Daud opened the passenger door for Hana.
“Perfect outfit,” he said in Arabic. “And I brought some jibneh baida and fresh olives to go with your coffee.”
Resting in the center console of the vehicle was a small bowl filled with pieces of fried white goat cheese surrounded by green olives. Hana took a bite of the cheese. “This is good. Who made it?”
“You don’t think I did?”
“Do you have a goat tied up behind your apartment building?”
“No. I told a neighbor you were coming, and she insisted I bring some with me.”
“Thank her.”
“Maybe you can if we go to my apartment later in the week.”
“I’d like that.”
They rode in silence as Daud navigated Jerusalem streets crowded with commuters in small cars. In front of the big hotels, lines of buses waited for tourists to emerge for the day.
“We’ll stop and change license plates as soon as we’re through the checkpoint,” Daud continued. “Is there anything you need on this side of the line?”
“Should I have a notepad?”
Daud gestured to the rear seat. “Already done. Nabil may not want you writing while he talks. Your main job is to smile at him.”
“Jakob brought that up,” Hana replied. “You don’t have to remind me how I’m going to be viewed.”
“Don’t worry. Nabil will focus on the real reason we’re meeting. I want you to hear and decide what you think.” Daud stopped for a red light. “What are Jakob’s plans for the day?”
“To go to Hurva Square and maybe the Kotel,” Hana said.
Daud didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the phone and placed a call. Someone answered, and Daud spoke in rapid-fire Arabic. “Follow Brodsky everywhere he goes when he leaves the hotel and find out if he’s being tailed. I know he’s going to Hurva Square and the Western Wall. Take pictures if he’s under surveillance, but don’t step in unless there is a real danger. If that happens, just ease him into a safe place. Bye.”
Hana’s eyes widened. “Who was that?”
“A guy who works for me from time to time. If Jakob is a target of the terrorists, it would be a huge break.”
“Why?”
“Because it could lead us to someone here who doesn’t want their connection to the Zadan brothers exposed.”
Jakob finished a leisurely breakfast. He took a picture of the courtyard and sent it to Emily with a brief description of the hotel. She didn’t respond. Returning to his room, he worked remotely for almost an hour. He knew he could muddle through while away and hadn’t put an out-of-office message on his email account. Logging off, he went downstairs and asked the concierge whether to use a taxi or a private driver service.
“Three of my cousins drive taxis,” the middle-aged man replied. “They offer the best way to go and can take you to all the sites if you hire them for the day.”
“All I want to do is go to Hurva Square and then walk to the Western Wall,” Jakob answered.
“There is so much more to see, and my cousins can get you to places where tourists don’t normally go.” The man reached under the counter. “I have a brochure with options—”
“Let’s start with Hurva Square.”
“Okay,” the concierge said and shrugged. “They only drive Mercedes Benz, so you will like the ride.”
In less than ten minutes an aging white Mercedes pulled up to the hotel and stopped.
“It’s Wahid,” the concierge said. “He’s the best of the best.”
Wahid opened one of the rear doors for Jakob while his cousin barked orders that seemed to include a lot more than a request for a trip to Hurva Square.
“Hurva Square?” Jakob asked as soon as the driver was behind the wheel.
“Sure,” the man replied in a voice that sounded more New York than Jerusalem. “I can’t drive you directly to the square, but I will take you as close as possible.”
“Are you American?” Jakob asked.
“Resident alien with a green card,” the man replied. “I was born in Nablus and have a Jordanian passport but moved to Queens when I was kid. Whether I’m here or there, I drive a cab to put bread on the table.”
Wahid’s driving reminded Jakob of Emily Johnson. He zipped through the winding streets.
“What was your cousin telling you?” Jakob asked.
“About a family dinner at our uncle’s house next weekend. He wants my wife to bring dessert.”
Jakob relaxed. Wahid pulled to the curb and stopped. He handed Jakob his card and pointed up a small hill.
“Hurva Square is a five-minute walk that way toward the old Jewish Quarter. From there you can follow signs to the Western Wall. Text or call me, and I’ll pick you up if you need a ride later. You can pay me now or we can run a tab at the hotel.”
Jakob felt comfortable with Wahid. “Run a tab,” he said. “I’m here for a week.”
“Did Rafi try to sell you a tour package?”
“Yes.”
“Ignore him. Call me directly. He’ll still get his cut without the hassle. I tell him he’s too aggressive for most Americans, but he’s old-school.”
Jakob exited the cab and entered a maze of narrow streets filled with pedestrians, not cars. An occasional small vehicle squeezed by. Blue signs affixed to the walls of buildings identified the streets. He passed an ATM machine set into a wall of Jerusalem stone and entered Hurva Square. The small open plaza was less than a hundred yards across. On the western side was the Hurva Synagogue, which had recently been rebuilt after its destruction by Arab Legion forces in 1948.
