The Spear of Tyranny Page 4

  Now he wanted peace, and he would do anything to attain it.

  He pulled into the synagogue’s parking lot and sat for a moment, listening to the ticking of the engine block as it cooled. Though he considered himself a secular Jew, something in the traditions of his ancestors drew him to this place every morning. Though Sarah didn’t understand his reasons, for over nine months he had been driving to this synagogue to say the Kaddish for his son. Jewish tradition demanded an entire year of mourning for a loved one whose soul had gone to gehinnom for purification, but to say the mourner’s prayer for a full twelve months would imply that the deceased had been particularly wicked. Though Isaac did not believe his son’s soul resided in a mythical purgatory, the act of saying the traditional prayer brought a semblance of peace to his soul.

  Upon entering the synagogue, he saw that on this morning there were more covered heads than usual swaying in the silent rhythms of prayer. Isaac pulled a prayer shawl from a rack by the door, draped it around his neck, and remembered that long ago he used to know the proper blessing to be said when donning the tallit.

  He knelt at the front of the synagogue and began to sway. “Yitgadal ve-Yitkadash Shmei Rabbah,” he began, speaking the Aramaic words with more urgency than usual. “Magnified and sanctified be his great name throughout the world which he has created according to his will.”

  A firstborn son was typically known as a kaddishl, the one who would one day say the Kaddish for a parent. With no son and no kaddishl, Isaac had no one to carry on his name or fulfill his dreams. Even if Sarah one day warmed to the idea of another baby, he would not bring another child into a world where even the birds of the air seemed bent on violence and destruction.

  Few of Isaac’s fellow IDF officers understood what drove him to perform this ritual for his son. Most of them had no concept of the prayer’s meaning and would have been surprised to learn that the Kaddish never once mentions death. Isaac, however, knew the meaning of the words and repeated them dutifully, lifting the paean to the cruel God whose ways were beyond human understanding.

  As he prayed, an odd feeling rose within him, an un-familiar sensation that seized him by the guts and yanked for his attention. Why was he wasting his time in traditional rituals that only comforted his soul? Thousands of Israelis had lost loved ones during the recent strife, and millions more had suffered in the generations of struggle before Gogol’s Invasion. Why couldn’t he offer his help to one who seemed to be appointed leader for the future? Adrian Romulus, strong and diplomatic, had promised to bring peace to the nations of the world. Why not help Romulus bring it to Israel and the Middle East?

  Isaac felt as if his brain had become a lightning rod of ideas. He was a professional diplomat, serving in the liaison office of the Israeli Defense Force. Romulus would need a liaison officer to handle his dealings with the Temple, the Arabs, and the prime minister’s office . . . The position would be a natural fit for an officer in the liaison division.

  Isaac stumbled over the words of his prayer, then refocused his concentration, knowing that he would not return to say the Kaddish again. He would always grieve for his son, but the time had come to cease this symbolic mourning. He could not expect peace to come to him through prayer alone; often peace had to be sought on the wings of unity. After all, even the Talmud said, “Do not form yourselves into sections, but be all of you one band.”

  Isaac parked in a dusty lot near the archeological site at the southern wall of the ancient Temple Mount, then got out of the car. A security guard lifted a hand as he approached, then the man’s tanned face split into a swarthy smile. “Major Ben-David! Your father will be happy to see you.”

  “I hope so.” Isaac slipped his hands into his pockets and searched through the milling crowd of workers for a sign of his father’s thin physique. “Where is he, Samuel?”

  “He and the American are in the Western Wall tunnels. You can go down, if you like, but I’d take a flashlight.”

  The guard pulled a light from the tool belt at his waist, gave it to Isaac, then slapped him on the shoulder. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

  “Thanks, Samuel. I only hope my father will feel the same way.”

  “Of course he will. He understands that you are busy.”

