Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest (23 page)

Telfik studied the stout little automatic,
twisting it in his hands, then weighing its balance. His head
nodded in silent respect for its streamlined design and renowned
functionality.

"You may keep it as a gift," Benoit said. "I
doubt whether the American will be returning. If he does, I'll tell
him he broke our rules against firearms and we destroyed it."

The sheik smartly pulled back the bolt to
inspect the chamber, a proper safety procedure. He shook his head,
acknowledging the valued gift before returning the coveted weapon
to his knees. Throughout the subsequent discussion, the gun did not
leave one or the other of his hands, a sign of his pleasure.

An hour later, when it was time for Benoit to
depart, he rose from the ground with difficulty, clenching his
teeth to absorb pain shooting from this hip. Telfik al-Fahl
steadied him on his feet as they stepped toward the tent
opening.

"By the way," the priest said, his hand
returning deep into the backpack. He withdrew a map and unfolded it
to reveal the contour of the Negev. Telfik's eyes wandered over
familiar landmarks to orient himself. "This shows a region south of
here." Benoit pointed to a spot marked with a penned X. "The place
was called Ein Arugot two thousand years ago, but your people must
use a different name these days. In Roman times, a school was
located there. Have your people discovered any artifacts
nearby?"

Telfik studied the location intently, tugging
on his beard. Not certain what Benoit really wanted, he said, "I'll
ask at the council. A school? What kind of school?"

"Like Palestinian schools today in Jenin and
Tulkarum that teach forbidden subjects. In the Ein Arugot school, I
believe, they taught rebellion against the Romans in Caesarea and
Jerusalem."

The Bedouin chieftain smiled with an air of
omniscience. "Usually I'm telling you about ancient ruins.
Suddenly, you're telling me. Why is this, brother?"

"Because now that the school's location has
been discovered, you may expect archeologists and fortune-seekers.
It's important for me to tell the Holy Father in Rome who is
visiting. It's a barren location and shouldn't be hard for your
boys to watch."

The sheik glanced down at the Uzi. "I'll
shift somebody to the area."

Benoit was waiting for the right moment to
provide a final bit of information he knew his friend would
appreciate. "And it's only a question of time before the American
archeologist who owned this Uzi will visit that location. He's too
curious to stay away. When exactly, I cannot say. Within a few
weeks I would think. Please, let me know when he does."

Benoit noted that Telfik al-Fahl's eyebrows
had risen slightly. From his pocket, the priest pulled two photos
taken when he and Tim Matternly had bathed together in the Dead
Sea. In the first picture, Tim was floating on the saline saturated
water with most of his body exposed, the ruddy-colored Mountains of
Moab in the background. The second was a close-up with Tim smiling
contentedly into the lens. Benoit placed both snapshots in the
sheik's line of vision, then gently let it drop into his thin
fingers. "We visited this place one Saturday afternoon during the
winter. The American said the salt was good for his psoriasis."

Benoit noted the Sheik's eyes fixed upon the
photo just before he ducked his head under the tent flap to greet
the strong sunlight outside. A few steps away, he fished his shirt
pocket for dark glasses, preparing to march back to his Subaru over
the parched desert.

***

While waiting in Jericho's Café Himsha, Zvi
Zabronski was nervous about presenting himself as a target for
terrorists. The Palestinian waiter had told him there was nothing
to worry about since local merchants paid big bucks to keep
radicals from terrorizing Jericho's commercial sector. Zabronski
was skeptical, having learned not to underestimate the enemy's
cunning. The
radicals
, as the café owner
delicately referred to outright terrorists, were capable of seizing
any opportunity, and he was definitely a prime target. He sat at a
table with his back against the rear wall, as far from the street
as possible, cautiously eyeing traffic outside. Two police
sergeants in an unmarked vehicle parked on the street were ready to
provide fire-support in the event of an attack.

