Behead-the-messenger time-what likelier scapegoat than Elias Daoud. Even success would bring failure.
It is my destiny, he thought, to remain humble. Kismet-if a Muslim blasphemy could be permitted, dear Lord.
But what was there to do other than perform his duties? Slipping between two parked cars and crouching, he continued his surveillance of the yeshiva.
Roselli was still standing there, looking like a red-bearded Jew with his skullcap. Daoud itched to approach him, confront him. Wondered what he'd do if the monk entered the building.
And what else was going on inside there, besides chanting? A helpless Arab girl chained in some dungeon? Another innocent victim, prepared for ritual slaughter?
Despite the warmth of the night, he shuddered, felt under his robes for the reassuring weight of his Beretta. And waited.
Another man came to the door. Rabbi-type. Tall, fortyish, long dark beard. In shirtsleeves and trousers, those strange white fringes hanging over his waistband.
He shook Roselli's hand too.
Congratulating him?
For what?
Roselli and the rabbi left the yeshiva and began walking straight toward the parked cars, straight toward Daoud.
He ducked lower. They passed him, turned right, and walked, side by side, southward through the Zion Gate and out to Mount Zion-Al Sion, the portion of Ai Quds traditionally allocated to the Jews. They named their movement after if, glorified it by calling it a mountain, but it was no more, really, than a dusty mound.
He got up and trailed them, watched them pass the Tourist Agency office and David's Tomb, climb down the dirt drive that led to the Hativat Yerushalayim highway.
The road was deserted. Roselli and the rabbi crossed and climbed over the stone ridge that bordered the highway.
And disappeared.
Down into the dark hillside, Daoud knew. The rocky slope that overlooked the Valley of Hinnom. To the left was Silwan; only a few lights were burning in the village.
Daoud crossed the highway.
Where had they gone? What awaited them on the hillside, another murder cave?
He stepped over the ridge, careful to tread silently in the dry brush. And saw them immediately. Sitting just a few meters away, under the feathery umbrella of a windswept acacia.
Sitting and talking. He could hear the hum of their voices but was unable to make out their words.
Carefully, he stepped closer, trod on a dry twig, saw them raise their heads, heard the rabbi say, in English: 'Just a mouse.'
Holding his breath, he took another step forward, then another. Toward another tree, a stunted pine. Getting just close enough to discern their speech. Slowly, he sat, leaned against the trunk of the pine, pulled the Beretta out from under his habit, and rested it in his lap.
'Well, Joseph,' the rabbi was saying, 'I've refused you three times, so I suppose I must listen to you now.'
'Thank you, Rabbi Buchwald.'
'No need to thank me, it's my duty. However, it's also my duty to remind you what an enormous step you're taking. The consequences.'
'I'm aware of that, Rabbi.'
'Are you?'
'Yes. I can't tell you how many times I've set out to see you, froze in my tracks and turned back. For the last two months I've done nothing but think about this, meditating and praying. I know it's what I want to do-what I have to do.'
'The life changes you'll impose upon yourself will be agonizing, Joseph. For all practical purposes your past will be erased. You'll be an orphan.'
'I know that.'
'Your mother-are you willing to consider her as dead?'
Pause.
'Yes.'
'You're sure of that?'
''Even if I weren't, Rabbi, she's sure to cut me off. The end result will be the same.'
'What of Father Bernardo? You've spoken of him fondly. Can you cut him off just like that?'
'I'm not saying it will be easy, but yes.'
'You'll most certainly be excommunicated.'
Another pause.
