Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest (19 page)

She heard what sounded like the jingle of
keys. Were they the keys to her apartment removed from her
fanny-pack? And if so, were these kidnappers going to enter her
home?

Panic was not easy to resist, but she kept
telling herself that to lose her reason would compound the
disaster. It took all her powers of concentration to note how many
times the vehicle changed directions. The car moved at a modest
speed through Jerusalem's traffic, in what felt like the direction
of her neighborhood. As soon as her breathing slowed, she became
aware of a familiar odor, stale garlic on the breath of the man in
the bakery. She knew a few Russian words, but far too few to
understand what her abductors were saying. A woman's voice
originating from the driver's seat surprised her.

When the car stopped, somebody lowered a
window. For the second time, she heard the jangle of keys. Somebody
outside the car spoke in Russian before the window closed and the
car started to move again.

Only the one smelling of garlic spoke in
English, commanding her not to lift her head. His palm smacked her
crown to ensure obedience. Instead of offering more futile
resistance, she counted the number of times the vehicle turned
along Jerusalem's short streets, noting how it seemed to descend a
long, curving road she didn't believe existed to the north or west
of the city. That left as a possibility the Arab populated valley
of Silwan on the capital's southeastern perimeter. The driver
switched on air-conditioning that muffled the chatter in Russian
and made it even more difficult to pick out a few words.

She estimated twenty-minutes of driving
before the car slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether. There,
she was allowed to lift her head and sit back against the car seat,
easing pain in her lower back, but the sack over her face remained
in place. Someone removed the gag over her mouth. For the first
time, the female driver addressed her directly in the sandpaper
voice of a dedicated smoker. "So tell us, Rabbi Lewyn. You go five
days to Mea She'arim. Where did you talk with Timothy
Matternly."

Gabby had expected a question along these
lines and had a reply ready. "That's madness. I never spoke with
Tim there or anywhere else."

"Dressed like Hasidic woman? I don't think
so." the driver pursued.

"I'm a Reform rabbi from the States. I go to
the Orthodox district to refresh the roots of my faith. These are
people most dedicated to the study of Torah."

"Don't insult us," the woman responded.

"How better to experience Judaism? When I'm
dressed in Hasidic clothes, I feel close to these people, though I
obviously don't wish to live my life as they do."

"You live with Matternly in Chicago. You also
live in his apartment here in Jerusalem."

"He's in neither," Gabby snapped.

"We know that. Where is he?"

"Why should I tell people who kidnap me, put
a hood over my head, and take me to God only knows where? Take this
hood off so I can see you. Otherwise, I must conclude that you're
nothing but thugs who have no legitimate business with my
friend."

The abductors spoke to each other, once again
excluding Gabby, until the man with the garlic breath said in
English with a thick Slavic brogue, "You're better off not seeing
us."

A cell phone rang in the front seat. A male
beside the driver answered in Hebrew, which Gabby understood. "No,
not yet. She hasn't told us yet... not yet. Call back as soon as
you find something in her apartment."

"Where's Matternly?" the woman repeated.

Gabby wanted to know what was going on in her
apartment, but to demand they tell her would reveal that she
understood their Hebrew. Instead, she said, "I told you I don't
know. I don't like you people, whoever you are, but we share the
same desire to find him."

"Hard to believe since you're his woman."

"I could tell you he's now in Chicago or
Buenos Aires. To find him, you'd have to go there and discover that
I lied. Let's say I'm saving you the trouble. Why do you want
him?"

"We need his brains."

"You don't have a clue and neither do I. So
you might as well remove this infernal hood and take me home. If
you're courteous, I won't report this to the police for twenty-four
hours. If you apologize, I might not do it at all."

"We could easily dispose of you in the
desert."

Gabby released a derisive laugh. "If you want
Tim Matternly, disposing of his friend isn't a smart way to go
about it. Harm me and you'll have an army of police hunting you
down."

The cell phone rang again, answered by the
same individual in the passenger seat in poor Hebrew obviously
learned in adulthood. He listened for a moment before reporting
what he had heard to his cohorts. "They heard voicemail on
Matternly's phone. There were eight voice messages from this woman
in Chicago, asking for Matternly to return her phone messages."

