The Amateur Spy (32 page)

I didn’t feel like telling him that my next appointment was with a former general of the Israeli Army. Maybe because I was already second-guessing my decision to meet with David Ben-Zohar.

Later that day I checked into the American Colony Hotel. Ben-Zohar then telephoned. My first instinct was to cancel, but he was not to be put off so easily.

“Oh, no, Freeman. We must meet. I insist. And if you can’t do it tomorrow, I will gladly reschedule.”

What must he have heard about me since the lukewarm response in his first e-mail? I chalked it up as yet another lesson learned as an amateur, and I wondered how many more mistakes I’d be allowed before I started paying the penalties of a professional.

29

C
areer military men never stop looking like soldiers, even when they’ve been mustered out of the army. So when David Ben-Zohar, private citizen, stood to offer his hand at a sunny outdoor table at a café on Yoel Salomon Street, everything from his posture to the set of his jaw said he might just as easily be leading a patrol as ordering lunch. His eyes particularly demanded attention, cool wells of reserve flanked not by laugh lines but creases of careworn deliberation. It was a face that had turned a thousand corners without knowing who or what awaited, and I suspected he still had a high threshold for shock and awe.

The site he chose for our rendezvous told me a thing or two. Yoel Salomon Street was among the trendiest of pedestrian thoroughfares in the center of modern Jerusalem. That, plus its attractive storefronts of chiseled Jerusalem stone, with arched doorways and seawater-blue trim, made it a magnet for midday crowds of shoppers and diners. To take up such a prominent position in this busy area was to announce boldly that you didn’t care who saw you, or whom you were seen with. From a more suspicious point of view you might even say he was inviting surveillance.

This part of town was very much home ground for any Israeli, a safe distance from the shrinking Arab neighborhoods of the east side and the Old City’s Muslim Quarter.

Knowing his reputation for punctuality, I hailed a taxi at the American Colony with plenty of time to spare. When it dropped me off at Jaffa and Ben Yehuda streets in the heart of downtown I still had time to kill, so I wandered up the block. A poster on a jeweler’s doorway caught my eye, less for the big art exhibit it was promoting than for the name of the exhibit’s philanthropic sponsor: the DeKuyper Foundation. So, not only did DeKuyper own a Greek island villa and a big yacht—now he was underwriting an art exhibit in Israel. It made me curious about how else he might be spending his money in this part of the world. Up to now I had assumed that Black, White, and Gray had simply paid off the caretaker, figuring that was why the fellow was so zealous in shooing Mila and me away. Now I wondered.

Ben-Zohar rose from the table as I approached. He looked me in the eye and extended his hand in greeting. As I’ve said, he still seemed very much the soldier, even in his business grays. Like Omar, he had gained a few pounds but wore them comfortably.

As in many non-kosher restaurants in this part of town, the menu bent over backward to offer forbidden combinations of dairy and meat, so I ordered the first cheeseburger I’d had in ages plus a pint of Maccabee to wash it down. We exchanged small talk for a while. Ben-Zohar described his security consulting business in the vaguest of terms, and I told him about my brilliant career in the aid industry. My worry over whether he would be reluctant to discuss Omar proved groundless. I didn’t even have to bring up the subject.

“So how’s my old sparring partner, Mr. al-Baroody?” he said.

“Very much like you, from the look of things. Prosperous.”

“I always thought he would amount to something. As long as no one shot him first.”

“Once he survived your men there wasn’t much chance of that. He lives in a big place in Abdoun with a Mercedes in the garage.”

Ben-Zohar seemed to enjoy the news immensely.

“So we all ended up with the same thing, I guess. Assuming that you’re now feeding at his trough.”

“I’m not sure I’d refer to his charity as a trough. It’s certainly no horn of plenty.”

“Oh, of course not. I was just assuming Omar wouldn’t exactly underpay his top staff. Or not an old comrade like you. Do you two still share the same worldview?”

“As much as we ever did. Meaning, less than you probably think.”

Ben-Zohar smiled.

“This is beginning to sound like one of our old conversations. Next you’ll pull a radio out of your pocket and call for reinforcements.”

“Omar might have a little trouble crossing the river.”

I hadn’t meant the remark to put a damper on the good cheer, but Ben-Zohar seemed to take it that way, because his face turned somber.

“Yes, unfortunately you are right. Those times back in ’90 were so innocent, to look at them now.”

“Maybe from your perspective.”