Jakob walked across the stone pavers to the snack and ice cream shop. Normally decorated in black and white, it was odd seeing the small sitting area in vibrant color. Two young families with children were relaxing in the shade of a solitary tree eating ice cream. Three young female IDF soldiers lounged nearby. Glancing around, Jakob saw no threats, only people walking past or stopping to look in shop windows on the opposite side of the square. He located the surveillance camera that most likely had captured the images of the attack on Gloria and Sadie Neumann and moved into position beneath it until he was standing in the spot where Abdul Zadan drew his knife. Though the blood on the stones had long since washed away, the call for justice remained. Jakob realized he was standing awkwardly close to one of the families eating ice cream and stepped away.
He made his way slowly around the square so that every detail lodged in his mind. If he ever had the opportunity to present the Neumann case to a jury, he wanted to take them to Hurva Square, not only in a grainy black-and-white video, but with descriptive words. A group of young ultra-Orthodox men entered, walking with purpose. Guessing they were on their way to the Western Wall, Jakob followed.
Daud and Hana were cleared through the security checkpoint between Israel and the West Bank. Two Arab Israelis with Israeli passports and riding in an expensive Land Rover didn’t attract close scrutiny. Daud drove three hundred yards, turned into a narrow street, and stopped. Hana waited while he installed the Palestinian Authority license plate.
“Now I look like a prosperous businessman from Ramallah,” he said as he backed out of the street and continued on the main road.
“Have you ever been caught doing that?” Hana asked.
“If you mean by the boys playing in the street, yes. Otherwise, no.”
They headed north toward Ramallah, about ten miles from Jerusalem.
“Where are we meeting Nabil?” Hana asked.
“Not Deir Dibwan. It’s too small. Nabil owns a tobacco store in Ramallah and wants to talk there.”
“A hookah shop?” Hana guessed.
“Yes,” Daud said, nodding. “But we’ll talk in his office. The shop is off-limits to women.”
“Could we drive through Deir Dibwan?” Hana asked.
“Maybe on the way back. There’s not much to see, and I don’t want to attract too much attention.” Daud glanced at her. “You’ve seen plenty of villages like it.”
Hana looked out the window. Some Arab villages in the West Bank struggled economically. Others prospered. Ramallah, the headquarters for the Palestinian Authority, was booming with growth and modern development.
“There are lots of new buildings since I was here a few years ago,” Hana said as they came into the city.
“Built with euros and dollars,” Daud replied. “At least some of the aid money doesn’t end up in the Swiss bank accounts of corrupt politicians. Nabil’s shop is near the main square in an older building that used to be part of a monastery.”
“When my great-grandfather came here in the 1920s, over ninety percent of the population were Christians,” Hana said. “Back then, Ramallah was a Christian town. What is the percentage now? Twenty-five?”
“Or less. Many have moved to America like you.”
“I’m not there permanently.” Hana cut her eyes toward Daud.
They passed the educational complex for a girls’ school founded in the 1860s by the Quakers. Now coeducational, it occupied a large modern campus.
“When I was in high school, we had debate competitions in Jerusalem with girls from the Friends School,” Hana said.
“Did you win?” Daud asked. “And don’t be humble.”
“I won and lost. They had a lot of smart students.”
Daud turned onto a street leading directly to the center of the city. They entered an area where many church buildings built in the 1800s still remained.
“We’re almost there,” Daud said as he turned onto a narrow street lined with different shops and parked alongside the curb. “It’s better to walk from here.”
Daud reached into the back seat and handed Hana a plain canvas bag. “This is your gear,” he said.
“It’s not my fashion style,” Hana said, holding up the bag.
Daud chuckled. “It is today.”
Hana checked to see what it contained. When she got to the bottom her eyes widened, and she slowly lifted out a Jericho handgun.
“Did you mean for me to have this?” she asked. “I do know how to use it.”
“No.” Daud snatched it from her and put it in the glove box. “And that’s the kind of mistake I rarely make. We’ll leave it here. If I thought we’d be in danger, I wouldn’t have brought you.”
They walked side by side down the narrow sidewalk. Because of its mixed religious background, Ramallah was more liberal than most other towns and cities in the West Bank. Some women wore Western clothes; a few were concealed behind traditional Islamic burkas. A gold-and-red scarf covered Hana’s head. Turning a corner, Hana and Daud reached the tobacco shop.
“Come inside, but stay by the door,” Daud said as they entered.
The dimly lit shop was filled with the pungent fragrance of flavored tobacco. The strongest as well as the most popular flavoring was mint. Hana also picked up the subtle aroma of apples. Even though it was early in the morning, there were five or six hookahs in active use. The smoky atmosphere wasn’t a place Hana would want to stay for hours, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. She stayed in the shadows by the door but knew her appearance attracted immediate attention. Daud talked to a man who worked at the shop. After a couple of minutes, he returned to her side.
