Hadassah Covenant, The (22 page)

The last was strangled, and the girl’s voice drowned in a gurgling, liquid sound. Hadassah looked away just as the room began to rotate. Her eyes rolled upward into her head as four male arms appeared
from either side and held her fast. From somewhere offscreen came the sound of wild, hysterical screaming. A gray pall descended over her vision. Her stomach heaved and her throat, all on its own, launched into the initial throes of retching. She clasped a hand to her mouth.

A frenzy of motion beside her caught her attention, and an adrenaline charge shocked her nausea under control as she turned just in time to see the old man fall backward. The glow of a single monitor illuminated a glimpse of his face—cheek and forehead muscles gripped by waves of merciless contractions.

In a single sweep of her head, she saw that Ari Meyer had not seen his father’s collapse, but stood pointing at the screen, his finger shaking.

“I know her. I know that girl. I recognize those eyes—I saw them through a window just two weeks ago. She and her family—they were trigger sentries for the Al Hillah raid! She’s not just a Jewish girl in hiding—she’s a coalition collaborator!”

“What on earth do you mean?” Hadassah asked.

“The Viper 5 squad got reports of potential targets within a block or two. But often they need a local sympathizer to help them pinpoint an exact location to attack. This girl and her family had volunteered through some kind of local network. I don’t even think we knew they were Jewish.”

And then Ari glimpsed his father sagging into the arms of Hadassah’s bodyguards, and his professional reserve shattered whole.

They were not able to speak again for another hour—a mind-numbing sixty minutes of shouted code words and chaotic but perpetual movement.

When the madness was over, Hadassah and Ari Meyer found themselves standing in an improvised medical suite somewhere in the same underground floor, next to a bed where Anek al-Khalid lay unconscious but stable. A doctor in civilian clothes stood watch beside a faintly beeping crash-cart from which snaked a dozen tubes and electrical contacts. Behind them, half visible through a door slightly ajar, lurked a dozen men in varying aspects of military and diplomatic attire.

“I don’t have the equipment to say with complete certainty that he did not have a heart attack,” the doctor said to Ari. “But from his blood analysis, I would give you a ninety-percent likelihood that he came as close to a myocardial infarction as it’s possible to come without actually suffering one.”

“That’s quite understandable,” Meyer said, his voice cracking. “He suffered an incredible shock. I still can’t believe my colleagues were so—so callous as to rush him in there to witness that without some kind of preparation.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry,” Hadassah told Meyer, stepping forward. Then the sympathetic look was replaced with something else. “However, I have some questions—”

“Yes.” He nodded grimly. “I’m sure you do.”

“Your sudden appearance up there”—she waved vaguely toward the ceiling—“what was that all about?”

“I did not plan on being seen. If the emergency call had not come, you would never have known of my presence. However, please remember that my father and I were never told you were the reason for the invitation. Your arrival at the embassy was a complete surprise.”

“Yes. Well, there are shocks on my side, too. The fact that you are alive, that you are here, and most of all, that you are my cousin.” She paused to appraise him carefully. “I have so many questions, I hardly know where to begin.”

Before he could answer, an aide stepped in and handed her a telephone.

“My dearest, did you see it? Did you see . . . see the footage?”

The voice was Jacob’s, as clear as the next room, and he sounded tense. He rushed on, “I had no idea, no warning they would go through with it—”

“Yes, I’m afraid we did see the whole terrible thing—” Her voice caught before she added, “And Mr. al-Khalid suffered a near heart attack.”

“Honey, I’m very sorry you had to go through that.” Jacob’s genuine regret was clear. “Like I said, I had no idea—but I do need to speak to him right away. I can’t tell him to call off his lawsuit, of course, but I must talk with him.”

“Did you understand me, Jacob? He almost died.”

“Is he conscious?”

“I’m not . . . not sure. Semiconscious at best.”

“Well, I’m going to have to ask you to find out.” His tone was gentle but firm. “Look, this is the most volatile, dangerous, and tragic event I’ve ever seen. I’ve been on the phone with the President of the United States. His Secretary of State is right now on hold, waiting for my line to clear. As you can imagine, the sight of this young girl has grabbed the world’s attention. It’s not just the lead story, it’s been the
only
story for the last two hours. And now her actual death—” He stopped to clear his throat. “And the only question on any Arab street is
Who is this Anek al-Khalid, and why is he so greedy that he’d rather steal food from starving Iraqi children than lift a finger to save a Jewish child from a horrible death
? And did you hear the terrorists claim earlier that the 2005 London bombings were actually a warning to him? A personal warning about which he was given prior warning, and did nothing to heed, let alone pass on to authorities?”

“Oh, Jacob, I can’t believe that—”

“It gets worse. Iraq has exploded. There’s fighting across the country. Gaza too. The Palestinian peace talks have been suspended out of pressure from Muslim states, even so-called moderates. In the last hour there’ve been riots outside twelve of our embassies around the world. Including the one you are at.”

“I don’t understand. There’ve been atrocities before—why would this one be so . . . so incendiary?”

“They’ve never taken a whole family hostage before or publicly murdered a child like this. And it’s never been a Jewish family before. The dilemma has caused Muslim factions to actually declare war
against each other
! Some say the Koran forbids the killing of infidel children. Others insist it’s a sacred duty. Six different mullahs on three continents have issued fatwas against the others for their opinions about the taking of this girl and her family. And that’s not to mention the fatwas against Anek, like the one leveled years ago against Salman Rushdie. He is a marked man.” “I can’t believe this—”

“And Hadassah, consider this. All this is without anyone knowing that the First Lady of Israel was personally meeting with Anek al-Khalid
when the girl was murdered! Not to mention that he happens to be her
uncle
! Do you realize what fuel that would add to the fire? I can hardly think about it! For the Arab World to realize al-Khalid is related to the Israeli Prime Minister!”

