Silver’s companion glanced back occasionally, forcing Rabbi Josh to slow down. Every time they turned a corner, he rushed forward to catch up.
They descended deeper into the Arab Quarter, where shops gave way to crowded dwellings, the sweet aromas replaced by a bitter mix of dust and cooking fires. Turning another corner, Rabbi Josh saw a wider street, where the slanted rays of the sun touched the stone pavers. He held the kafiya to his head, reached the end of the street, and glanced in both directions. They were gone.
Several Arab men entered a courtyard and removed their shoes. Adjusting his kafiya to make sure it covered his hair, the rabbi followed them. Pulling off his shoes brought relief to his blisters. They entered a large hall and sat on their heels in rows. He did the same, keeping his kafiya low over his face, stealing glances in futile attempts to find Silver.
The prayer hall accommodated many rows of men. A voice chanted a Koran verse in Arabic, and they repeated, bowing until their foreheads touched the carpet, and sitting up, showing the palms of their hands. He wanted to leave, but his way was blocked by rows of additional worshippers. Fear seeped into him.
Down the line to the left, near the side wall, he noticed a small man who remained bowed. A gray goatee stuck out under the kafiya.
The rows bowed again, and Rabbi Josh did the same.
As they sat back up, he leaned slightly forward and saw the man’s head rise slowly from the floor, the palms of his hands showing, his bespectacled eyes turning up to the ceiling, his kafiya edging back, exposing his face. It was Professor Silver, and he was crying while his lips pronounced, “
Elizabeth waited in the cell. She refused to sit on the floor. Soon Father’s anger would subside. Surely he craved a grandchild as much as she delighted in becoming a mother.
The door flew open and men grabbed her. A chair was brought in, and they forced her to sit. A fist clenched her hair and pushed her head down, her chin pressed into her chest. A rope circled her upper body and arms, binding her to the back of the chair.
“You’re hurting me!” She tried to shake off the hand clenching her hair.
The grip tightened, shoving her head down.
“Release me!”
Men filled the room, lining the walls. They stared at her darkly, saying nothing.
“I’m warning you! I’ll report this to the-”
Father was carried into the room on his chair, placed in front of her. His creased, sunken cheeks were covered in gray stubble, and his eyes were buried in a book.
“Father!” Elizabeth fought to control her voice. “It’s gone far enough!”
He didn’t look up.
Someone entered the room behind her. She tried to turn, but a rough hand pushed her head down. “What are you doing?” She struggled to loosen the rope, which did not budge. “This is criminal kidnapping! I’m no longer consenting to being held here-you’ll be arrested and prosecuted by the authorities!”
Her father looked up. His eyes, once a glistening brown, were pale now, his eyelids drooping.
“Father, I came here to make peace!”
He leaned forward in the chair and slapped her across the face. His lips, folded in between his toothless gums, made sucking noises. He took a few quick breaths and slapped her again.
A youth in a green headband held a piece of paper in front of her. Another pointed a video camera at her face.
She read aloud: “I am Elzirah Mahfizie, known in America as Elizabeth McPherson. I confess my betrayal of the Palestinian people. I profess my faith in Allah and his prophet Mohammad. I curse the American Satan.” She stopped and shook her head. “I can’t. As a senior government official-”
Father tried to slap her, but his hand fell in his lap, powerless. His disciples shifted about, restless, ready to pounce if she caused Hajj Mahfizie further aggravation.
She forced herself to think logically. Who would take this video seriously when it was obvious she was under duress, tied up, beaten, threatened? She read aloud: “I curse the American Satan and its president and its criminal officials, as well as the Zionist Satan and its criminal army. May Allah’s sword come down on their heads. My life belongs to Allah and his prophet Mohammad.”
She looked up, meeting Father’s eyes. He looked at someone behind her. Glancing back, Elizabeth saw the glint of a blade.
“Hey! What are you doing?” The whole thing was unreal. “Father!
The man behind her put his big hand on top of her head, sank his fingers into her hair, and yanked backward.
“No!” Elizabeth fought to keep her head forward, keep Father’s face in sight. “This can’t be happening! It’s a terrible mistake! I beg you-”
A long knife appeared from the right.
“No! Call Abu Faddah! He’s my contact! Please!”
The Hajj lifted his hand, and the knife stopped and retreated out of sight. The hand let go of her hair.
“He’s at a hotel.” Elizabeth gulped, searching her mind frantically. “The Ramban Hostel in Jerusalem. He’ll tell you what I’ve done. Hero of Palestine. He’ll tell you about the award ceremony. Wednesday! You’ll be proud!”
The room was still. Father’s forehead creased.
“The Ramban Hostel. Ask for Levy Silver.” She immediately realized she had just sealed her own fate. “It’s only a cover!”
Her father’s face twisted, and he motioned with his hand.
She screamed, “
The man grabbed her hair and pulled hard, tilting her head back. The long blade appeared from the right, held above her face. He forced her head all the way back, until she saw her executioner’s nostrils flaring, his mouth slightly open.
Her neck was exposed to the blade.
The baby in her belly kicked harder than ever before.
Masada took a cab to Oscar’s photography studio. Traffic came to a standstill along a wide avenue lit up with strings of blue, white, and yellow lights. The driver tuned the radio to a broadcast from Washington, where Senator Mitchum opened the debate on the Fair Aid Act by declaring, “Let us take a moment of silence in honor of Senator Mahoney, my mentor and friend in this great institution, a victim of foreign intrigue and corruption.”
A reporter described the Senate floor as full to capacity, including the rotunda.
Mitchum resumed his opening remarks by informing the senators that they must keep their speeches to a minimum so that a vote could take place no later than 10:30 p.m. Masada calculated; that would be 5:30 a.m. tomorrow, Israel time.
“It is imperative,” Mitchum declared, “to set an example. A foreign government-even a close friend as the State of Israel-that attempts to corrupt the American republic will be punished!”
The radio report cut to the rally in Jerusalem, where hundreds of thousands of Israelis were gathering to protest the American vote. Looking out the cab window, Masada saw dozens of buses adorned with yellow banners. She had never expected her article to set in motion such a chain of events, but Mahoney’s bullet to the head had triggered a political tsunami that had destroyed her own life and was now washing over Israel.
Masada asked the driver, “Can you go around this jam?”
“No problem.” He looked over his shoulder, turned the steering wheel all the way, and jumped the median, driving over the flower beds and down the other side, speeding up in the opposite direction.
The mosque in the Arab Quarter of the Old City had no splendor or eminence, but the familiar prayers transferred Professor Silver back to his childhood in Haifa, reviving bittersweet memories he had pushed out of his