“Nabil isn’t here,” the investigator said with frustration in his voice. “I confirmed the appointment with him after I left your hotel, but the man who runs the shop hasn’t seen or heard from him since they closed last night. He called Nabil and woke him up. He claims he’ll be here soon.”
“What do we do?” Hana asked.
“Wait someplace else and hope he shows up. We can’t stay in here.”
They returned to Daud’s vehicle. As soon as they were behind the tinted windows, Hana sniffed the edge of the scarf. Even within a short time, the fabric had absorbed the aroma of smoky mint.
“This might be for the best,” Daud said. “If I see Nabil on the street, I’ll ask him to join us in here. That way, there’s less chance anyone will notice he’s talking to me.”
“Where did you meet with him before?”
“In the shop. I bought one of his most expensive hookahs. The purchase price will turn up on the expense account I submit to the law firm.”
“And I’ll take it back on the plane with me.”
“Cradled in your lap,” Daud said, smiling. “Your boss can put it in his office.”
The side street had a lot of foot traffic. Hana watched the people passing by. “Where are they going?” she asked. “Not to the tobacco shop. It’s tiny.”
“This is a shortcut to the hisbeh produce market.”
Daud received a phone call. Hana heard him say the name Mahmoud before exiting the vehicle to carry on the conversation privately. Daud paced back and forth in front of the Land Rover while he talked. Now that she knew the street led to the hisbeh, Hana noticed customers returning with baskets of fruit and vegetables. Daud slipped his phone into the front pocket of his shirt and walked rapidly down the street and out of sight. Hana checked to make sure the doors of the vehicle were locked.
Several minutes passed before Daud returned, accompanied by a tall man in his late fifties or early sixties. The two men approached the Land Rover and Hana heard the door locks click open. Daud opened the passenger door.
“Jemila,” he said. “Please allow Mr. Abbas to sit in the front seat.”
Hana slipped out of the car and into the rear seat. Nabil didn’t seem to pay any attention to her. The two men sat in front.
“How do you like your hubbly-bubbly?” Nabil asked, using the local slang term for a hookah.
“It’s the only one I use,” Daud replied. “The rest of them are junk. Would you buy my old ones from me? I’ll sell them cheap.”
“They will have to be cheap.”
“I’ll bring them next time,” Daud replied, checking his watch. “I know you’re busy. Did you find out anything that will help me recover my money from the Zadan clan? I know Tawfik is young, but he should not have cheated my client.”
“He’s like his father, grandfather, and all who have gone before him,” Nabil replied. “Tawfik’s father swindled my brother in a wholesale orange business, leaving him with all the debt. They are all liars, cheats, and fools who get themselves killed by the Jews. No mourners from our family went to their tent.”
“Where does Tawfik get his money? You said he drives a big car and always has cash in his pocket.”
“And never the same car,” Nabil replied. “Maybe he leases them. I don’t know. But the money is real. The problem is finding him when he’s not surrounded by his family and powerful friends.”
“What kind of friends?”
“No,” Nabil said, shaking his head. “I will talk to you about Tawfik, but not them.”
“If I don’t know anything about them, how can I steer clear of them?”
“All you need to know is that they carry guns when no one else has them. Not homemade Carlo toys manufactured in a garage in Azzun, but Kalashnikovs and even new versions of the American M16.”
“Have you seen these guns, especially the M16s?”
“No, no. But I know people who have. These guys are waiting for their moment to strike a blow for Allah. I think they’re idiots.”
“And Tawfik is one of them?”
“Maybe,” Nabil said, raising one shoulder. “He’s always been lazy. But Abdul was part of this group before he was martyred.”
Daud was silent for a moment. Hana wanted to ask a question but knew she had to remain quiet.
“When would be the best time and place to catch Tawfik alone with a lot of money in his pocket?” Daud asked.
Nabil lowered his voice. “That’s what I’ve worked on since the day we talked in the shop. Tawfik has a new girlfriend in Nablus. He eats with her family every week after Friday prayers. He’s not religious, but they think he is because of what happened in Al-Quds when the American woman was killed by Abdul.” Nabil paused. “If you catch him alone, he’ll empty his pockets. He’ll have money because he’s seeing the girl.”
“How much do you think I could get?”
“My family in Deir Dibwan say he brags about always having three to four thousand shekels in his wallet.”
“He owes my client a lot more than that.”
“And he has a Rolex watch. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And a thick gold neck chain, not a thin one. I believe he will be wearing both of them when he sees the girl. He wants to show off for her.”
Daud nodded. “Okay.”
Nabil turned sideways. Hana could see the tobacco shop owner’s face. He had bushy black eyebrows and a square chin.
“I wish I could be there to see a Zadan squirm,” Nabil said. “But even so, this isn’t a just revenge since I’m not doing it myself.”
“Adopt me,” Daud replied. “I can act as your son.”
Nabil patted the leather armrest of the expensive vehicle. “You don’t need a poor father like me.”