Security checks to enter the Israeli Knesset were stricter than Gabby had seen for entry into the U.S. Congress. A thorough body search by female guards. Three sets of electronic metal detectors. Everything carried into the building was carefully inspected, then re-inspected by another officer. And all this while she accompanied Major Zabronski, Itamar Arad, and his senior scientific deputy, Dr. Shmuel Navid. The four were escorted along corridors bustling with members of the Knesset in transit from one meeting to another, reminding her of the hallway in an American high school between classes. This was a particularly exasperating afternoon. News of a terrorist bomb on Mount Carmel by a team of suicide terrorists had been broadcast on the midday news. First reports attributed the deaths of nine Jewish and five Israeli Arab citizens to the attackers, a barbaric act that demanded an immediate response by the government. At that very moment, the cabinet was meeting to decide on a course of action. As usual, opposition to the prime minister's conciliatory response threatened to trigger a vote of no confidence in the government.
Getting Deputy Prime Minister Zebulon Sonnenberg to see them had taken several days, during which Itamar and Zvi Zabronski confronted a series of his staff, insisting that no government official lower than the deputy PM would be suitable for the highly confidential information they needed to convey.
Zebulon Sonnenberg's office was decorated with modern Swedish furniture. An attractive blond aide in a tight, body-revealing pantsuit told them that the minister was engaged in an important meeting and would join them as soon as possible. Four chairs were arranged in front of his desk. A second female aide, far less attractive than the first, offered them bottled fruit juices.
Shmuel Navid retrieved from his briefcase a written report about Qumran for presentation to the deputy prime minister.
While waiting, Zabronski took advantage of his time with Gabby to say, "It doesn't look good for Professor Matternly. We have the capability to trace just about every financial transaction in the country. It's expensive, but feasible. I decided to bite the bullet and spend some of the taxpayers' money to place a tracer request on Matternly's credit cards and, sure enough, we got a hit. Three days ago, your friend made a purchase with his American Express card here in Jerusalem. He bought an HP laptop, along with a printer and server with 1000 gigabytes of memory at ha-Digital, a computer store on Jaffa Road. Looks like he intends to do some heavy-duty computing. My guess, with documents taken from Qumran. I'm looking to you for help in this. What's he up to?"
"Tim didn't steal anything," Gabby insisted, constantly annoyed by the accusation.
"You know that for certain, do you?" the major responded, his tone patronizing.
"Yes, I know that for certain."
"Would you mind telling me how?"
Her eyes moved to Itamar for sympathy, but found nothing. "Tim's not the criminal type. I've known him for years to be a law-abiding, gentle human being, who, when he was a practicing minister, preached respect for the rule of law and discipline in personal affairs."
Zabronski pointed a non-threatening finger "But wouldn't his presence at Cave XII implicate him in the killing of Mumud banu-Nazeem?"
"That's preposterous," Gabby responded. "I assure you, Tim didn't shoot anybody. He doesn't go around killing people."
"Does he own a gun?" Zabronski ask, now grilling her as if she were a suspect.
"Yes, and so does just about everybody else in Israel these days. You guys can't stop all terrorists and protect the citizenry. Where's Zebulon Sonnenberg at this very moment? Debating the killing on Mount Carmel, right?" As soon as she said this, she thought of the deaths of Itamar's family in Netanya, and immediately regretted her words.
"Only licensed individuals," Zabronski said.
"And what percentage of the gun-owning population here would that be? Twenty-five percent?" Gabby rallied.
"Of course, not everybody bothers to get a license, but the figure certainly isn't that low. Do you know what kind of weapon Matternly owns?"
"He once told me he had an American army rifle from World War II."
"Is it in your apartment?" She considered lying, but that was bound to backfire. All Zabronski needed to do was demand that she produce the gun. "No. I looked for it recently. It wasn't where Tim usually stored it."
"A U.S. military rifle?" "A carbine, I think," she said, fearful of additional questions she could not answer.
"Some of our licensed guards use them because they're light to handle. But they're 30 caliber. Mumud banu-Nazeem was killed by a 9 mm Israeli Uzi. Who removed this carbine from your apartment?"
