Bloodline (26 page)

Not that Yael was any different from a Parisienne or a Londoner. Just as somebody in Paris might say, “Meet you on the Champs-Élysées,” or a Londoner would arrange to meet at Oxford Circus, so Yael would arrange to meet friends at Ben Yehuda or Derech HaNevi'im without thinking about why the roads had been so named. Who in Paris wondered about the fields or knew that Elysium was the mythological Greek place of the dead, and which Londoner wondered about the circus and what it had to do with Oxford?

But when she left a major Israeli city and traveled into the hinterland, tiny as the country was, she was transported back to ancient and ancestral roots that, she now realized, somewhere in the distant past, she shared with Bilal.

Here was Bethlehem and Nazareth, Dan in the north, Mount Hermon, Mount Carmel, and Mount Gilboa; here the Jordan River, the Jezreel Valley, and Lake Kinneret; here was Samaria and Megiddo and Tiberias. These were names and places familiar to every schoolboy and schoolgirl whose culture was Jewish, Muslim, or Christian. Here was the starting point of much of the myth and mythology that made up the Western world. Where the Greeks and Romans had once spread their culture of Jupiter and Zeus, Poseidon and Athena, throughout the West, all the ancient gods had been trampled underfoot over time by the one god of the Jews, Christians, and Muslims.

Yael breathed in the hot, dry air of the Upper Galilee and drove east from Nahariya to Peki'in, over steep hills and down into deep valleys. It was a tortured but glorious landscape, rocky and isolated, yet with the comforting feeling of white stone towns perched on hillsides. The Upper Galilee, just south of the restive Lebanese border and prey to Hezbollah rockets, was, for all its history of violence, a beauteous place.

As she entered the village of Peki'in, she wondered where in the town center she'd find the records she wanted to examine, if they existed at all. Most of the buildings were typical Galilee stone constructions, and none seemed of sufficient importance to be the town hall.

Would the Druze, who now ran the town, be cooperative or suspicious? Friends she'd asked in Nahariya's hospital had told her that the mayor was abrupt, defensive, and innately distrustful. There were virtually no Jews left there now, and for a small and seemingly peaceful village, Peki'in had a recent history of riots and violence against Jewish residents. Her friends had begged her to be cautious.

But the amazing blood link between herself and Bilal was something she had to understand. She was haunted by the idea of him in prison, in ways she couldn't explain or reconcile. Moreover, she couldn't help but now question who she was. For most of her life, Yael had asked questions about her grandmother, Shalman's wife, Judit, and the questions had always ended in evasive answers. She was beautiful and clever and brave and died a tragic death just after Yael's mother had been born; but whereas other Israeli children knew their family histories, hers seemed to be mired in mystery and half-truths. And now it seemed as though she were related to a Palestinian family whose ancestry was utterly unknown to her.

Just what the hell was going on?

G
AINING ENTRY TO THE PRISON
was difficult enough, but being allowed to speak with a prisoner on remand, a Palestinian about to go to trial for the murder of a Jewish guard, was exceptional. But Yaniv Grossman was used to doing exceptional things. He'd had himself embedded with a forward platoon in a ground assault against Gaza militants, interviewed an AlQassam Brigades rocket maker, managed to get a former Israeli prime minister to confess to defrauding the nation in a land deal, and scored a major scoop when he goaded the French foreign minister into admitting he wouldn't be unhappy if the entire Jewish population of France left and found another country as a way of halting Muslim violence and fanaticism. That interview had made international headlines and caused the hapless man's extinction from the political firmament.

With this kind of history and experience, Yaniv was a particularly well-connected reporter. But he'd needed all that influence to get into the prison. It had taken him six days of hectoring and cajoling, but here he was, waiting in the Central Area D prison facility by the shores of the Dead Sea for Bilal to be brought into the room.

The door opened and Bilal entered, followed by a guard. He was led over to the seat on the opposite side of the desk, and Yaniv smiled at him. The guard handcuffed him to the steel chair and went to sit on the other side of the room.

Yaniv would try to speak to him in Arabic, even though his knowledge of the language was clunky and not nearly as fluid as Yael's. But he thought it might help put Bilal at ease.