  Isaac nodded, unwilling to explain that it wasn’t his schedule that kept him from visiting his father’s work. He hadn’t visited the archeological site in months because any conversation with his father eventually veered toward Sarah and Binyamin, or, worse yet, the topic of other children. Though his father was a secular Jew, Ephraim Ben-David was staunchly traditional, and he considered childlessness almost as great a crime as reckless city planning.

  Isaac didn’t want to talk about his wife, he couldn’t talk about his dead son, and he couldn’t bear to think about other children. But now, for the first time in months, he felt a glimmer of hope for the future. Peace beckoned like a bright beam of sunshine peering over the ragged edge of a torn horizon.

  “Which tunnel, Samuel?” He snapped the flashlight on.

  “Tunnel A, two hundred yards down the main tunnel. He and the American have been down since six, so he will be ready for a break.”

  Isaac moved carefully into the main tunnel, smiling a greeting to several workers he recognized. Tunnel A appeared at his left hand, and he ducked as he entered the unlit narrow side tunnel that led in an easterly direction deep beneath the Temple Mount. The opening was barely two feet wide, so he turned sideways and crept into the darkness, allowing the beam of the flashlight to swing from right to left, revealing the path one step at a time. He’d grown up in tunnels like this one, having spent many of his summers and nearly every weekend underground. His father had dreamed that one day Dr. Ephraim Ben-David and his son, Isaac, would be as famous as archaeologist Eliezer Sukenik and his son, Yigael Yadin, but fate intervened in the form of a lovely Israeli girl. Once Isaac met Sarah, nothing could induce him to leave daylight for hours at a time to burrow underground. He had followed her into the military and never looked back.

  Isaac found his father and another man in a small lantern-lit chamber. A grid marked the floor, and the two men were kneeling beside one square, carefully brushing dirt and dust from the surface of the soil.

  “Father?”

  Ephraim Ben-David lifted his head without looking in Isaac’s direction, then squinted at his companion. “Did you say something?”

  A slow smile spread over the other man’s long face. He rested one hand on his thigh as he nodded toward Isaac. “We have a guest.”

  Isaac grinned as his father turned and looked at him through dusty wire-rimmed glasses. For a moment his eyes widened, then he laughed and pushed himself up from the ground. “Isaac! Whatever brings you down here?”

  “Do I need a reason to visit you?” Isaac hugged his father, then stepped back and made a face. “You haven’t been sleeping, Father. There are circles under your eyes.”

  “The rigors of age, Son, not sleeplessness.” He gestured to the tall, thin man who had risen as well. “Have you met this American?”

  Isaac shook his head. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Thomas Parker.” The blond American swiped his heavy bangs out of his eyes, then took Isaac’s hand in a strong grip. “Nice to meet you at last. Your father speaks of you often.”

  Isaac grimaced as his father slapped him on the back. “I say only good things, of course. You’re a good son, even if I couldn’t interest you in archeology as a career.” He shifted his gaze to the American. “Isaac served his compulsory time in the IDF and rose through the ranks so rapidly I haven’t been able to shake him loose.”

  Parker nodded, his eyes sweeping over Isaac’s uniform. “That’s all right. We need military men, especially in this day and age.”

  Isaac wondered what the man meant by that remark, but his father distracted him by pointing toward the grid on the floor. “Thomas came aboard this project to help with this tricky excavation. He has
experience with this sort of thing.”

  “I think I’ve read about you.” Isaac searched his memory, then snapped a finger in Parker’s direction. “Didn’t you work with Hanan Eshel at the Qumran dig? There were several caves—”

  “Four of them, to be precise, and none worth digging,” Thomas answered, grinning. “We were hoping for scrolls, but we found nothing but a few coins.” He shrugged. “But it was an interesting experience. Every day in Israel is interesting.”

  Turning to his father, Isaac gestured toward the exit tunnel. “Could I talk you into a glass of water? Samuel tells me you’ve been down here a long time. It might be time for a breath of fresh air.”

  He stiffened as his father’s eyes narrowed in the expression that always meant he was trying to read his son’s mind. “Indeed. We will go up for fresh air, and you will tell me what brings you out here, my son.”