"How should I know?"
"I hope Matternly still has it. Given the trouble he's in, he's likely to need it to stay alive."
The office door suddenly flung open. The attractive female aide breezed through, leading the way for Deputy Prime Minister Zebulon Sonnenberg, a heavyset man with a thicket of wild gray hair. Long, determined strides brought him beside Dr. Navid whom he knew through mutual government contacts. He also knew less well Itamar and Zabronski, but not Gabby. After a quick introduction, his hands settled on his hips, a sign that he wanted to know what was so important to pull him from the prime minister's side at such a critical time.
Dr. Navid handed over his confidential report about the Qumran cave.
After a perusing glance at the packet, the Deputy PM laughed, "You've got the wrong man, friends. I'm afraid I'm one of the rare politicians in this country who doesn't give a duck's feather about archeology."
Itamar ignored the jibe at his profession, but admired the minister's forthrightness. He said, "Whatever was in Cave XII was plundered. We're fairly certain an American academic, Timothy Matternly from the University of Chicago, is implicated. Rabbi Lewyn happens to be Dr. Matternly's significant companion."
A finger rose to Sonnenberg's lips that opened wide before he spoke. "I heard from the army about activity in Qumran."
"Yes, sir," Itamar said. "Unfortunately, looting occurred before we knew the cave existed."
Looking to the uniformed border police officer, the deputy PM said, "And did I also hear something about foul play there?"
"A murdered Bedouin. We think he was shot in the cave, but died while trying to escape."
"Is organized crime involved in this? Sounds like their style."
"It's a good possibility."
"Oh," Sonnenberg's eyes rose to look at Gabby, hiding his curiosity about why an attractive female rabbi would be living with a man out of wedlock, and not just any man, but a Christian scholar. But on second thought, it was hard for him to imagine such an attractive woman without a partner. "So, what do we do about this? Wait until artifacts show up on the auction block? Isn't that too late? I sniff another fight with the Vatican. If what was stolen refers to early Christianity in any way or form, the bishops will accuse Israel of not properly protecting their Christian heritage. Every time we manage to calm things down in Rome, something like this pops up and I find myself in a new brawl. I don't mind telling you that I hate theological food fights." He looked impatiently at his wristwatch.
The door opened and the deputy's senior aide planted himself in the doorway. "The PM wants you back in the meeting, Zeb. Avi Krugger is on the warpath."
"I'll be right over," he snapped. "Shit, this is all we need now." He paused to stare at Gabby. "And why did my friends bring me a female rabbi? You think I need some religion?" "I beg your pardon," she said, not the least intimidated by Sonnenberg's position. "They brought me because I'm Tim Matternly's friend. He's performed a gargantuan task by compiling unread fragments from the earlier Dead Sea scrolls. And he may be useful in deciphering material coming from the new cave."
That stopped Sonnenberg in his tracks. "I wasn't aware of that." To Itamar he said, "How much of this business has leaked to the public?"
"At this point, virtually nothing."
"Then I suspect the Vatican's ambassador, Bishop Deporia, won't be visiting me soon. How did this debacle happen?"
Itamar said, "Two years ago, the Antiquities Authority commissioned the University of Pennsylvania to perform deep penetrating radar scans at Qumran, just to be sure that we had found all the repository caves. Nothing turned up."
"Did the university snooker us?"
"More likely one or two individuals on its team."
"I'll have to tell the PM." "Of course," said Itamar. "We thought you should be briefed while the matter is still under wraps."
"OK. Let's keep it that way and, in the meantime, find this fellow Matternly."
Zabronski interrupted. "We're trying. For the present, he's also high on our list of suspects in the murder of that Bedouin."
Sonnenberg asked Gabby. "Is he hiding?
"Unfortunately, I think he is."
"Oh," the deputy PM said, rubbing loose flesh beneath his chin. "You'll have to excuse me. There's an inferno raging in the cabinet and the PM looks to me as his fire marshal." He disappeared into the corridor a moment later.