The waiter delivered a Turkish coffee, thick
and sweet, flavored with cardamom, coffee Zabronski had once
detested, but had acquired a taste for during lengthy discussions
with Palestinians in his district. Arabs, he had come to
appreciate, loved heated debates even more than Jews. While sipping
the syrupy liquid, he kept his eyes moving nervously from side to
side, much like a pilot surveying the skies around his aircraft.
Normally, he conducted his investigations unarmed, but this morning
packed a Glock semiautomatic on his waist. It wasn't going to
protect him from a car bomb, but would provide him good firepower
in a gunfight.

When a tiny Fiat sedan crept by on the street
outside in search of a parking space, Zabronski first noticed
through its window a Detroit Tigers baseball cap topping wild black
hair that merged imperceptibly into an equally bushy beard. The
driver, Father Alexandro Spatus Xtixmo, an Orthodox monk from the
nearby Monastery of St. George, attempted unsuccessfully to back
his vehicle into a tight parking spot and was forced to choose a
larger space farther along the street. He eventually bounded from
the driver's door onto the sidewalk, as if late for an appointment.
Zabronski placed a hand on his pistol in case an assassin also
emerged from the car. The cleric entered the dark café and whipped
off a pair of designer sunglasses, glancing around. Zabronski stood
up and greeted the priest with an outstretched hand.

"Thanks for meeting with me, Father,"
Zabronski said, pointing to a seat opposite him at the table,
careful to return to his same chair with a full view of the street.
"Normally, we don't like to intrude on your peace at the
monastery."

The waiter brought two bottles of water and
waited for orders. "Father?" Zabronski invited the priest to choose
what he wanted. As host, he expected to pay.

"You have beer?" Father Alexandro asked. "A
treat we don't stock in the monastery."

"
Cain
," the waiter
answered affirmatively in Hebrew, then mentioned two Israeli
brands, of which the priest selected the popular Maccabee brew.
Zabronski pushed his cup forward, requesting another Turkish
coffee.

"Sorry we couldn't invite you to our
monastery," said the cleric, "but we couldn't talk there and I know
you have questions. Three of us who speak eight languages in total
are assigned to represent the brotherhood's needs outside the
premises. Father Nicholas asked me to speak with you just when I
was craving a beer. So you see God's providence works in unexpected
ways. Perhaps, we should schedule these meetings whenever I have a
thirst. What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"Nothing earthshaking," stated Zabronski, who
was studying the priest's extraordinarily large eyes magnified by
thick circular lenses. He didn't want to frighten the man whom he
had assumed would be shy, but wasn't. "We're running down a stolen
car, a maroon Buick sedan. Nine years old. Stolen five weeks ago.
Was there a car like that at your monastery?"

To break the policeman's discomforting stare,
Father Alexandro lifted the water bottle and took a healthy swig.
"We have two vehicles. The Fiat you see down the street. And a very
sick Peugeot with two bad pistons that seldom work when you're in
need of transportation. The Fiat likes me, the Peugeot doesn't. No
Buicks."

"Understood, but perhaps you had a visitor
who drove one."

"Visitors come and go. And they usually
arrive by car, which they park outside. Why do you think this has
anything to do with St. George?"

"We confiscated the Buick from a garage in
Jerusalem where thieves were modifying it for sale. They removed
their fingerprints, but that's not unusual. We also found a black
robe, much like the one you're wearing now, stuffed into the
trunk."

"Oh, dear!" Father Alexandro exclaimed, his
curiosity piqued. Suddenly, he knew why the police inspector was
questioning him.

Zabronski retrieved the robe from a satchel
resting beside the table and showed it to the monk. Same color and
material as the one he was wearing. "The tailor in Bethlehem told
us that he makes habits like this exclusively for St. George. Do
all the brothers wear the same garments?"

"It's our custom. Even the abbot wears the
same thing. We are a brotherhood, one and indivisible, and must all
dress alike."

"Then how would a robe like this find its way
into a stolen vehicle?"

The cleric shrugged his shoulders.

"Does the monastery keep records of its
visitors?"

"Of course. Each one is logged in when he
enters and logged out when he leaves."

"With your rule of silence, I wouldn't think
you'd have many visitors."

