“Sounds like she needs more drugs,” another voice called over.
Then the blindfold was stripped away.
Charlotte’s eyes squinted against the cabin’s bright lights. When everything came into focus, she saw the tall man from Phoenix, his complexion clammy (except for the blotchy, blistered burns below his chin where Evan’s coffee had left its mark), his tearing eyes glazed red. And his left arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked towel, the hand immobile and blue. It was a grotesque sight.
“See what your friend did to me?” he slurred.
“Bitch!” the man cursed furiously, just before jabbing a syringe into her thigh.
“Good night,” was the last thing she heard.
48
******
Jerusalem
Once past security, the rabbi stormed in hobbled strides across the Western Wall Plaza toward the blazing white work lights that lit up the entry to the Western Wall Tunnel. He tried his best to be cordial to the teenage IDF soldiers guarding the entrance, but because of their incompetence he now had another mess to clean up.
Past the pallets of stone and portable cement mixers, he trounced down the stairs and cut through the massive subterranean visitors’ hall without giving it a cursory glance. His eyes were locked on the security door up ahead.
At the door, he grumbled as he swept his key card through the reader to free the lock. What good was such a useless protocol now?
Through the narrow channel running along the Temple Mount’s foundation he came to the group of men huddled outside Warren’s Gate.
“What happened?” Cohen yelled before he’d even reached them.
The men separated and fell back, revealing the subject they’d surrounded—a young man, hands tied behind his back, on his knees. One of the men maintained his hold on a handgun pressed firmly behind the man’s ear.
“How did he get through?”
“He had a key,” one of the men replied. “An ID badge too.” He handed both to the rabbi.
“Eleazar Golan,” he read from the authentic ID. Cohen squared off in front of the intruder, arms folded across his chest, glaring down at the top of his head. “Look at me,” he said.
No response.
The man holding the gun grabbed a fistful of Ali’s hair and jerked his head back so that the green eyes had no choice but to see the rabbi. Deep red blotches on the Palestinian’s cheekbones were already darkening to blue, and his nose was bloodied and bent sharply to the right. His left eyebrow was split in half by a ragged gash oozing blood as thick as oil.
“You look Israeli, I’ll give you that,” Cohen said. “Very deceptive indeed.”
“He went inside,” the gunman informed him, pointing to the breach in the Temple Mount foundation. “Saw everything. It wasn’t until I spotted him making a phone call that we figured it out.”
Rage flushed over Cohen. “Give me his phone.”
The man passed it to him.
Immediately the rabbi huffed. He could tell by its cheap design that it was of the prepaid variety, most likely bought on a street corner for cash. His slim fingers adroitly navigated its simple menu to find any stored numbers. As expected, it was empty. Then he hunted for the last outward call—no doubt a second drone—and hit a green button to patch the number through. Someone picked up within two rings, but no reply came. On the other end, a muezzin’s chant swirled in the background. Cohen summoned his best Arabic and offered
The call immediately disconnected.
Cohen smashed the phone against the wall. Then he bent at the waist and pressed his face close to the Muslim’s. “Whatever your real name is,” he hissed with teeth bared, “it will die with you today. No honor will come to your family because of what you’ve done here, I assure you. And for you, there will be no garden paradise on the other side, no rivers of honey, no virgins to pleasure you.”
The Palestinian’s green eyes boiled with hatred—a pulverizing stare.
“God is indeed great. However, though your words may honor him, your deeds mock Him. Blasphemy!”
And in Leviticus, the prescription for blasphemy was clearly written.
Cohen straightened, went over to a nearby wheelbarrow heaped with debris, and palmed a jagged rock. He stepped aside, told the gunman to remain where he was, and signaled to the others to come forth. Eleven more men came in turn, each taking up a formidable stone.
Crouching before Ali, Cohen held the rock tauntingly, turning it over in his palm. The Arab trembled, and it pleased him. “ ‘And he that blasphemes the name of the Lord, he shall surely be put to death; and all the
congregation shall certainly stone him.’ ”
The eleven men fanned out around the Palestinian.
The gunman backed away, still aiming the gun at Ali.
The Muslim bowed his head and began to loudly pray in Arabic. Tilting his chin up, Cohen held out the stone