A car from the Antiquities Authority was waiting outside the Knesset to ferry them back to Itamar's office. Sounding relieved that Sonnenberg had not threatened his tenure at the Antiquities Agency, Itamar said, "Not a particularly fruitful meeting, but at least we've done our duty."
They were seated in the car, driving through Kiryat Wolfson, when Itamar resumed the conversation. "This shouldn't be difficult to figure out. It's a fair assumption that fragments were removed from Cave XII. Matternly's involved because of his expertise in assembling fragmentary texts. That's why he purchased computer equipment. But where did he take it?" He looked to Gabby who remained lost in her thoughts. "Where?" he repeated, redirecting his question at her. "If he no longer has a car, then he's probably within walking distance of ha-Digital where he bought the computer."
"Or he took a taxi," added Zabronski.
Gabby tried to picture the computer store, mentally walking herself along the Jaffa Road, running northeast from central Jerusalem with a continuous string of small retail shops. One shop merged into the next, making it difficult to recall the exact location of ha-Digital. Her visual image consisted of crowds of shoppers on the street, mostly new immigrants from Eastern Europe and many Hasidim from the nearby Hasidic and Orthodox neighborhood of Mea She'arim.
Itamar kept forcing his analysis to free a new clue, demanding Gabby's input.
That Tim had purchased a computer near Mea She'arim triggered an upheaval of new ideas that she was not prepared to share. To conceal the direction of her thinking, she asked, "Why, I'm wondering, did Tim purchase a new laptop? He almost always takes his Dell with him. Somehow, he must have gotten separated from it. Surely he knew there was a risk in having his credit card traced."
"But we don't have the Dell, or know where he parted company with it," Zabronski said.
Gabby replied, still hiding what was now paramount in her mind, "I'm thinking that if Tim had a record of what was removed from the Qumran cave on a DVD or memory chip, he wouldn't need his laptop. Any new computer would do."
***
Fragments from the Dead Sea, published before Tim and Gabby renewed their relationship, established Tim as the leading authority in compiling scattered biblical fragments. She never questioned his knowledge of Hebrew and Aramaic, but knew it insufficient for the huge task of assembling disconnected texts, a pursuit she, with a superior command of these languages, would never have attempted. She had always believed his genius to have been in the proprietary software he developed to sort and assemble these texts, not his linguistic skill. It followed that to understand the complex syntax of these languages required the expertise of someone with encyclopedic understanding of ancient Hebrew and Aramaic syntax. But who that was remained a mystery. Tim failed to mention a collaborator in the Credits and Acknowledgments of his magnum opus. He was even less forthcoming when she put the question to him directly, letting her know that the subject was off-limits for reasons he was not prepared to share.
Such stonewalling only fueled her speculation. The key to identifying Tim's collaborator was to figure out who most likely possessed the required knowledge. The field narrowed immediately to students of Talmud because the Talmud, also written in Hebrew and Aramaic, had been compiled contemporaneously with the Qumran scrolls. Gabby surmised that Tim's helper was most probably a scholar first exposed to these ancient languages at the early age of three in a Jewish cheder and later trained under highly-disciplined conditions of a Talmudic yeshiva.
That Tim had purchased a new laptop on the outskirts of Mea She'arim, a Hasidic district with more Talmud scholars than any community in Jerusalem, perhaps the world, confirmed her thinking. If he had collaborated with a Talmud scholar in Mea She'arim on Fragments, he would likely return to the same person for help with new texts discovered in Cave XII. But to find this scholar and Tim in a community of several thousand souls presented formidable odds. The thought of searching for Tim on the medieval streets and alleys of Mea She'arim was daunting, yet she could think of no alternative.