His smile returned.

“Very good, Freeman. Still sticking up for the
shebab
. You know, in my work today I see some of the old names popping up from time to time. The same boys I used to haul in for questioning, only they’re all grown up now. I’m sorry to say that about half of them I never should have let go.”

“Or maybe by hauling them in you only hardened them for the next level.”

“You may be right,” he said, sipping his Maccabee with a solemn nod. “But it is easy to second-guess. Do you think their side does much of that?”

“I suppose every side does. In any conflict.”

“Perhaps. I guess I’ve never known them to admit mistakes. But among themselves, well, who can say? How much do you know about what Omar is doing over here in Jerusalem?”

It was exactly the question I was about to ask.

“You mean with his patronage of people like Basma Shadeed?”

“So he talks about it openly, then?”

“Not really. Or not with me. But word gets around. I was hoping maybe you had some insight.”

“Then it looks as if we’ve both brought empty pails to the same well, and will come away dry. I take it that this dalliance of his worries you.”

“Not if it’s a dalliance. Does it worry you?”

“Oh, nothing worries me anymore, as long as my wife and children stay off the exploding buses and out of the exploding cafés. I’m no longer employed by the arbiters of public worry.” He paused, sipping his beer again. “But some of my clients wouldn’t mind knowing a bit more about what Omar is up to.”

“What sort of clients?”

“We don’t publish a list, and I wouldn’t be doing them much of a service if I told you their names.”

“What about the name DeKuyper?”

“What about it?” There had been no discernible reaction on his part.

“Is he a client?”

“I should be so lucky. He would pay a nice shekel or two. And by the way, I won’t answer in either the affirmative or the negative to any such inquiries, so you can stop fishing. But now I’m curious. What made you ask about DeKuyper?”

“Nothing earth-shattering. I just saw his name on a poster up the street for an art exhibit. Said his foundation was sponsoring it, so I figured he might be backing other local projects. You know, the usual big-time Jewish philanthropist from Europe, kicking in another two bits for the cause.”

Ben-Zohar smiled as if he didn’t buy that explanation at all, but he said nothing, so I prodded further.

“Would DeKuyper have any reason to be concerned about what Omar is up to?”

“That would depend on his investment portfolio.”

“In real estate, you mean?” Was that what Ben-Zohar’s clients were fretting about with regard to Omar?

He grimaced.

“I’ve probably said enough already. I guess I was assuming that if anyone as filthy rich as DeKuyper was worried, it would be because of some financial implication.”

It sounded like misdirection, so I decided I must have struck a little too close to the truth. I tried approaching the subject from a different angle.

“Tell me what you know about this archaeological site everyone is in a tizzy about. This new dig at the City of David.”

“Are you saying Omar is interested in that, too?”

His apparent ignorance of the matter seemed genuine. Now I was the one who had said too much. Maybe Ben-Zohar’s clients were worried only about property inside the Old City. That would be especially true if they were buying up Arab homes, whether their motivations were territorial or financial.

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “But maybe I should go have a look at the dig, just to see what all the fuss is about.”

“You should stick your head inside Hezekiah’s Tunnel while you’re there. Especially if you’ve never been before.”

“Why the tunnel?”

“It’s convenient, for one thing. The entrance is on the back side of the dig. It’s also quite an experience. King Hezekiah built it twenty-seven hundred years ago to supply the city with water from beyond its walls in case of a siege. Half a mile long, straight through the bedrock, and definitely not for the faint of heart.”

He said it like a challenge, a double dare.

“So you think I’m not man enough?”

He laughed.

“Anyone who’d try to break up a fight between boys and tanks definitely won’t be scared by a tunnel, even if it is kind of spooky. I think it would appeal to you, in fact. Let’s just say that it offers an acute taste of this land’s deepest fears and desperations.” I raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m serious. It’s nothing I can adequately explain up here in the light of day while we’re drinking a cold beer and watching pretty women walk by. You have to experience it for yourself. An old hand like you will definitely know what I’m talking about once you’re down there.”

“Interesting. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

Not long afterward, he paid the bill, over my protests, and then announced he was overdue for another appointment. Our destinations were in opposite directions, so we shook hands and said good-bye. As I turned to leave, he called out a final time.

“Oh, and Freeman—”

“Yes?”

“DeKuyper’s not Jewish.”

“No?”

“So if he’s part of this game you’re interested in, it’s for reasons other than heart and homeland.”

