Living Stones (24 page)

“So what do we do when we get her in the car?”

“We’ll tie her hands, maybe her feet. Then we drive down the Jericho Road into the desert. I know a side road we can drive on without lights. The moon is well over half-full to the east, so we can see. Not even the Bedouins live on the hillsides in that area. Bring your pistol, and the two of us can finish off the infidel, bury her with my shovel I have in the car, and come home. No body to discover. No way to find us.”

Walid waited for several moments for Umar to speak. He felt a strange heaviness himself. Finally he heard a subdued, “OK.”

Somehow “finish off the infidel” dampened his enthusiasm for the money as he thought of his beautiful victim.

By eight p.m. and after eating, Walid and Umar crept silently out of the apartment to walk to the Damascus Gate. She wouldn’t know they were gone.

“Are you sure you are going to be able to keep her from crying
out or screaming when you bring her to the car?”

“The gun speaks English, Umar. She knows I could shoot her with the silencer on and no one would know. She’d just fall quietly. Remember, I know a way to the gate that avoids any shops that might be open. Besides, it’s dark.”

Walid’s mother wiped the glass cabinets of the jewelry shop again since strangely no customers appeared. At eight p.m. she wondered why the Souk remained so quiet, empty of tourists. Probably because of the day’s demonstration and shooting. Her shopkeeper boss smiled at his employee in her hijab. She knew his customers enjoyed her friendly manner and that she earned every bit of her salary and more.

“It’s as quiet as Saladin’s tomb tonight, Salma. You take the rest of the evening off, and I’ll see you tomorrow. No sense in both of us staying here until ten.”

Salma strolled the short distance to her apartment, stopping at her favorite open stall for some halal beef and a few vegetables. She climbed the stairs and on opening the door immediately noticed the smell of food. “Walid, are you here? You should be home with your family.” She called out again. No answer. She didn’t know whether to be puzzled or angry at her son, or both. She looked in the bathroom and saw the towel had dropped to the floor. She tried the bedroom door. Locked. Someone had locked it and left the key on the small table.

“What is going on? Walid, are you in there?” she called.

From behind the door, a woman’s voice called out something she didn’t understand. Walid didn’t answer. She waited a minute for them to dress, and opened the door.

A beautiful young woman stood looking at Salma, fully dressed. No Walid. She looked European, not Semitic, and had long golden hair. She had obviously been crying and probably sleeping since her hair appeared uncombed. But the bed looked as though it had not been used, except for the pillow. Her eyes glistened, wide-eyed, staring at Salma. Something seemed very wrong. Trembling, the young woman nodded to Salma and bowed slightly, greeting her in Arabic.

“Asalam alekum. I’d like to explain to you, but I don’t know Arabic.”

Salma had learned some English in the shop and recognized a few words. She realized this woman spoke English only. She returned the greeting and then asked, “Walid here?” in English.

“No.” The woman shrugged and raised her palms.

Salma understood that she didn’t know where Walid had gone. She noticed bruise marks on the young woman’s right arm.
What is this all about? She’s not much more than a girl. Something bad has happened to her. Walid must have put her here. Why, and what happened that he locked her up? He must be coming back before ten, when she would normally arrive home. Why would Walid do this to a girl? What does she want to do?

At that moment, the young woman used her hand, motioned toward the apartment door, and then pointed to herself saying, “Go!”

Salma understood immediately. She directed the young woman to follow her. They hurried down the stairs and out into the narrow street. Salma didn’t know where she wanted to go and shrugged with hands up, pointing first one way toward the Damascus Gate, and then the other way toward the center of the Souk.

“Jaffa Gate!”

“Ah, ha!” Salma nodded and pointed toward the shops. The young woman burst into tears and quickly enveloped Salma with a huge hug. Then she scampered away like a frightened gazelle.

At that moment Walid strode from the opposite direction on his return from the Damascus Gate. He saw his mother and the girl from a distance. He broke into a run.
No! She’s released the infidel!

Salma blocked him. He almost knocked her over. She grabbed his arm. “Mother, let me go! I have to get her! She’s bad. I can’t let her go. Quit hanging on to me!” He struggled to free himself.

“Walid, you should be ashamed of yourself! I don’t know what’s going on, but that’s not the way Mohammed, peace be upon him, would want you to treat a woman.”

“She’ll go to the police and report me. You have no idea what I’ll lose. I’m sorry, Mother.” He jerked his arm violently, causing Salma to fall, and dashed after the girl. He saw her stop momentarily. A shopkeeper pointed west toward the Jaffa Gate, and she turned the corner. Walid had never seen a woman run like that. Her head covering blew off. She sprinted like a football forward flying toward the goal. Walid tried to catch up, but he could not close the forty-meter gap. He noticed a few people on the street, staring, first at her blond hair flying, then at him. She seemed to be headed toward the police station near the Jaffa Gate. She turned to see him. He slowed down and ducked into a side street. He’d failed. He’d been seen by too many people. Possibly even the police. Disaster loomed.

Salma picked herself up, shook her head, and limped back up the stairs. Her hip landed on the street and she was in pain. She kicked the door open. Her son had become a wild man, locking up an American young woman in his mother’s apartment then chasing her down the street. He had no respect for age and knocked his own mother down. She could have broken her hip. She slammed the apartment door and screamed after him, “You’re no Muslim! I hope she gets away!”