"On the contrary. Clerics from all
denominations come to pray and meditate, not talk. One or two a
month, I would estimate. Of course, they pay for their room and
board, which provides us with needed income."

"And do your visitors dress in similar
habits?"

"We encourage a feeling for community by
having visitors dress as we do. They are given a habit when they
arrive."

"And when they depart, do they leave them
behind?"

"Absolutely. We're a poor brotherhood and
cannot afford to issue new ones. We wash them and lend them to new
visitors."

"But if one were not returned to the
brotherhood, how would it find its way into a stolen vehicle?"

Again, the priest shrugged his shoulders.

"Could a visitor have taken it with him?"

"That's possible, but not probable. We have
no gates, so everybody must enter and leave by means of our
gondola. Those who operate the pulley system ask for the garment
before a visitor leaves."

"Understood," Zabronski responded. "But
suppose this visitor left in a hurry and didn't require the help of
men at the gondola? Couldn't he have taken his habit with him?"

Father Alexandro curled his lips in a
meditative gesture before saying, "It takes a minimum of two men to
work the pulleys. No one leaves on his own."

The beer and coffee arrived. Alexandro poured
his beer into a glass until a frothy head spilled over the rim,
then immediately put it to his lips between thick whiskers,
slurping the foam. Zabronski watched the monk wipe the excess with
his sleeve and, without touching his own beverage, asked, "Has
anyone recently left the monastery other than by means of the
gondola?"

"No one," the father said, then paused. "No,
that's not right. Sorry. We had a visitor who rappelled off the
wall with a rope. A most unusual event. It never happened before at
St. George, at least not in my memory."

"When was that?"
"About six weeks ago, I
believe."

"Can you tell me who this visitor was?"

"No, not offhand. I can look up his name on
our roster when I return and e-mail it to you."

Zabronski removed a business card from his
shirt pocket and handed it to the cleric. "Please. The name will be
helpful. Tell me about him."

"Our brotherhood is sworn to silence so we
don't communicate much with our visitors. This particular one I
rarely saw. He worked alone all day and most of the night in a
private room. Food was brought to him. Occasionally, I saw him
walking the courtyard for exercise. Then just before he left, a
Latin priest arrived. I spoke to neither of them because they were
inside the monastery walls."

"Will your visitors' roster tell us how long
these men stayed?"

"It should."

Zabronski's eyes suddenly looked past the
priest to the street and his hand dropped over the Glock on his
waist. His eyes followed two suspicious men who poked their heads
into the café but did not enter. "Any idea what the first visitor
was working on?"

"Not a clue. But I can tell you that he left
behind for the brotherhood valuable business machines. A computer,
a printer, a scanner. Devices like that."

"Expensive gifts, I would say. Sounds as
though he left in a hurry."

"That's what I understand. The first visitor
was with us for nearly a month before disappearing before sunrise
one morning. That night, I was sleeping when I heard someone
screaming. Yes, screaming aloud. That's a flagrant breach of our
rules. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but it was quite a
shock just to hear a voice. Later, I learned that while the first
visitor rappelled off the wall, the Latin priest was yelling at him
from the parapet. The episode was upsetting. We are disciplined
souls and our visitor, not us, broke the rules."

"When did the Latin priest leave?"

"Well, you see, he was the one who broke the
code. Father Nicholas must have expelled him immediately."

"And did he?"
A wry smile crossed the
cleric's lips. "It was impossible because the first man stole his
car, parked outside the walls. I had to be lowered over the wall to
call Jericho on my cell phone for a taxi to remove this shameless
Latin. Two hours later, an Arab taxi showed up and drove him
away."

"Sounds like an unpleasant business,"
Zabronski said, pretending to feel sympathy for monks sworn to
silence. But their vows of voluntary isolation made no sense to
him. At that moment, he glanced toward the street as two cars
rolled to a stop, one behind the other. The situation reminded him
of a car bombing he had witnessed near Ashkelon. He eased up from
his chair, poised to escape, then decided it was a false alarm.
"You'll e-mail me the names and dates of their visits, won't you,
Father?"

"As soon as I return. And you have mine if I
can be of further assistance?"