  Isaac stepped back, allowing his father to precede him through the narrow passageway, then soon found himself blinking in the harsh light of the sun. Thomas Parker led the way to a striped canopy, and beneath it Isaac found a cooler, several chairs, and baskets of fruit. While the American poured water into a paper cup, Isaac and his father settled into folding chairs.

  “So,” his father said in a low growl that was both powerful and gentle, “what brings you down here? You did not come to inquire about my bleary eyes.”

  “No.” Isaac admitted the truth with a small smile. “I came because I was thinking of applying for a new position within the liaison department. It hasn’t been offered, but I could probably request it.”

  “What is this position?”

  “The liaison officer coordinating relations between the IDF and the Universal Force—specifically, I’d be working with Adrian Romulus.”

  A faint line appeared between his father’s brows. “The one they call the peacemaker?”

  Isaac smiled in relief. “You’ve heard of him. I was afraid you’d been so buried out here—”

  “Of course I’ve heard of him. One of the workers told me all about his appearance on television this morning.” He paused to scratch his ear, then gave Isaac a quizzical glance. “He really has plans for the Temple?”

  “Apparently.” Isaac paused, studying his father’s face. “What do you think? He seems to be an honorable man, and the position would be a most challenging one. Romulus seems knowledgeable, but he is certain to appreciate someone who can help him deal with the complexities of negotiating with the Israeli government, the Arabs, and the religious leaders—”

  “I think you should do whatever you want to do. Decide what you want out of life, Isaac—and work until you get it.”

  Isaac’s heart sank with swift disappointment. His father had never been shy about offering his opinion before, so why wouldn’t he give a clear answer now?

  “I don’t know what I want, Father—but what I’m looking for isn’t something you can put your hands on. I have a home, a wife, and a good job, but—”

  His father lifted his gaze then, and in his eyes Isaac saw the unspoken accusation: You ought to stop grieving and have more children.

  Isaac ignored his father’s pointed look. “I want the world to be at peace, Father.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands, allowing his heart to show on his face. “Now is the time, and perhaps this is the place to begin. Our land has run red with blood for generations, and now, while we are healing, I believe we can find a way to establish a permanent peace. The rabbis have long foretold that peace will come when the Temple rises again, and this Romulus seems willing to satisfy every faction in Jerusalem and the Middle East. To that end . . . I think I might be able to help him.”

  His father studied Isaac’s face with considerable absorption. “What do you know about this Romulus?”

  Isaac shrugged. “I know he is European. He lives in Paris. He often works out of Brussels, where the European Union is headquartered. He is known as a cultured, intelligent, and charismatic man. He did not support Gogol’s Invasion and has generously offered to play the role of mediator between our people and the Arabs. From what I saw on television this morning, I’d say he has managed to overrule our prime minister’s considerable ego—and that would require great skill and diplomacy.”

  His father’s brows flickered. “Do you not find it odd that a man could be so . . . perfect? Is there nothing in his character that alarms you?”

  Isaac frowned. “Should there be?”

  “If the man is human,” his father spoke slowly, as if carefully considering each word, “he will have faults, flaws, and secrets. If you seek this job, Son, be sure to keep your eyes open. Do not let yourself be disillusioned, but do not let yourself be overcome by charm and charisma, either.”

  Isaac straightened and lifted his chin. “You do not need to worry about me. I’m a grown man, and I know the ways of the world. I only want to make things right.”

  So we will not lose any more children like Binyamin. So we will not mourn the loss of women like my mother.

  His father nodded slowly. “Go carefully, then, my son. You are a good man. I know you will choose the right way.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Isaac stood, clasped his father’s hand for a moment, then waved farewell to Thomas Parker, who had absently munched on an apple during the entire conversation.

  “I hope you have a productive day,” Isaac said. “Maybe you’ll find something really exciting.”

