Bloodline (8 page)

Vaguely and with his eyes closed, he knew from time to time that nurses or doctors or the police or some other Jewish official would come into his room, walk over to his bed, look at his face or his wounds, check the fluid bottles that fed and drained his body, and then walk out, seemingly satisfied. And Bilal's mind fantasized about remaining asleep forever, not waking up, letting people tend to his comatose body, so that all of his worries and frustrations, his anger and resentment, would be the problems of others, and not him. Even in his dulled mind he knew that being alive was a curse, not a gift. As the veil lifted from his brain, he remembered that he would have to face Jewish punishment for his actions as well as Islamic punishment for his failure to become a martyr and being deprived an eternity of paradise and seventy-two black-eyed and beautiful virgins at his disposal every day of his death. The greatest punishment was that his life would be the same as before, only spent in prison. Death would have been a release.

Death? Where was the sweetness, the peace and beauty, of the death that his imam had promised him if he failed to escape from the Jews? His imam knew everything and had assured him that if he didn't manage to get away, the Jews would surely kill him—stick him in the heart with their knives or shoot him in the head with their pistols. A moment of pain for an eternity of joy. His imam had promised him that they wouldn't allow him to leave the temple alive. His imam never said anything about Jewish doctors fighting to save his life!

But here he was, in a Jew hospital, in discomfort, his body aching, attached to lines and drips and machines that beeped every couple of seconds, with people fussing over him as if he were somebody important. What had happened? How had it come to this?

Bilal searched his leaden mind for linkages. He tried to think back to those days when everything had seemed possible. When he'd first been encouraged by his best friend, Hassan Khouri, to come along to the mosque because the new imam had so many answers to the young men's questions. In the beginning the imam treated him with indifference, and then like an employee, asking him to assist in the mosque after he'd finished working for his father. Then he became the imam's driver, taking the holy man from place to place, and the imam even paid him for his time and trouble. Yet, never did the imam seem to place faith in him or his abilities as a Muslim until the day he pulled him aside and told him that God had identified him as the man to undertake the mission to blow up the Jews in the temple.

His mind was clearing now, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. He had left the comfort and security of sleep and was aware of who he was, where he was, and how he was. A nurse came into his room and saw his eyes open.

“How are you feeling?” she asked. She spoke to him in Arabic, accented but clear. How did she speak his language? he wondered. By custom, he sneered at her. Why should he talk to a Jew?

She picked up a button device and placed it in his hand. “This is self-administered morphine. If you begin to feel pain or discomfort, press the button once, and it'll deliver a small amount of painkiller.”

She turned and walked out. He pressed the button and waited. Nothing happened immediately, but within a minute he felt his aches begin to recede and his pains become less sharp. He actually smiled. But the drug made him tired, and he closed his eyes.

Determined not to think dark thoughts, Bilal tried to remember back to those early days in the mosque when all of his anger was muted by the imam's gentle words and his questions were answered by the imam's incredible knowledge. Even when the imam became angry and cursed the Jews and Israel, Bilal felt a
sense of wonder and for the first time in his life a sense of excitement for his future, of possibility, of something better when the Jews were gone.

When he'd been the imam's driver they'd talked and talked about the happiness he would experience when he and his parents were living in a luxury apartment in the center of Jerusalem, once the Jews had been driven out. He would have an important job in the government, perhaps even traveling overseas, and his parents would never have to work again, because the Palestinian government would be wealthy and pay them a pension. It was a wonderful future to look forward to, and Bilal remembered how his chest had swelled with pride that he would be playing his part in the security of his people. He had purpose. He would be someone important. Like his beloved brother, imprisoned by the Jews for trying to free his land . . . his people.

Bilal thought of one particular day when he'd driven his imam to a village south of Jerusalem, a long way from his village of Bayt al Gizah, on the road to Bethlehem. On the outskirts of the village, the imam had ordered him to stop the car and to remain in the driver's seat while he met somebody in a private house.