“What kind of reasons?”

“You’ll have to ask him. Like I said, he’s not a client.”

Then he offered his inscrutable soldier’s smile and marched off into the midday glare.

I decided to take the leisurely route to the dig at the City of David by crossing through the Old City. By entering at the New Gate I would be traversing the serpentine warrens of three faiths—crossing the paths of Jesus on his way to the cross, of Muhammad on his way to the Seventh Heaven, and of King David on his way to the throne. A pretty tidy accomplishment for a jaded old infidel like me.

The old routes down the alleys of polished stone were still familiar. The only disturbing change was the prevalence of spray-painted Stars of David, graffitied crudely upon Arab doorways and storefronts here and there, a stamp of political branding that staked a claim wherever it appeared.

Emerging through the Dung Gate, I tried to ford an incoming group of schoolchildren who barely reached my waist, only to stop in my tracks when none of them made the slightest move to let me pass. For a few annoying moments I stood like a piece of driftwood snagged in a raging current. Then I remembered that it had always been like this with Jerusalem’s children, Arab and Jew alike. Growing up on such bitterly contested ground they learned early to give no quarter, especially to strangers.

The City of David was now in sight. It supposedly marked the spot where the conquering young king, long after slaying Goliath, established his capital more than three thousand years ago. Revisionist archaeologists now view the enterprise with skepticism, arguing that, at best, the Jerusalem of that era was a modest hill town of Canaanite farmers. I suppose that’s why the new dig was such a sensation. It was the latest shot fired in a long and bitter war within the war.

At the moment, no one was at work. The dig was surrounded by chain-link fencing covered with battered tarpaulins and bamboo screening. I climbed onto a large stone to peek through a tear in the plastic. Most of the work was covered by black blankets. In the few bare spots all you could see was an uneven line of huge stones. It was disappointing. Was this really all that remained of a once glorious palace? No wonder the skeptics were in full cry, although I was certainly not qualified to judge. Maybe if Omar could see this place, he, too, would no longer be upset enough to pour money into opposing it. Assuming that was even what he was up to. And if that was his great, dark secret, I wondered if Black, White, and Gray would be disappointed.

The ticket office for Hezekiah’s Tunnel was just around the corner, and when I saw there was no line I decided to follow Ben-Zohar’s advice and check it out. The brusque vendor told me I had to buy a flashlight because the tunnel wasn’t lit.

“You will need sandals, too,” he said. “Water runs along the entire route, sometimes knee-deep, and the footing is not so good.”

I tied my shoes together by the laces and draped them around my neck, with the socks stuffed inside. Then I plunked down a pile of shekels for the cheapest flip-flops and one of the sturdier flashlights.

I made my way to the entrance, a steep stairway down through a shaft in the rock that led to the Gihon Spring. Then I rolled up my trousers above the knees. Already I could hear the echoing voices of children and the sounds of splashing fluting up through the mouth of the tunnel. I stepped into the water—clear and cold, but not unbearable. The current was surprisingly strong, but at least it was headed in the same direction, tugging the cheap rubber sandals forward with every step. I rounded a corner into total darkness and turned on the flashlight, and the water almost immediately went from ankle-deep to knee-deep. Unable to see the bottom, I stepped awkwardly on the uneven surface and almost fell. I splashed the bottom roll of my trousers, and cursed lightly. Already the walls had narrowed until the passage was barely the width of my shoulders. There were only a few inches to spare overhead. The stone walls were cool and slick, and the sounds coming from ahead were an incoherent tumble of voices. But when I shone the light, there was no one within fifty yards.

At times all of the splashing from ahead sounded like a waterfall, and I experienced a momentary feeling of panic, remembering the clouds I had seen on the horizon and contemplating the possibility of a flash flood. Then I slogged on, continuing around the first of several bends. Any hope of rushing the pace had been dashed by the uncertain footing, and I had to stop several times when one of my sandals came off and floated forward in the current. It didn’t help that the ceiling was now even lower than before. I had to bend my neck and also my knees. The water was still knee-deep. My breathing was labored, and I realized it was due mostly to discomfort and a mild spell of claustrophobia. So I stopped for a moment to try and relax. I tried switching off the light and was cast into perfect blackness, which softened the sounds from up ahead. It was oddly peaceful, and the tension in my chest muscles eased. No one seemed to be near me either forward or behind, or I would have seen at least a glimmer of flashlights.