“Bilal, my name is Yaniv. I'm a reporter from America.”

“Yes,” said Bilal. “I've seen you on television.” Bilal looked him up and down and added, “You look different in real life.”

“Really? Fatter or skinnier?” Yaniv volunteered as a joke. But Bilal only shrugged and looked down at the table.

“This must feel a long way from home,” Yaniv said casually, pointing around the room. He needed to create some point of
trust, but he got the sense that Bilal was not the manipulated fool the Israelis probably took him for. If he was too obvious, the boy was likely to smell it and clam up.

Yaniv studied the young man, and wondered exactly what he was searching for from Bilal. Investigative journalism was a dying art in the age of instant online gratification and disposability. It required the time and resources to pursue a hunch to an uncertain end. Bilal was a hunch. Why had such a senior Shin Bet man, and especially this man, interviewed Bilal alone in the hospital? What he knew, what he saw, might lead somewhere, or nowhere.

“How are they treating you in here?” asked Yaniv. Bilal looked up as if the question was unexpected and Yaniv quickly added, “The guards can be real assholes.”

Bilal's deep dark eyes bored into him.

“You know if . . . if you're not being treated right, I might be able to—”

Bilal cut him off. “I'm fine. The guards do nothing. They check on me. They see that I'm still here and then they leave me alone again.” His gaze returned to studying the table, eyes well hidden.

“Good. That's good . . .”

Yaniv had interviewed other Palestinian prisoners and would-be martyrs before. Some were hardened, indoctrinated, full of braggadocio and bullshit, impotently vowing revenge and dire consequences. Others were cold and quiet, and spoke in soft, measured, and controlled voices. While rarer, it was the latter type that was truly unnerving. Yet, Bilal was neither of these. The bluster had gone, seemingly knocked out of him like a gut punch. But neither did he seem resigned to his fate. Something had him rattled, and it wasn't just cell doors and prison walls.

“What about your people in here? Your brothers?”

Bilal glanced quickly up from the table. His eyes locked with Yaniv's.

“What do you want with me? I've already spoken to the police. Why are you here?”

A nerve had been touched and Yaniv knew it. But he needed to circle rather than aim directly at the target. “Do you remember your doctor? In the hospital—Dr. Cohen?”

Bilal nodded, and his eyes were now fixed quizzically on Yaniv.

“Her name is Yael. She's a friend of mine. She saved your life, you know?”

“I know.”

“She asked me to come here and make sure you were all right.”

“She brought my father and mother to me in the hospital.”

“Yes, she did. She said they were good people.”

Bilal shrugged. But this time his eyes did not return to their downcast position.

“She's going to try and help them, Bilal. Help them to come and see you after the trial. To get you things you might need to make it easier in here.”

It was a lie of course, but Yaniv saw that Bilal believed him, his posture changed and he drew a deep breath. He was exhibiting the naïveté of inexperience, with things so far outside of his comfort zone that he was clutching at straws of hope that things might get better. Yaniv wondered how long that hope would last in prison. He pressed on.

“Do you know anyone in here, Bilal? Do you have friends inside?”

“All Palestinians are brothers.”

The words were not a declaration but hollow and empty, and Yaniv knew it. Words Bilal wanted to believe were true.

Looking into the distance, Yaniv said softly, “I've got brothers. Three of them. All older than me. We don't get along. We fight a lot. I love my brothers, but there have been times when I wanted to be as far away from them as I could.”

Bilal studied his face for what seemed like a very long time. Yaniv thought he was about to speak, but there was only silence and the strange pleading stare. He tried another direction.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Bilal? Anybody I can talk to, anything you want to tell somebody on the outside?”

Suddenly Bilal's brow creased. “Why? Why are you here? Why do you want to help me? You're a Jew. You should hate me for what I did.”

Yaniv feared he'd gone too far, too quickly. “I don't think you were born to kill anyone, Bilal. I don't think that's who you were meant to be. Someone's changed you into someone you're not, and I don't think that it's fair. And whatever you're going through in there”—Yaniv gestured past Bilal to the prison beyond—“might be something I can help fix.”