Her search began with a visit to the mikvah, a ritual bathhouse Orthodox women use to purify themselves after menstruation and childbirth. She observed not one but two men tailing her from the apartment and left them outside the mikvah on Betzael Street, waiting for her to come out. The obligatory pool of natural rainwater for the mikvah was located in the basement and provided private changing rooms for the modest Orthodox clientele. Gabby took a book to kill time until she felt those tailing her would become bored and careless, then exited onto Betzael Street, no longer in her denim jeans and sweatshirt, but dressed like a devout Hasidic woman, her legs covered with thick black stockings, her arms with a loosely fitting blouse, and her head with a sheittle wig covering her hair, signifying to onlookers that she was a married woman. A bulky winter coat, quite uncomfortable in the warming air of spring, successfully concealed her figure.
On several occasions, she spun around abruptly to spot someone ducking out of sight. In her imagination, an army of ghosts followed. Anyone who appeared behind her for more than a few minutes fed suspicions. After three and a half hours visiting one yeshiva after another without spotting anyone who remotely resembling Tim, she returned home, determined to repeat the search the next day, but follow a different plan.
It was clear that changing clothes in the mikvah was a stratagem useful once but not twice. Still, the clothes of a pious woman would be helpful once in Mea She'arim. On her second expedition, she resorted to new tactics for confounding those tailing her by crossing numerous streets in the middle of the block, ducking around cars and other vehicles, followed by abrupt changes in direction, sometimes doubling back completely. Before actually entering the Orthodox district, she stopped before shop windows to spot in the reflection anyone following her, and filed mental pictures of suspicious individuals, until one picture began colliding with another. Two men attired like haredim, ultra Orthodox, with their heavy beards, braided ear locks, silk fringes hanging from their waists, their breast pockets swollen with what might be walkie-talkies, made her uncomfortable. She wrestled with a plan to become proactive and confront them directly. But by the time she fortified her resolve, they disappeared into pedestrian traffic.
After a second unsuccessful day on the streets, she ceased patrolling the yeshivas and began targeting food markets, reasoning that, if Tim had settled down to work on the Qumran fragments, he must eventually emerge for food. In these markets, frequented by both Orthodox men and women, customers abandoned the sacred tongue of Hebrew and spoke mostly in Yiddish, the preferred language of commerce. Their pallid faces and heavy bodies spoke of a generation restricted to the synagogue, school, and home, stirring in Gabby respect for their old-world dedication and discipline; however, they appeared as fossils from the distant past, chained to the traditions of their fathers who had been, in turn, chained to theirs.
As was their custom, the men of Mea She'arim avoided letting their eyes fall upon a woman other than their wives or daughters. But on occasion, a pious woman would lift an eyebrow in recognition, as if to say she saw through the disguise. Gabby would acknowledge their kindness with a gentle nod or a few disjointed words of Yiddish she had heard her parents speak.
She visited a variety of butchers and greengrocers once, but returned repeatedly to bakeries and dairies, reasoning that most shoppers might purchase meat and vegetables once a week, but require fresh bread and milk more frequently. To be thorough, it was necessary to repeat her visits to all fourteen of Mea She'arim's bakeries and eight of her dairies.
On her fifth trip and her third to a small bakery on Ein Yaakov Street, religious and non-religious Jews pressed impatiently toward the sales counter, gesturing and shouting for privileged treatment from the staff. Warm air was impregnated with the smell of fresh bread from the ovens. Gabby elbowed forward, seeking a place from which she might survey the crowd. As she angled toward the sales counter, a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and heavy, languishing eyes moved with her. On his breath was the sour odor of garlic. A flush of fear passed through her as she compared the man's features with others stored in her memory. Were all these Hasidic faces merging into a single paradigm, or had this man been following her? She was about to retreat when she noticed another man with equally suspicious features standing like a Trojan guard near the door to the street, appearing to be more interested in observing people than buying bread.
Just then, a tall man hunched in a heavy overcoat, a dark black homburg covering most of his face, turned from the counter, a large unwrapped loaf of crusty bread tucked under his arm. His ruddy beard glistened with silver and an aquiline nose distinguished him from Jews with Eastern European lineage. Had it not been for a mirthful expression indelibly forged onto his lips, she might have missed him. In her mind, there could only be a single individual with this unique expression. And in an instant, she knew without a tinge of doubt that she had found Tim.