The guesthouse front room might well have been hung in black crepe. The team gathered around some pizza, but no one seemed hungry. A heaviness permeated everyone on the team. Jim sighed deeply and suggested they give thanks for the food. All heads bowed. Someone sniffled. Jim felt so helpless, so despairing of
finding Ashley. The whole “trip of a lifetime” came crashing down in tragedy. What could they do in the morning? The whole team would be flying home, leaving at five a.m. Without Ashley. He would stay behind. They had just discussed how Ashley had survived the bombing at home and an armed kidnapping attempt in Bethlehem, and now this.

Suddenly Jim heard someone running, and a disheveled Ashley bolted through the door, gasping for air, and collapsed on the table.

Her whole team jumped up. The place erupted. To Jim it seemed everyone, including the guys, cheered through laughter and tears. They all leaped up to hug Ashley and each other.

“Are you OK, Ashley?”

“Yeah, Jim,” she managed, trying to catch her breath.

The guesthouse rocked with joy for the next hour as they ate and heard Ashley’s story. Then they quieted to thank God for Ashley’s return unharmed.

Finally Jim suggested that Ashley accompany him and Alim to the nearby police station at the Gate to report that she had been found. The Israeli policewoman had a phone to her ear and talked to a man bending over the desk while she searched her computer screen. After waiting for several minutes, Alim translated for Ashley as she reported that she had escaped a kidnapping with help from an older woman. The officer found Ashley again in the missing person file on her monitor and typed rapidly. Then she asked a number of questions: What happened, where, when, who captured her, what did he look like? Alim translated into Hebrew. The police woman picked up the phone, and soon a male detective appeared and ushered them into a room where her interrogation continued in English. Finally the last question, “Where can we contact you tomorrow?”

“We are flying to the U.S. from Tel Aviv tomorrow,” Ashley said.

“You can’t stay another day?”

“No. But you can contact Alim, who will call my young guide, David. He can provide some information.”

“That will have to do then. Our follow-up can be by phone. Local police and Mossad will be on this tonight. We’ll try to find the older woman first. That shouldn’t be difficult. We want to catch the terrorist. But we can’t make you stay, since you are only a witness and
victim. Here is my e-mail address and phone number.” He handed Ashley his card. “Let me know anything else that could help. I’d like your contact information.” She wrote it down for him.

Ashley sighed deeply, closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s over. Thank you for your help. I do hope you find him. I don’t even know his name.” She suddenly felt faint.

Arriving at the airport four hours prior to their flight seemed ridiculous to Ashley, until she saw the long lines of travelers waiting to get through multiple security checkpoints. She, at least, felt safer for it. The Israelis didn’t seem so concerned about checking small packages, shoes, or underwear, but they did quiz Ashley repeatedly, looking on computer screens for any hint that she might be linked to a threatening organization.

As the jetliner lifted off, Ashley felt relieved but also saddened to be leaving this fascinating country with its many contradictions. She had learned so much, asked and answered so many questions. She felt emotionally spent and physically exhausted. After she’d slept a while, Jim came back to chat with her, taking the empty seat between Marie and Ashley. He seemed intent on getting more information.

“I feel responsible for all you’ve been through, Ashley. It seems like you’ve been singled out for punishment on this trip, and I’d like to know why. Do you have any ideas? Are these attempts to harm you all related?”

“I think they are. I’ve come to the conclusion that the person at Herodian who followed me up the spiral road is the same guy who
almost kidnapped me at the wall in Bethlehem. Then, I had the best look at the terrorist who captured me yesterday. Same eyes, same height. I think they are all the same guy.”

“Anyone with him?”

“No. I never saw anyone else, although he did talk to a guy named Umar in the apartment. But I didn’t see him, being locked in the bedroom. And of course, I met the older woman, who freed me. I think it was her apartment. It didn’t look like a guy’s place. And everything looked old. I think she might be his mother. He showed up just as she pointed me to the Jaffa Gate. She tried to stop him, and he knocked her down when he chased me. I saw her on the ground when I rounded a corner. Can you imagine? Knocking an older woman down, maybe your own mother? She rescued me. I owe her a great deal, and all I gave her was a hug.”

“He obviously didn’t want you to get away. It must have been terrifying for you, gun and all.”

“Yeah. I never ran that fast playing soccer. He couldn’t catch me. I think a few other people being around stopped him.”

“OK, Ashley, assuming one guy was after you in all these places, the question is why. Why did he single you out for kidnapping?”

“I have no idea. I suppose there are several possibilities. A stalker, maybe.”

“Do you think he’s crazy?”

“I suppose you’d have to be a little crazy to kidnap people. But he seemed intentional, like he had a plan.”

“How about anti-American?”

“I suppose. But it seems unlikely. I could be from anywhere in Europe or North America. He wouldn’t know.”

“Religious?”

“That’s possible.” Ashley nodded. “Maybe he could be angry that I didn’t wear a hijab. But mad enough to kidnap me?”

“What about for ransom?”

“He doesn’t know my family. I would think he would kidnap someone known to have family money.”

“How about being a hired gun?”

“Who would hire him to get me? I am just a graduate student from Seattle.”

“That’s right,” said Jim, “a student who almost got killed in a terrorist bombing in Seattle.” He paused. “Don’t you think it’s kind of ironic? Did it ever occur to you that the Seattle bombing may have something to do with the kidnapping? It’s seems like an obvious question.”