And he would have done exactly what the imam had demanded had it not been for the girl. She was no more than sixteen or seventeen, with huge dark eyes and a seductive look. She'd walked past the car, glanced in, saw Bilal, smiled at him, and then walked on. But her glance was enough to entice him out of the car and defy the imam's instructions. In Bayt al Gizah he was nobody—he would have only dreamed about the possibilities and regretted the lost opportunity—but today he was the imam's driver, he was in another village, and he was behind the wheel of a car, making him a man of position. So he got out of the car and for half an hour Bilal and the girl, whose name was Almira, talked and joked and he arranged to drive down from Bayt al Gizah and meet her again.

It was already evening, and he had hurried back to the car so
his absence wouldn't be discovered by the imam. Passing some houses, he glanced into one of the windows. The curtains were partly closed but there was sufficient space between them for Bilal to see inside. There was his imam, talking to a man. Not an Arab or a Palestinian. From the expensive suit and white shirt worn open necked and without a tie, the man was obviously a Jew. He was middle-aged with an amazing stripe of white hair surrounded by graying hair. It looked as if he were wearing an animal on his head. Bilal smiled at the thought but remained crouched so that he couldn't be seen. And out of the shadows in the room a shape emerged. Remaining hidden outside in the umbra of the room's light, Bilal looked inside and felt a sudden shock. As the third man leaned forward to pick up something from the table, his shadowy outline suddenly became distinct. A large round hat with a wide brim, ringlets falling down the sides of his face, a bushy beard, a long black frock coat . . . and then the man sat back and was lost in the shadows.

Now Bilal didn't want to think anymore. He pressed the morphine button again and drifted back to sleep.

S
TANDING AT HIS WINDOW,
he looked over the valley and saw the blinding golden cupola of the Dome of the Rock and before it the revered mosque of al-Aqsa. In the distance, he saw the rest of the Old City of Jerusalem, and although he couldn't see them, he knew with absolute certainty that a thousand Jews, and a thousand more, were praying at the Western Wall of the Temple of Herod, the temple that had replaced the Temple of Solomon. He shuddered in disgust that the infidels, those who had rejected the word of Mohammed, were allowed to congregate so close to such holy centers of Muslim belief.

Abu Ahmed bin Hambal bin Abdullah bin Mohammed, the imam of Bayt al Gizah, a Palestinian village on the eastern
slopes of the Kidron Valley, which separated it from Jerusalem, tried to restrain his anger. Not with the Jews, for he knew in his heart that they would soon be driven out of Jerusalem westward into the distant Mediterranean. Not with the police or Shin Bet or any of the other repressive organs of Jewish control over the lives of his people. No, his anger and fear were because Bilal was not dead. And his anger was also directed at himself for having trusted such a vital mission to such a bonehead.

Of the twenty young men who sat regularly at his feet and listened to his sermons and shared his hopes and aspirations for the future of the Palestinian land and people, he could have chosen anybody. Any number of young men would have taken the mission in desire of becoming
shahid
s. The attempt at desecration of the Jews' most holy place was more important than the deaths of a handful of black-hatted Jews bowing and scraping at a wall.

But Abu Ahmed bin Hambal had chosen Bilal, in part out of pity for the idiot and in part because he knew he wouldn't return. But instead of succeeding in exploding his bombs, or more likely dying before any great destruction, the imbecile had managed to be wounded and was now in a hospital and would be tried, and then it might all come out. For a youth such as Bilal was like a stalk of wheat on a mountaintop: a strong wind and he would bend. And when the Jews' Shin Bet security agency began to torture him, he would bend so quickly that he would tell everything.

Were he an imam in Egypt or Saudi Arabia, such an exposure would have meant little. The Americans would do their best to find him with flying drones and satellites, or they'd send in a killing party from Delta Force, only to see their soldiers left as bones in the desert, killed by the imam's loyal protectors.