An urge to plunge forward was countered by the thought that finding him couldn't have come at a worse time. She had hoped to make contact unnoticed and in some private manner. But the Hasid with garlic on his breath hovered nearby, while his cohort guarded the street door. She wrestled with a way to catch Tim's attention without disclosing his identity and came up empty-handed. Any attempt to make contact at this moment was certain to trigger an adverse reaction.
He passed by only a few feet from Gabby, apparently unaware of her presence. She considered following him into the street, but abandoned the idea almost immediately. Were she to move now, the men following her were certain to radio ahead for assistance. And once they had Tim within their sights, it wouldn't take them long to figure out where he was hiding and who was helping him. The best of a terrible choice was to let him go. In a few brief seconds, he had returned to her life, only to disappear again just as fast. If there was any consolation in this miserable turn of events, it was confirmation that Tim was alive and well, and that he was hiding among the Hasidim.
After forcing herself to visit another two bakeries and another dairy to give the impression that nothing unusual had transpired, she turned in the direction of home in Rehavia.
Lost in her thoughts, she cut diagonally across Independence Park, east of the main commercial center, its lawns speckled with ancient granite outcroppings, and had just turned toward Gershon Agron Street when a powerful hand grabbed her shoulder from behind, bringing her forward motion to a halt. A second hand swung her toward another man. While the first one pinned her arms behind her back, the second dropped a gunnysack over her Orthodox wig. Bright afternoon sunlight disappeared. She struggled to free herself from the attackers, violently kicking her feet and twisting her shoulders. Suddenly, there seemed to be a third individual, helping to upset her traction by lifting her from the pavement and dragging her toward the street. She decided on a strategy to upset this by first ceasing all resistance and going limp, then suddenly instigating a fresh fight for freedom. The trick caught one abductor off guard and he released her arm, which she immediately employed by pounding the man in the face. When he howled, the other man caught her free arm and painfully locked it behind her back. One of the abductors snatched the fanny-pack she had belted to her waist and tugged violently. It resisted until another man fumbled with the plastic coupler, eventually freeing the mechanism. Meanwhile, another attacker circled a sash around her mouth, silencing her screams and forcing her to breathe through her nose. Once again, they had her in the air, moving her in the direction of Gershon Agron Street.
It couldn't have been more than a dozen meters until she felt herself being shoved into a car as a heavy hand shielded her head. Anger and determination fueled new resistance as she violently kicked her legs. She found herself being wedged between heavy bodies belonging to men, shouting instructions to each other in Russian. The engine of the vehicle was running; the driver put it into gear and inched from the curb into oncoming traffic. Gabby attempted to lift her head to be seen by other motorists, but a fierce hand cuffed her, compelling her to remain hunched below the window line out of sight. Each time she tried to straighten up, the hand, which remained heavy on the crown of her head, pumped down, and provided a punishing slap.
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.
The disk was inside, undamaged. That was a relief, for while he knew the final version of this software, now over eight years old, would require considerable modification, at least he would not have to write new code from scratch. He also knew that Father Benoit, who now possessed a copy installed on his Dell laptop abandoned at St. George, would face the same need to update.
Tim's next mission was more mundane. Though his family suffered from little or no heart disease, a physician in Chicago had recommended that as insurance he take a statin drug to lower his blood cholesterol. Before departing for Israel, he had purchased a half-year's supply of Lipitor. Part of this prescription he stored in a transparent orange bottle on the bathroom countertop, where it would remind him to take a pill each night before bed. It came as no surprise that this bottle was not where he had left it, but then nothing in the bathroom was. He discovered it on the floor underneath several hand towels. Almost touching the Lipitor was his Gillette razor, the same instrument he had used with replacement blades for more than ten years.
From a pile of his clothing scattered over the bed and floor, he quickly selected a sweatshirt, two T-shirts, a pair of short pants and his favorite pair of tennis shoes. Finally, from the office area, he grabbed an extra pair of reading glasses that might prove useful, given the extensive work facing him.