Her head was spinning. Forcing herself to stay in control, she asked, “All right . . . so what do I do now, Jacob?”

“Honey, crowds are gathered right outside the compound where you are. They’ve been held back only because London police can lock down the entire street, but it won’t last long. Especially if they learn that al-Khalid is actually on the premises. You have to come home.
Now
. And you really ought to persuade him—your uncle—to come back with you. He cannot be kept safe anywhere but in Israel.”

“Did you hear me, Jacob?” Hadassah demanded once more. “He’s unconscious, and it’s only with G-d’s help he didn’t die when he heard that girl speak his name. He’s incapable of conversing with anybody, let alone a head of state.” She paused to look around. “However, there is someone here you can speak with in his stead.”

“Who in the world might that be?”

“You already know the man—in fact, you told me about him. In the Mossad, he goes by Ari Meyer. Actually, it’s al-Khalid’s son. My cousin, whom I never even knew existed.”

The line went silent. He finally asked, “What in the world is going on, Hadassah? I thought your investigation was going in a different direction—”

“It
is
a strange story, honey. I had no idea how involved it would become.”

“Or how bizarre. I am so worried, with all these strange convergences—saving exiled Jews, Esther Edicts, genocidal plots—I feel as though I’m reliving Esther myself, and Haman’s evil plot is still under way!”

“I told you the old story was important.”

“I never doubted it, honey,” he said dryly. “Regardless, I want you and this Meyer on the plane back here within an hour. This time, my dear, it’s an order. Be safe.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Emunah America Magazine
2003

Although the Jewish community in Iraq dated back 2,700 years, by the time the most recent images of Iraq were being transmitted around the globe, nearly all of the Iraqi Jews were living elsewhere, mainly in Israel, some concentrated in the United States, Canada, and Europe. The vast majority of these Jews left Iraq without anything tangible
.

The Iraqi Jews are split on the issue of their former homeland. Some retain warm reminiscences of the country, while others nothing more than bitterness. And others take a more financially oriented approach to the country, seeking to regain some of the of the property that was taken from them by the Iraqi government. An East Coast–based organization that calls itself the American Committee for the Rescue and Resettlement of Iraqi Jews is spearheading a drive to file a class-action lawsuit like the one filed against the Swiss Banks on behalf of Holocaust survivors
.

—S
HERYL
K
ATZ
E
LIAS
, “G
OOOOD
M
ORNING
, B
AGHDAD
!!!!”
HTTP://WWW.EMUNAH.ORG/MAGAZINE_COMMENTS.PHP?ID=P175_0_4_0_C

L
ONDON—LATER THAT NIGHT

T
he mob gathered
outside the security gate leading down Palace Green Street to the nearby Israeli Embassy had now grown into a sprawling, strident human mass—a single organism three hundred yards across, spilling all the way onto Kensington Road and heaving with oceanlike surges of rage and crescendos of shrill anti-Semitic chanting. Rioters from London’s huge Islamic community along nearby Edgeware Road had now been joined by an even more
volatile element: young, liberal bohemians from London’s hipper neighborhoods like adjacent Notting Hill, drawn by the banking of choppers overhead and the irritating echoes of impending bedlam.

At the mob’s outer edges stood the press, shooting spotlights and camera lenses into the melee, inevitable participants of any event this photogenic. In fact, Fleet Street’s contribution to the chaos was even more obvious than usual, for several of the city’s television stations had just announced the presence of Hadassah ben Yuda, First Lady of Israel, inside the embassy walls. The media’s helicopters had begun their slow, circular dance in the sky.

Drunk with this knowledge, the mob was smelling and demanding blood.

The roar intensified when a phalanx of vehicles appeared from inside the embassy complex and edged to the outer gates. Swirling lights on two flanking police vans and a thick, armored limousine between them announced to the crowd that someone important urgently wanted to leave. Surely, this was ben Yuda attempting to flee—and that was all the provocation the mob needed.

The gates opened slowly, pressing back the crush, and the vehicles moved forward, slowly but inexorably. The human beast only pushed back harder. Bodies were crushed without mercy from behind against the vehicles’ metallic surfaces. A hollow drumbeat of fists struck up against the motorcades’ outer shells. A rock appeared in a hand and came down hard against a window. The glass splintered into a spiderweb array of cracks, but held. More rocks fell upon the limousine roof, causing visible dents but no rending of the body itself.

Barely twenty yards out of the gate, the trio of vehicles seemed to run aground against a beachhead of unmovable humanity. A fanfare of honks rang out over the bobbing heads. Commanding voices rang out through the metallic buzz of loudspeakers, ordering the crowd to disperse. And from the various corners of Kensington Palace Park, for the first time, came the shrill sirens of approaching London riot squads.

While the rioters concentrated their wrath upon the more obvious vehicles at the embassy’s Kensington Road entrance, a much
smaller service gate in the compound’s rear alleyway swung inauspiciously open. Even had the enraged pedestrians known to stand watch at this spot, they likely would have overlooked the drab panel truck bearing the sign
Kensington Uniform Supply
. The lorry pulled out from beside the neighboring fire brigade building—an inauspicious delivery vehicle making its normal rounds, unremarkable except for a dark protrusion from its roof.

You would have needed a high perch to glimpse the black-clad figure sprawled on that roof—a brave SAS operative with an M800 assault rifle held tightly in his hands. Or the concealed forms of snipers watching from surrounding rooftops, peering through infrared scopes. And in all the surrounding noise of other helicopters, they surely would not have heard the sleek black two-man chopper, its nearly silent rotors plying the darkness in tight circles a mere three hundred yards above.