Wall Street Journal. The Lear jet crossed the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula, and the Red Sea filled the round window with deep-blue water. Tiny oil tankers left white wakes, pointing to the Suez Canal.
At the sight of the approaching Saudi coastline, he finished his scotch. Holding the glass up against the sun, he examined his fingernails. Pierre had brought a manicurist with him that morning, a cute little Korean with perfect little hands. He would have kept her for the rest of the morning if not for the unexpected phone call that summoned him for a meeting with his father. Perhaps the king had granted them additional contracts for imports? It could mean millions more for his secret account!
The Lear entered Saudi airspace and banked its wings to the right, veering south. An attendant came into the cabin with a silver tray. He placed a cup of black coffee next to Prince Abusalim and reached for the half-full scotch bottle.
“Wait!” Prince Abusalim filled the glass and emptied it in a few gulps. As the servant was leaving with the forbidden alcohol, the white-stucco sprawl of the holy city of Medina appeared in the distance. The prince lowered the back of his seat and closed his eyes. He had an hour to kill while the Lear flew over Hejaz into the Najd region.
Touchdown was barely felt. The long runway bordered the north side of the family oasis, ending in a giant hangar. The doors slid open to welcome the Lear. It was dwarfed by the sheik’s personal Boeing 747.
A Mercedes limousine took him down the paved road, shaded by rows of palm trees. Tribesmen in white robes and kafiyas opened the gates, and a moment later the main house appeared.
Hajj Vahabh Ibn Saroah, the sheik’s loyal deputy, descended the marble steps in his traditional white galabiya, which touched his sandals. A checkered kafiya was secured to his head by the two black bands that symbolized his religious status.
They embraced and kissed.
Hajj Ibn Saroah had been with the sheik all his life. He had commanded the sheik’s nomads through fierce fighting for the establishment of a position of power in the king’s court and had continued to command the sheik’s personal security guards, to communicate the sheik’s orders, and to mete out punishment to sinners. Under his belt the hajj kept a shabriya-a crooked blade that could slice a man’s hair lengthwise.
“How is my beloved father?”
“His Highness is in good health. As you are, I hope.” Hajj Ibn Saroah walked quickly, his head slightly bowed.
“Indeed. Allah has been good to me.” He wanted to ask for the purpose of this urgent summoning but was reluctant to show a weakness to this man who, despite his pretences, was only a notch above a slave.
A marble-tiled hallway led them to a pair of gold-plated doors.
“Abusalim!” The sheik put aside the worn volume of the Koran, which he had been reading, and rose slowly. “I am so happy to see you!”
“Father.” Prince Abusalim bowed and kissed the lapel of his father’s long galabiya, its white cotton embroidered with gold.
The sheik embraced his son, planting a kiss on each cheek. “It’s been almost three months since your last visit.”
“I’ve been working very hard.”
“And you did well. Our revenues have doubled this year.” The sheik smiled. “I’m very proud of you, Abusalim.”
“May Allah preserve your health for many years. I am nothing without your guidance.”
Sheik az-Zubayr had just celebrated his seventieth birthday and, as his three wives could testify, had maintained his youthful virility. “But what good is my guidance if you live in Paris, among all the infidels?”
“I would come more often, Father. But I have many responsibilities.”
“Indeed you do.” The sheik caressed his goatee. “Have you lost interest in your wives? Maybe you should take a new one?”
“Not yet. Maybe next year.”
“You only need to ask, yes?”
“Thank you, Father.” Prince Abusalim wondered if that was the reason for calling him home. Had one of his wives complained about his long absence? The younger one was pregnant, so it must be his first wife. He would visit her tonight, satisfy himself, and rough her up as a lesson in the virtue of silence.
Hajj Ibn Saroah cleared his throat.