***
Back in Jerusalem by 1225 hours the next afternoon, Gabby took a taxi from the Central Bus Station to her apartment, expecting to find that intruders had been there the previous afternoon. While climbing the stairs, she was met by voices through the open door. Once in the vestibule, the sight of the ransacked apartment had a similar effect on her that it had on Tim Matternly, only four hours before.
She managed to step over a narrow table usually placed beside the front door for keys and letters. A uniformed police officer was navigating a path through a sea of household possessions, papers, furniture, pillows that had found new resting places on the floor.
"Mah yesh, What's going on here? she growled at the officer in Hebrew.
The sergeant threw up his hands as if to say, 'Don't blame us for this mess, Lady.' He replied, "We just got here to take you in for questioning, and found the front door unlocked. I don't know what this is all about, but I must ask you to accompany us to our station. We can sort this thing out later. Major Zabronski wants to ask questions about yesterday. I just called him to report you weren't here, but when I told him what we had found, he said he'd be over shortly and that was about twenty minutes ago."
"What about yesterday?" she asked.
The officer responded. "You were seen in Mea She'arim. I know he's interested in something that happened at the Afukim bakery on Ein Yaakov Street."
On several occasions, Itamar and Zabronski had cautioned her about mafia criminals. Had she mistaken the heavily bearded man with the garlicky breath in the bakery for a criminal, not the police? But if she had been followed by the police, then who were the Russian speaking goons who had abducted her?
Gabby felt an urge to abandon her Hasidic garments before Zvi Zabronski arrived, but there were two additional officers searching articles strewn on the floor and she could find no privacy. She knew it would look suspicious to be in Hasidic dress, but then it was clear the police already knew about her forays into the Orthodox district. She also needed a shower, but that too would have to wait for a quieter moment.
Zvi Zabronski arrived twelve minutes later, flashed an accusatory look at Gabby's dress, then bolted over a pile of books into the apartment's hallway. "Quite a mess," he declared after a preliminary survey. "Most criminals who break in know what they're looking for. Throwing things around only makes their job more difficult and gives the impression they're out of control. And no criminal wants to let the police know he's lost it. Russians are different; they just don't give a shit."
"Why Russians?" Gabby asked, once again wondering how she might tell about being abducted without revealing that she had seen Tim.
"They obviously think Professor Matternly's got something they want. Any ideas?"
"Nothing to my knowledge. He hasn't been home since the affair at Qumran. Why would he want to leave anything valuable in an obvious place?"
"He could have given it to you to hide."
She thought quickly. "True, if we were in contact, which we aren't."
"Isn't that why you've been going to Mea She'arim? Don't tell me you went there for spiritual enlightenment." She hesitated before repeating the story she had told her abductors. "I'm a Reform rabbi and like to get close to the Orthodox roots of my past."
"How touching. But that won't wash. You didn't need to dress in Hasidic clothes for that. And when you were there, you didn't enter a shul or synagogue. I think you met with Matternly, who's probably also masquerading as a Hasid. You're protecting him, for all I know, conspiring to steal state property. If you try that bullshit story once arraigned, you'll be in more trouble than you already are. Why not just tell me what these guys were looking for?"
She surveyed the disorder, thinking that it would take a lot of time to discover what it was. Not a particularly tidy individual in her own right, she might not even notice. "If I told you I haven't the slightest clue, you wouldn't believe me."
"No, I wouldn't," the major answered. "There's the possibility this place was ransacked to make a statement."
"A statement?" Gabby asked, voicing her incredulity. "To whom?"
"You or Professor Matternly."
"And what message would that be?"
"Usually when a criminal breaks in like this he's saying, 'Look at me. I can violate you whenever I want. Dr. Arad is on his way over here now. You can explain to him your trips to Mea She'arim. In the meantime, I'm going to bring people to take photographs and do fingerprinting. Routine police stuff, but they might find a clue or two."
"Can I change my clothes?"
"No. I want Arad to see you dressed as you are."
By the scowl on Itamar's face, Gabby sensed she had lost both his patience and his good will. After a lengthy survey of her apartment, he returned to address her in the vestibule. "You just don't get it, do you? Tim Matternly is in big trouble and you're protecting him. From what Zvi has told me about your trips to Mea She'arim, I now believe you know where he is."
