Razak turned to Barton. “Do you still have that letter the Israeli police gave you?”
“Certainly.”
“Good. I have a feeling we may need it.” Razak tried his best to disregard an Arab taxi driver who was being interrogated by a gang of IDF soldiers on the exiting side of the roadway. A pair of German shepherds sniffed the car for explosives. He remembered hearing that the Israelis were particularly suspicious of lone drivers coming out of the Gaza Strip, many of whom had been suicide bombers.
Finally the IDF soldiers, wearing full combat gear, waved Razak forward, making no effort to point their rifle muzzles down. Surveillance cameras were mounted high up on the steel beams that supported the shelter, glaring down. A scrawny young Israeli soldier stepped forward. “Open your rear compartment and let me see your papers,” he stated in rough Arabic, taking a moment to admire the Mercedes’s smooth lines.
Razak pushed the trunk release button and handed over their passports to the guard.
Two soldiers paced along either side of the car, running mirrors under the chassis, eyed the interior, and made their way to the rear to inspect the trunk.
The guard crouched slightly to get a look at Barton. He shook his head. “Not from here, I see.” Grimacing, he shifted his gaze back to Razak and said, “You must be crazy going in there, especially now. This car. Him.” He made a smug face as he eyed Barton. “What’s your business?”
The trunk slammed shut, making the Englishman jump.
Presenting Barton’s letter, Razak explained that the Israeli police had commissioned them to aid in the Temple Mount investigation. The guard seemed satisfied.
“Go, but be careful in there,” he warned. “Past this gate, you’re on your own.”
Razak nodded seriously, then pulled ahead. Letting out a prolonged sigh of relief, he maneuvered the Mercedes through more cement barricades positioned below a concrete guard tower.
Fifteen minutes later, heading south down the region’s main highway, Gaza City’s unimpressive skyline came into view. The concentration of buildings tightened as Razak drove mindfully through the crowded downtown streets where the bombed-out facades of some structures still lay in ruin. Lasting reminders of Israel’s frequent rocket attacks.
For a long while, both men remained quiet, each taking in the bleakness of it all.
“This is awful,” Barton finally said.
“Over a million people packed into a tiny parcel of land.” Razak’s tone was grim. “Horrible sanitary conditions, political instability, a devastated economy...”
“The perfect recipe for discontent.”
Parking along the curb, Razak paid a Palestinian boy with a round face forty Israeli shekels to watch the car. The streets were mobbed. The hot, lifeless air smelled of sewage.
Getting out of the car, Barton tried to avoid eye contact with the curious Palestinians who passed by.
“We’ll be meeting him over there,” Razak said, motioning subtly with his eyes to a tiny outdoor cafe situated on the busy street corner in the shadow of a formidable mosque whose minaret stabbed defiantly into the blue sky. “Let’s go.”
The contact—a Palestinian with a sturdy frame and a bearded, smooth face—was already seated at a table, sipping mint tea from a clear glass. He called over to Razak.
Smiling, Razak greeted the man with a blessing and a handshake, then introduced the man to Barton by his first name—Taheem.
Barton smiled and extended a hand in greeting. He couldn’t help but notice that the forty-something contact was well dressed in a neatly pressed linen suit—a sharp contrast to the majority of Palestinians here who donned traditional Islamic dress. Many of the women even wore the burka that covered them from head to toe.
Taheem’s grin noticeably faded as he looked around before reciprocating the gesture. “Please, sit.”
“Will it be all right if we speak in English?” Razak asked.
Bouncing his stern gaze off Barton once again, Taheem hesitated. “Of course.”
“So tell me, my friend. How are things here?”
Shaking his head, Taheem rolled his eyes. “You’d think the Israeli pullout would have helped matters. Far from it. The parliament is overrun by fundamentalists looking to formally wage war on Israel. Funding from the UN and the West has dried up. And now, with this incident in Jerusalem...” His eyes shifted somewhere off in the distance.
“I know it must be difficult.”
“I’m just happy that I have no family here,” Taheem added. “And you? How are things? As good as that fancy car you drive?” He motioned with his head down the street about thirty meters away where the young boy was urging some pedestrians away from the Mercedes.
Razak grinned. “Everything’s fine.”
“Glad to hear that.” He called for the waiter to bring two more teas.
“As you might imagine,” Razak said in a hushed tone, “I’m anxious to know what you’ve heard about the theft.”
Taheem eyed Barton once again.
“It’s okay,” Razak reassured him. “Graham is not an Israeli. He’s looking to help us.”
Taheem paused while the waiter set down the two glasses for Razak and Barton, waiting until he was out of sight to continue. “You know about the helicopter, I presume?”
“Yes,” Razak said. “The Israelis are still trying to find it.”