And the mask cracked. There were no tears. No scowl. Just a series of muscles letting go across Bilal's brow and down his jaw, and his face seemed to sag under its own weight.

“Nobody can help me. I am alone. I should have died in the tunnel. But Allah . . . He didn't take me. I'm still here. And now . . . Nothing is like it should be . . . Nothing feels right anymore. What I do, what I did . . .” Bilal didn't, or couldn't, finish the sentence.

“We can help you, Bilal. Dr. Cohen and me. We can help you,” Yaniv lied with all the sincerity in the world—a sincerity welling up from the excitement of possibly uncovering a story.

Bilal sat back in his seat and Yaniv could see that he was thinking deeply about something. Now, he realized, was the time to press home the advantage. His instincts as a reporter overrode anything else.

“Bilal, has anybody interviewed you about the bombing?” he asked, but Bilal remained silent, lost for the moment in the turmoil of his own mind. “I would expect that somebody from Shin Bet would have spoken to you. Perhaps in the hospital?”

Bilal shrugged.

“You see, the reason I'm asking is that under Israeli law, if the wrong person asked the wrong questions without you having a lawyer present, then that's illegal. They're not allowed to do that.”

Bilal snapped out of his trance and with wide eyes stared at Yaniv. “Illegal?”

“Perhaps. And that means the judge at your trial has to take that into account.”

Bilal looked incredulous but said nothing more.

“Who did you speak to?” asked Yaniv.

Bilal waited for a moment before answering. “A man. He came to the hospital.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes. He came alone.”

“What did he ask?” Yaniv was probing now.

“I told him nothing,” said Bilal, his voice containing a hint of pleading as if Yaniv was threatening him.

“It's okay. Did he offer you anything?”

“He said he could help me,” Bilal mumbled.

“And what did he want for this help?”

“I told him nothing. I wouldn't speak to him. And he left. But—” Bilal stopped short.

“But? But what?”

Bilal shook his head.

Yaniv switched tack again, sensing he was very close but aware that Bilal was fragile and at any moment could clam up once more. “I know a lot of people in Shin Bet. Would you remember his name?”

Bilal answered with a feeble shake of his head.

“I know Yitzhak Atzmon, the director general, but he wouldn't have come to see you. He's old and fat,” Yaniv said with a laugh, hoping to coax one out of Bilal. But to no avail.

“I know Shimon Gutnik, an analyst. He's got asthma, and he wheezes like an old car.”

Bilal shook his head.

Yaniv prepared for the name he suspected might get a reaction.

“I know Eliahu Spitzer . . .”

Bilal's eyes narrowed.

“His hair is gray with a white stripe down the middle of his head. He looks as if—”

“He looks like a skunk.”

Yaniv smiled and let out a small laugh. “Yes, yes, he does. Is that the man who spoke to you?”

Bilal nodded.

“And he was alone?”

Bilal nodded again.

For a moment Yaniv was lost in thought as he pondered the implications of a high-ranking Shin Bet commander personally interviewing a low-level prisoner like Bilal.

“The man asked me questions. I didn't tell him anything but I . . . I didn't say anything. I was going to. I was going to tell him I'd seen . . .”

“Seen what, Bilal?”

There was a sharp electronic buzz and a red light suddenly shone above the door to the interview room. The guard stood and walked over to the table.

“Time's up. Got to get him back.”

Bilal immediately stood and turned to the guard and shuffled toward the door.

“Seen what, Bilal?” asked Yaniv, almost shouting.

Yaniv wanted to ask more questions, but with the guard present, there would be no answers. Before leaving, Bilal turned and said, “Tell the doctor”—he hesitated as if searching for the right words—“tell the doctor I said thank you.”

“I will,” Yaniv replied. And then Bilal was gone, leaving Yaniv with a thousand questions.

A
S
B
ILAL WAS WALKING BACK
to his cell, accompanied by his guard, eyes were watching him. The coldest and most merciless belonged to Ibrahim, who had the knife in his pocket and was about to use it. He waited until the guard had left Bilal in his cell with the door open so that prisoners could leave the confines and walk along the corridors, speak with one another, and socialize during the day.