"I don't," she answered in a sharp, forceful voice.
"I wish I could believe you. When a woman protects her man, we usually consider that as an act of love and loyalty. But when she harbors a criminal, that's another story. When she withholds vital information from a criminal investigation, that's outright obstruction of justice, both here and in the States. Why didn't you tell me you were going to meet Tim?"
She said nothing, fearing anything she might say would reveal more than she wanted.
He drove a hand through arrant strands of wavy graying hair, settling them back against the sides of his head. "I'm afraid I misjudged you, Rabbi Lewyn. You conned me into believing we had an understanding, which clearly we didn't. You pretended to help me. But you've been going behind my back. I could have Zabronski arrest you on suspicion of theft. And I'm angry enough to do it. But I'm still hoping you'll tell me where Tim is first."
"I don't know."
"That's a generic, fit-all answer. Does that mean you don't know exactly where Tim is at this very moment? Let's get more specific. Is he in Israel now?"
"Yes, I believe he is."
"How about in Jerusalem?"
She paused again, trying to marshal her wits and not utter a falsehood that might later incriminate her. "Yes, I believe he's in Jerusalem."
"In Mea She'arim?"
"Yes," she said, almost in a whisper.
"Have you seen him?"
She hesitated before lying, "No." "Any idea where we should begin searching in Mea She'arim?"
Thinking of the bakery on Ein Yaakov Street, she compounded the first lie with another. "No."
"I'm going to recommend that Zabronski hold off arresting you. But you can't remain alone in this apartment until we get this matter sorted out."
"What does that mean?"
"It's too dangerous. Do you have friends to stay with in Jerusalem?" She let her eyes fall to some clothing thrown on the floor. "Many, but I haven't contacted them. How could I explain what's going on? I can't lie to old friends."
"I'm a new friend and you don't seem to have trouble lying to me," he said sarcastically. He stepped closer and, for an instant, softened his tone, "I've been thinking about inviting you to stay with me. I've got a large home in Katamon. The empty bedrooms cry out for occupants. But, now that Major Zabronski and I are convinced you're helping Matternly, I don't think that would be a good idea… for you or for me."
"A nice invitation. Thank you anyway. I'll be all right here."
The forensic team photographed and fingerprinted each room in the apartment. A police inspector asked Gabby questions, writing everything down in a handheld PDA, connected wirelessly to an off-site server. He flashed on the screen a series of headshots of potential intruders for Gabby to identify, just in case she might have noticed someone lurking on the street. The faces looked Eastern European. None registered.
"I'd be willing to help you put this place back in order," Itamar said, in a softer tone, almost as a peace offering. "I'm curious about what the intruders were looking for."
"I haven't the foggiest idea."
"Maybe when you start putting this back into place, it will jog your memory."
"Thanks, but I don't need your help. I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up myself."
"No argument there, Gabrielle. I'm not certain I understand you these days, but I'll be willing to bet you'd like a shower and to get out of those clothes. I'll be back this evening, after dinner."
Neither Gabby nor Itamar believed it could be accomplished in one night, no matter how late they worked. Itamar started in the kitchen. So much had been thrown onto the floor that it was difficult to decide where to shelve dishes that had not shattered. Broken shards disappeared into a black plastic garbage bag. Except for a few dents, the pots and pans had survived intact.
Gabby began in the bathroom, restoring to their previous locations personal hygiene items, bottles of shampoo, combs and brushes, along with her hair dryer. Towels and washcloths needed to be refolded and returned to a shelf below the washbasin. With this task accomplished, she decided to help Itamar in the kitchen and had stepped from the bathroom only to stop short in her tracks. He glanced over at her seemingly lost in thought. Rather than intrude, he finished gathering several Pyrex mixing bowls.
"What's up?" he said after she had remained immobile and in the same state of distraction for more than a minute.
"Tim's razor. The one with three blades. I know I saw it on the countertop two nights ago because I was determined not to touch anything. But I've put everything back and the razor wasn't on the floor, or any place else."