This confirmed to Gabby that while she was
being held hostage, somebody was searching her apartment. Though
she didn't like the idea of unauthorized people in her home, she
knew there was nothing to find. Thank God she had neglected to
delete her voice messages for Tim.

There was a short interval while the man on
the phone listened, then reported to the others, "They searched her
laptop. Not a single message from Matternly. But in her SENT BOX
there are six e-mails she sent from Chicago asking to hear from
him. And one from Jerusalem, seeking the same thing."

The female driver spoke to the others in
Russian. A moment later, she turned on the ignition and put the car
into reverse, then circled about as if backing out of a tight
parking spot.

"Where are you taking me?" Gabby
demanded.

The woman answered. "You'll see."

Once again, the car snaked along a series of
steep curves, but eventually descended onto roads where it was
possible to accelerate. For nearly thirty minutes, nothing was
said. The car traveled faster, then suddenly seemed to creep
through traffic where the ambient sounds of a city were everywhere.
She heard voices in Arabic and much horn honking. When the vehicle
finally stopped, the man with the garlic breath yanked at her arm,
forcefully hauling her from the rear door. She found herself
wobbling on numb feet that had fallen asleep in the car. The
abductor took no notice and pushed her for about fifty meters,
before ordering her to stop.

"Count to hundred slowly, out loud," he said,
"If you don't want to get shot, don't try and take off the hood.
Start counting now."

Gabby felt like throwing a punch in the
abductor's direction, but thought it wiser to commence counting.
She heard footsteps rapidly receding back toward the car. That
signaled her to tear off the hood, but a cord had secured it
tightly around her neck. Without the use of her eyes, she was
forced to rely upon her fingers to undo the knot. When it was
possible to remove the sack from her head, afternoon sun blinded
her eyes. By the time they adjusted to the new light, the vehicle
had long since disappeared.

She pivoted around, trying to orient herself,
thinking about calling Itamar or Major Zabronski. But how would she
explain her Hasidic clothing without revealing she had found Tim in
Mea She'arim? Until it was possible to change these clothes, she
resolved to say nothing about the abduction.

Her first problem was to get her bearings and
return home. She found herself standing in a narrow street
surrounded by Orthodox Jews that looked much like the denizens of
Mea She'arim. This was not Jerusalem, but Hebron, an enclave of the
Orthodox Jews living near the traditional tombs of Abraham and
Sarah, surrounded by a warren of Palestinian villages. While her
abductors had failed to return her fanny-pack, they had not
searched her pockets and left her sufficient funds for a bus ride
to Jerusalem. That was the good news. The bad news was it was
nearing sundown and the interurban bus connecting Hebron with
Jerusalem did not travel through Palestinian villages after
nightfall. Taxi drivers refused to take her for the same
reason.

Her bus joined the first convoy of trucks and
taxis heading north the next morning at 0900 hours and departed
under military protection at 0945 hours.

***

Each time Tim sat down before his computer,
he wrestled away a craving to reply to Gabby's latest e-mail. The
icon for her message sat on the monitor's desktop begging to be
answered. Simultaneously, he was haunted by the idea of going to
prison for what happened in Qumran, and Israeli prisons, he had
come to understand, were far more unpleasant than their
counterparts in America, if that were possible. How could he
justify drawing Gabby into a conspiracy and subjecting her to share
his punishment? With that in mind, he carefully timed his visit to
their Ussishkin Street apartment in mid-morning when he felt
certain she would be out.

In Zechariah's dark overcoat and hunched over
like an old man, Tim shuffled along Rambam Street, occasionally
stroking his grizzled whiskers and adjusting the wide-brimmed hat
that hid all but his chin and mouth. While he recognized several
passersby in the neighborhood, none appeared to see through his
disguise. The spot where he usually parked his SUV was taken by a
Volkswagen belonging to a neighbor and, as far as he could tell, no
strangers idled on the street keeping watch.

In contrast to his Chicago home, he had never
thought of his Jerusalem apartment as light-filled and cheery, for
even when the sun was at its highest, he needed to turn on lights.
From the street, he could peer through the windows to the
electrical ceiling fixtures in the kitchen and study. Lights in
both rooms were dark, confirming his prediction that Gabby had left
for the day.