  “Finding one of the lost Temple treasures would be nice,” Thomas said, his lips twisting in a cynical smile. “If you believe they ever existed.”

  “If you do find them,” Isaac quipped, “better keep quiet about your discovery for a while, or the rabbis will confiscate them for use in the third Temple.”

  After returning to his car, Isaac tapped the steering wheel in decision, then turned the car toward the Allenby Bridge and his office. He would write up a request for transfer immediately and route it to his superior’s office. With luck and timing, he might find himself working with Romulus by the end of the month.

  FIVE

  SARAH SLIPPED OUT OF HER SMALL OFFICE AND WALKED toward the staff lounge, her coffee mug in hand. A chorus of voices swelled out of the doorway, and as she entered the room she wasn’t surprised to discover that her fellow agents were discussing the recent press conference. “The Temple, in our generation,” one woman said, her eyes wide. “My grandparents often spoke of it, but I never thought it would happen in our lifetime.”

  “It was only a matter of time.” The deep baritone voice of Danny Melman, deputy director of the Non-Arab Affairs Shin Bet unit, cut through the conversation. He stood, as always, as though an invisible circle had been drawn around him, a circle few were bold enough to enter. “We’ve been expecting this ever since the Orthodox rabbis decided that our national problems stemmed from our failure to rebuild the Temple,” he said, leaning against the wall with a grim look on his lined face. “They’ve been working toward this day since the capture of the Temple Mount in ’67—and who can forget that brouhaha with the red heifer?”

  Sarah looked away and smothered a smile. In May 1997, a red heifer had been born at Kfar Hassidim, a small religious kibbutz near Haifa. According to the Torah, the ashes of a sacrificed red heifer had to be mixed with hyssop, cedar wood, scarlet, and water. The resulting mixture would be sprinkled on people to purify them from defiling contact with a bone, grave, or other person or vessel that had touched the dead. Because no pure red heifers had been seen in Israel for generations, many Orthodox Jews declared that the calf was a portent from God signaling that the time had come to begin preparations for the third Temple. When several of the Temple extremists began to talk of blowing up the Muslim Dome of the Rock in order to clear the Temple Mount, the Shin Bet went on full alert. Not until the cow developed white hairs that spoiled its purity were Sarah and her coworkers able to relax.

  “They’re still trying to find a pure red heifer,” offered Yitzhak Peres, a man with a talent for stating the o
bvious. Under a thin, carefully clipped mustache, his lips curled into a smile. “Some American has been bringing red heifers to Israel for years now, but he says he’s doing it to improve the quality of Israeli beef.”

  Sarah moved to the coffeepot. “Searching for a cow is not nearly as crazy as those women who have given their babies to the priesthood,” she said, glancing at Melman over her shoulder. “I have the names of over twenty women who have given birth in religious compounds that observe halacha.”

  Under Jewish law, priestly lineage passed from father to son. Finding descendants of Aaron, the first high priest of Israel, had not proved difficult, for DNA evidence provided confirmation. But anyone who had come into contact with the dead—or even the ground that might contain the dead— would be ceremonially impure according to the Torah. The state of uncleanness was known as tumat hamet, and since the ashes of the red heifer had been lost at the time of the destruction of the second Temple, everyone in Israel lived in a state of tumat hamet—a major problem for those interested in rebuilding the Temple.

  The ashes of a red heifer could not be used to purify the ground and the people unless an undefiled priest sprinkled the ashes. A pure priest had to be one who was not only descended from Aaron, but who had never touched the dead or been under the same roof as the dead. Obviously, such a priest could not have been born in a hospital.

  To solve the problem and prepare for the eventuality of the Temple’s reconstruction, a number of ultra-Orthodox rabbis had established an elevated compound where babies whose fathers were kohanim—descendants from Aaron and the priestly class—would be born and raised. The children would remain in the compound, free from tumat hamet, until a red heifer was found. Then they would prepare the mixture that would purify the Jewish people and enable them to step onto the Temple Mount and enter areas that to date had been halachically off limits.