any of them willing to die for their cause will already be dead. In a short time, the Third Temple will rise on the foundation of its predecessors, and it will be the sacred heart of Jewry. It’s our mission to see that when the Temple is complete, God’s words will reside within its walls. That is our covenant with Him.
“Ibriham gave his life to this belief. And his death has not weakened my resolve, nor should it yours. We are closer than any have come in two thousand years. Because I want the geologist Mercer dead does not mean that I have abandoned our cause.”
Yosef finished what was the longest speech of his life, feeling bitter and empty inside. He cared nothing for the cause nor Chaim Levine. He’d only come out of retirement to help Ibriham. But his death gave Yosef a mission, a crusade more important to him than anything in the world. He wanted Philip Mercer to die.
“I’ll be leaving tonight with the rest of the Eritrea team. Before I go, I’ll speak with Minister Levine about finding a more suitable safe house. We can’t stay here for very long. Both Mossad and Shin Bet are looking for us, and Levine can’t risk our capture. He’ll have to find a more secure place than this, preferably on a military base, perhaps the secret weapons research facility in the Negev. I know he wants to distance himself from us in case we’re captured, plausible deniability, but we need his protection now that Ibriham is gone.”
Yosef knew that Levine would sacrifice everyone in the room if he felt it threatened his chances to become Prime Minister. Israeli politics was becoming as dangerous as those in some third world autocracy.
“Before I call Levine, Moshe, check on Mr. White and see if there’s anything we need when we move him again.” Yosef lit another cigarette, blowing a mushrooming jet of smoke across the table. “Remember this will be the last time he’s transferred so if he makes any special requests, grant them. In case we need him for another video for Mercer, we want him in good humor.”
“Yes, sir,” the young sabra said, getting up from the table to descend into the cellar.
The cellar walls were undressed stone, and the floor was heavily packed dirt hardened to an almost cement shine. The air was cool and damp, smelling of mold and neglect. Off a central hallway, a door led to Harry White’s cell.
There was no window in the wooden door, so Moshe had his pistol in hand when he threw back the dead bolts and kicked it open. By the murky light of the two dim bulbs strung along the ceiling, he could see the prisoner lying quietly on an army surplus cot. They had given him his clothes back for the move and allowed him this one measure of decency.
Harry looked at the teenager with the gun in his hand, and if he felt intimidated by the weapon, his attitude didn’t show it. He recognized him from the earlier cell and took the fact that the guard’s face was now uncovered as a very bad sign. “How about some food, you bastard. I haven’t eaten in days.”
In fact, it had been less than twelve hours but without natural light, Harry White’s circadian clock was fouled. Moshe looked at Harry blankly.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Harry nearly shouted. “You know, food. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I don’t give a shit.” He pantomimed eating.
“You want to eat?” Having been born in Israel, English for Moshe was a second language and a particularly difficult one at that.
“Fucking camel jockey. Yes, I want to eat.” Harry sat up. He had taken off his prosthetic leg and Moshe stared morbidly at the empty trouser cuff that dangled off the bed. “And how about some hooch while you’re at it? My hand is killing me.”
Again Moshe stared without comprehension.
“You know, booze, swill, liquor, alcohol. Nectar of the gods, man! Bourbon, gin, vodka, scotch. Hell, I’d give anything for a Pink Lady right now.” Harry was getting nowhere and knew it. He lay back onto the bed, cradling his head in the cup of his hands for there was no pillow. “Ah, forget it. I may not know much, but I know Allah forbids you bastards from enjoying life’s last pleasure so just piss off.”
Moshe turned to go, but Harry stopped him with a shout. “But don’t forget some food, you stupid son of a bitch.”
Once again Harry was alone. There was a finality to the bolt slamming home that echoed. He heaved himself back up again, recovering his fake leg from under the bed and strapping it back into place under his pants.
They had drugged him late that night — that he did remember. Three men held him down while a woman slid a hypodermic needle into his arm. Of the trip to this new place, he recalled nothing. The room wasn’t any better or worse than his last cell except for the blessed relief that the DTs had not followed him. He had wakened, slowly, fearfully, but after twenty minutes realized that the flying monkeys weren’t going to bother him again.
As far as Harry was concerned, they could take detox and shove it up their collective camel-riding asses. He had spent the best part of forty years avoiding sobriety, and he wasn’t appreciative when it was forced down his throat. Apart from getting over the DTs, he was thankful they had left him his clothes.
Even to him, the sight of a naked, eighty-year-old man with one leg was pretty depressing, especially trying to piss into the little pot they had given him. His hands shook more than he ever realized, throwing off an already notoriously bad aim.
For ten minutes he lay still, thinking. He had an advantage, two really, that his kidnapers didn’t know. One was that he didn’t fear death. He was too old for that. If they expected him to remain submissive, they’d made a big mistake. Thirty years ago, he knew, he’d be blubbering like a baby, but not now. That, he thought, was the one great thing about age. No one could hold death over you any longer. The fear just wasn’t there. His second advantage was his unshakable faith that if he couldn’t escape, he was sure that Mercer would come for him, someway, somehow. It was only a matter of time.
The locks barring his cell slid open again, and the door slammed back with a crash. The guard had his pistol in its holster, his hands occupied with a huge hunk of dark bread and a wedge of cheese twice the size of a pizza slice. And blessings of all possible blessings, he held a bottle nearly filled with a clear liquid. Even at the sight of it, Harry’s mouth flooded with saliva and his hands steadied. He looked longingly at the bottle. He wanted a drink so badly that Moshe was startled when Harry crossed the room with the speed of a man one quarter his age.
“I’ll give you a hand there,” he said, plucking the bottle from Moshe’s arms. He ignored the food the young Israeli had brought him.
Harry didn’t recognize the bottle’s blue label. With or without his glasses, the writing was an illegible scrawl, but he knew the smell as soon as he twisted off the cap and held its open neck beneath his alcohol-attuned nose.
“I have to say, I’m not much of a gin man myself, but under the present circumstances…” He tilted the bottle skyward, his throat bobbing rhythmically, gulping down three heavy swallows as if the harsh liquor had been mother’s milk. That first sip was the most pleasurable moment in Harry’s life and that included returning home after World War II. He sighed as the alcohol burned his throat and brought tears to his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d want a snort?” He offered the bottle to Moshe.
Harry was shocked and more than a little intrigued when the dark-haired guard, no more than a boy with wide clear eyes and a face that had only recently seen a razor, took the bottle and took a long pull from it.
“I haven’t slept in two days,” Moshe said, proffering the bottle back to Harry. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Harry was all charm. “It’s your booze. Take another pull, lad, you look like you could use it.”
“No, that is not permitted.” Moshe shook his head and left.
Harry sat back on the bed, the gin cradled in his lap.
Eritrea
Africa lolled tiredly below Europe, looking like the bowed head of some exhausted horse curled against itself as if struggling to draw life’s last breaths. Even its very shape was sorrowful, as bereft as the place itself. The red and white Ethiopian Airlines Boeing jet arced in off the Red Sea, taking an indirect route to avoid flying over Sudan. Even at twenty-nine thousand feet, the Boeing 737 was not safe from an errant missile from one of the world’s