In the public stairwell, he resolved not to
linger any longer than necessary. But his plan dissolved the moment
he opened the door. The apartment was in complete disarray, with
furniture strewn about, pillows and kitchen utensils tossed to the
floor, books and papers pulled from their shelves and roughly
scattered. He shut the door behind him, and leaned against it to
quiet a racing heart. He had long believed that Father Benoit would
strike back, but never with such ferocity. The sound of the irate
priest's voice from the monastery parapet reverberated in his ears,
echoing with rage. "You won't get away with it!"

As he struggled to bring his emotions under
control, he calculated Father Benoit's cunning. When his heartbeat
slowed, he reasoned that, by ransacking the apartment, Benoit had
overplayed his hand. Having already sent goons to break in, he
wasn't likely to authorize it a second time. And this played to
Tim's advantage.

He cautiously navigated around untidy piles
of household items to the living room where the floor-to-ceiling
bookcases were located. Volumes that had once been housed there
were strewn in heaps on the floor. The intruders seemed to have
worked from top to bottom, first tossing down his books on higher
shelves, then following with Gabby's below. He briefly considered
attempting to straighten up the mess, but rejected the idea out of
hand. Remaining at home longer than necessary was dangerous.
Additionally, it might deceive Gabby into underestimating the
precarious situation in which he had now placed her.

He scrambled through her books on top of the
heap. Cicero and Gibbon, both dealing with the first century of the
Common Era. There were commentaries on Amos, Jonah, Obadiah, and
Deutero-Isaiah. A cherished volume of Maimonides'
Guide to the Perplexed
. Buried below the first layer,
he found what he was looking for, her
Biblia
Hebraica
—the Masoretic text of the Old Testament in Hebrew,
edited in Latin and German by Rudolf Kittel, printed on thick, rich
paper, and sporting a distinctive beige fabric binding with an
embossed red-letter title. Since he was confident she would never
discard or destroy this archetypal reference, he selected it as a
temporary depository for what he had taken from the Monastery of
St. George.

He climbed out of his heavy woolen overcoat
and let it drop unceremoniously over other books. Next, he pulled
out his tunic from its foothold in his trousers, simultaneously
unhitching the belt. To the inside of this shirt near the small of
his back, he had sown the edges of the vacuum-sealed plastic
envelope. In a hurry to move on, he dug his fingernails between the
tunic and the envelope, plucking out the threads.

Moisture from his body clouded the
transparent envelope, but had not seeped inside. As he had done
numerous times at St. George, he reread the three words for
confirmation that somehow in the thrill of discovery he had not
misread what was there. To his relief, no error had been made.
Balancing in his hand Gabby's heavy Bible, he thumbed past the five
books of Moses into a subsequent section housing the major
prophets. Isaiah was first in the canonical order, perhaps because
his writing represented a compilation of several authors, or
because more of his prophecies remain extant than those of his
fellow prophets.

For storing the precious fragment, no
ordinary resting place would do. Tim had in mind a special passage
dealing with Isaiah's prophecy that from the lineage of King David
would come a hero to redress injustice in the world. Chapter 26. A
perfect location for short-term storage!

Once he was satisfied that the plastic sleeve
was neatly tucked near Isaiah's vision for the future, he returned
the Kittel's
Biblia Hebraica
to a pile of
books on the floor, approximately where it had been discarded.

He then moved quickly to complete a second
task and started looking for a CD disk on which he had stored
software to assemble texts now waiting for him in Rav Schreiber's
apartment. He had kept the disk in his desk, the drawers of which
were now overturned with their contents strewn over a Bukhara rug.
His mood plummeted when he failed to find the disk among the
debris. The desk drawers had been filled with pencils, pens and
miscellaneous trinkets, many in Ziploc bags. When extracted from
the desk and overturned, these articles had scattered widely. He
found himself searching in a series of concentric circles and
treating articles on the floor with the same disrespect as the
burglars, rudely tossing unwanted ones aside. On an outer ring of
his search pattern, he spied the corner of an envelope that looked
suspicious. Two steps brought him within snatching distance.