"Are you sure?" "I wouldn't be if I hadn't vowed to keep my hands off his things. You can see the bathroom is cramped and we fight bitterly when one of us moves something essential. You don't want to search for your toothbrush in the morning when you're in a rush. To Tim, a bathroom is as sacred as a sanctuary is to me."
Itamar rose from his kneeling position and stepped over to her. "If you're right, does this mean what I think it does?"
"Tim's been here."
"And ransacked his own apartment? Why?" She thought about that for a moment, shaking her head until she said, "Maybe he came after the hooligans trashed this place. That's a possibility. I'm not saying it's true, but it's a possibility. Isn't it?"
Itamar was slow and pensive. "Of course. Anything else missing?"
She turned to look again, with Itamar on her heels. There was barely space in front of the washbasin, so they stood close together, looking through the bathroom door. She was aware of his proximity and ought to have stepped away, but didn't. Instead, she concentrated on the bathroom, reviving a mental image of Tim's possessions. She ticked them off in her mind while pointing with her index finger at specific locations on the countertop. Everything seemed to be in place, yet the balance of items felt wrong. What was missing eluded her until her finger pointed to an empty space near the corner. "Tim's anti-cholesterol medication!" she blurted out. "That's it. I don't see the orange bottle with his Lipitor. He must have taken it along with his razor."
"That's what Zvi Zabronski said, remember? People on the run return home for necessities. So now you can't pretend about Tim anymore. It's time for you to tell me what you know, for your own welfare, if not for his."
Together they stepped away from the bathroom and weaved a circuitous route through the mess back toward the kitchen.
"Tell me the truth because I have a confession to make to you," Itamar said.
"I've already told you everything," she said. "What confession, nu?"
He hesitated before saying, "When we were standing close together outside the bathroom I was wishing you weren't involved with Tim. There's a part of me, Gabrielle, that hopes he won't show up. Marriage was good for me. I was never attracted to other men's wives, or their girlfriends. That may not be common with Israeli men, but then it isn't rare either. Since Becky died, no woman has challenged me as you have."
"You've been a wonderful support, Iti. I'm not sure how I would cope without you. But I came to find Tim. Now I know he's alive and probably nearby."
"He's a fugitive. Antiquities theft is a very serious crime in this country. It's like desecrating Jewish history and you as a rabbi ought to understand how sensitive Jews can be about their past. Despite how much I want to help, I'm a government official. I have two jobs: one, to take possession of everything found in Cave XII and, two, to arrest anyone with historical artifacts that don't belong to them. There are probably mitigating circumstances, but Tim is suspected of looting. He's also a prime suspect in the killing of the Bedouin youth."
Anxiety and anger caused her face to flush. "I know he's in big trouble," she said while thinking about his discovery of a lifetime and his presence in Mea She'arim. Eventually, she'd have to disclose what she knew, but for the moment, she didn't feel ready. "Let's finish up here for the night. I'm exhausted and, to tell the truth, this apartment gives me the creeps."
He returned to the kitchen, calling to her. "We have to find a safe place for you."
She stopped stacking books and shuffled over the floor to the kitchen, speaking to Itamar's back. "Now that I know he's in Jerusalem, he might need my help."
Itamar eased back and lifted himself from his knees, staring at her across the kitchen. "Think about what you're saying. The law will deal with you the same way it deals with Tim. Both of you will be punished, and I won't be able to protect you."
"That's a chance I must take. Every bone in my body tells me that Tim's no criminal. We don't have the full story. When we do, it won't be the way it appears."
"If he hasn't stolen anything, why is he hiding? Believe me, Gabrielle, you don't want to be complicit in this."
The argument continued until both realized that no headway was being made. Gabby asked Itamar to leave, pleading exhaustion and saying she needed rest.
"Bolt the door after me," he said. "And check the locks on all your windows. Don't answer the door for anyone unless you're absolutely sure who it is. Keep the chain lock on as you look into the corridor. If you suspect anything, call Major Zabronski's office immediately. They'll be able to send help faster than I can."