Yosef thought back to the murder of his niece, Ibriham’s cousin, so many years ago. She’d been shot by an Israeli soldier who was so shaken by the accident that he’d been unable to return to active service. Ibriham had taken her death particularly hard, and Yosef had feared that he would join a Palestinian splinter group to reap his revenge. But days later, a bomb at a bus stop in Tel Aviv had killed eleven Israelis. Television reports showed cheering crowds of students in Gaza celebrating the martyrdom of the suicide bomber. That evening, Ibriham approached his uncle and asked to join him in the Mossad. Ibriham had been so impressed by the compassion the soldier had shown following the fatal shooting and so sickened by the crowds that the internal conflict that had torn him since childhood had cleared. He had said he was a Jew first and foremost and wanted to be like his uncle, dedicated to the preservation of the Jewish homeland.
From that time, Ibriham’s uncertainty gave way to a zeal that forced him to work tirelessly within the ranks of the Mossad. In just a couple of years, he’d topped the list of field operatives. This brought him to the attention of Israel’s current defense minister Chaim Levine, who was forming a secret team from within the ranks of Israel’s military and intelligence community for a shadowy program of his own. Ibriham quickly accepted Levine’s offer to join and eventually lead his cadre in pursuit of the minister’s dream. It had been Levine who drew Ibriham in, but now the responsibility fell on Yosef’s shoulders. The team watched him quietly.
“I know what you’re thinking: the old man has gone mad. You think I might jeopardize the mission with a vendetta against a man who’s actually helping us. I assure you, nothing will happen to Mercer until after he discovers the mine and we retrieve what we lost so long ago.” Yosef paused to fill a glass with water. “Ibriham’s death has been a devastating blow, not only to me personally, but also to you. But it doesn’t mean that we’re going to stop. In just a few weeks, if we are successful, we’ll rejuvenate our nation and will lay the foundation to ensure that never again will Jews feel that we do not have a rightful place on this planet.
“It’s true we have our land, bought with blood and defended with yet more. But since the founding of our state, we have lacked a soul. We’ve existed, lived, and died but never have we truly felt our place. Many thought taking Jerusalem in 1967 would give us that soul — the Western Wall, for generations known as the Wailing Wall because it stood inside Jordan’s borders. It was the wall built by King David himself when he erected the Temple. It’s a tangible piece of what we once had.
“We have it now,” Yosef scowled. “A towering wall of sandstone blocks that sits in the shadow of a mosque. I have been to the wall just once, back in ’67, as a soldier. I had killed to take those slabs of rock, killed joyfully. Since then, I find the area an abomination. There are more tourists there gawking than Jews praying. It sickens me.
“I fought and killed and nearly got killed for a symbol. The Western Wall was a first step but it was never meant to be the end of what we wanted to achieve in our promised land. It wasn’t until the Scud missiles slammed into Jerusalem and Tel Aviv during the Gulf War that a select group remembered that there was more work before Israel was complete.
“In a few weeks Defense Minister Chaim Levine will be Prime Minister. He’s going to nullify the peace accords and outlaw the PLO again. He’ll close our borders to the West Bank and Gaza, keeping the hordes in the slums they themselves have created. There will be no more suicide bombers because when he’s finished with the Palestinians, 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.”