But if Israel's secret service, Shin Bet, came after him, then his chances of survival were negligible, for they had spies and turncoats and traitors throughout the Palestinian communities, and nobody knew who was in their pay. He shuddered when he thought of what Shin Bet could do to him, even though he
continued to enjoy a layer of protection from their highest placed operative.

A
S
A
HIMAAZ WALKED THE STREETS
from the temple back toward his home, a servant approached from a dark alleyway and demanded that he follow. When Ahimaaz asked to know who wanted to see him, the servant replied simply, “Queen Naamah,” and continued on.

Now Ahimaaz stood in front of Solomon's third wife and felt her radiating presence, which filled the room like light. He had barely time to ask why she wished to see him, when the queen dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand and drew Ahimaaz down to sit on a long, low bench.

“The king is frustrated,” she said in a surprisingly gentle tone.

Ahimaaz did not need the context of her statement explained to him.

“I know, Majesty, but even a king as powerful as Solomon can't defy God.”

Naamah nodded slowly and said, “A country ruled by priests! Such an interesting place. But who is it who rules over the priests?”

“The high priest,” he said bluntly, but found himself strangely confused.

“Ahh . . . your brother . . .” Naamah smiled, then turned her body more fully to face him, well aware of her nipples showing through the translucent gown.

“Ahimaaz, you are cunning yet powerless.”

Ahimaaz flinched at her beauty, but her words were an insult to a priest, especially from a pagan queen. “Powerless? How can you say that? I am close to the high priest, and I—”

She cut him off immediately. “And you perform menial tasks; you fetch and you carry, and you teach women and boys.”

Ahimaaz looked at her with a mixture of anger and suspicion, but he remained silent and allowed her to continue.

“But you could be so much more . . .”

To his surprise she then turned and began to walk away toward another room. Without realizing what he was doing, Ahimaaz ran after her and held her by the arm. “What do you mean? How can you, a foreign queen, say such a thing to me, a priest of Yahweh?”

Naamah looked him up and down. “You Hebrews are so innocent, so trusting. For all your knowledge, you understand so little.” She leaned in closer. “Power is not inherited or given by gods. Real power must be taken and only those fit enough to take it will ever hope to hold on to it. The people are only safe in the hands of such men. Did your god make you such a man?”

“Yahweh made me to serve him,” Ahimaaz said, and suddenly realized that he was in the queen's bedchamber. He looked around in sudden fear.

Naamah smiled and said, “Don't worry, little man. The king has another wife to distract him tonight.” But Ahimaaz still felt uncomfortable in such intimate surroundings.

Naamah laughed softly. “This god of yours, this Yahweh! Do you serve him adequately? Or are you failing to live up to”—she searched the air for the right word—“expectations?”

Ahimaaz felt a hand on his arm and found himself drawn down to sit on the edge of the queen's bed with her dark face close to his.

“If you were high priest, could you not serve your Yahweh better?”

In his most secret and private moments, Ahimaaz had entertained such thoughts, but the idea had never been voiced. Now this woman was saying things he barely dared to think.

Knowing that it could be a trap, Ahimaaz replied, “Why do you say these things, woman? I could no more be high priest than you could be first queen.”

Again Naamah smiled and said softly, “But if you were to be elevated, think what that would mean for you.”

He looked at her coldly, full of suspicion. “And what would it mean for you, Queen Naamah?”

Naamah answered the question with another question. “Who should lead your people when wise Solomon is gone? Should his heir be the one who is obvious or the one who is worthy?” She reached over and held his hands in hers.

Ahimaaz answered without thinking. “Abia is Solomon's firstborn true heir.”

Naamah frowned. “And do you think him worthy? Do you think yourself worthy?”

Ahimaaz pulled away from her hands and stood to his feet. “Treason . . .” he began to say, but the look on her face silenced him.

“Listen to me carefully, priest. My son, Rehoboam, is the king this nation needs if it is to live beyond Solomon. Abia is spirited and without caution. He will go to war at the slightest insult. Clever people are required to lead this country or it will fracture between north and south and then both will disappear, overrun by jealous kings.”