Bloodline by Alan Gold Page A

Kotel. One of the detonator caps exploded, bringing down some of the masonry. I operated on that boy and in his hand I found . . .”
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    W HAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN a half-hour press conference turned into a one-hour inquisition, with demands for separate interviews, television appearances, staged photos of Yael sitting on a desk with her skirt slightly hitched up, legs showing, pointing to the blown-up writing of the stone on the screen.
    When the circus was finished, Yael prepared to leave, but found a tall, muscular reporter to whom she hadn’t spoken standing nearby looking at her. She knew instantly that he was American, and from his looks had probably been a college football player. All muscle, but was there a brain?
    â€œDr. Cohen, could you spare me one more minute of your time?” he asked. His Hebrew was perfect but his accent jarred on her. What was it? New York? Chicago? And she was surprised by his voice. It was deep and melodious and attractive, like a baritone. But she had commitments at the hospital and she told him, “I’m sorry, I’m already late for an appointment and I don’t think there’s any more I can answer.”
    Subtly ignoring her protest, he took out his card and handed it to her.
    Yaniv (Ivan) Grossman
Senior Correspondent, Israel, for ANBN
American National Broadcast Network
    Then she remembered his reports from the Golan as fighting between Syrian and Israeli forces raged in the background. As an Israel-based correspondent for a US network, his reports were sometimes broadcast on Israeli television. Yael felt slightly embarrassed that she hadn’t recognized him.
    Yaniv Grossman smiled his devastating smile, full of perfect American teeth and apple-pie cheeks, and said to her, “You’re a fascinating woman, Dr. Cohen. The find is fantastic but I think you’re just as interesting. I’d like to do a background piece on you. For American audiences. You’re beautiful and smart. You’re the face of modern Israel.”
    â€œI don’t know about that,” Yael said, and hoped desperately that she wasn’t blushing.
    â€œWell, US audiences rarely see any Israelis who aren’t rabbis, feral settlers, or soldiers, so you’ll be like a breath of fresh air.” He let out a small chuckle, deliberately self-deprecatory as a counter-balance to his fulsome and, she thought, fawning approach. “What do you say?”
    She shrugged. “I’m just a doctor who got lucky. I’m sure there’s very little about me that your viewers would be interested in.”
    â€œOh, I don’t know about that. You’d be amazed at how interesting I can make you, Miss Cohen. It is Miss Cohen, right?” he said.
    As Yael walked out of the museum, she wondered whether she’d just been propositioned for a television program or for a date. Certainly he was handsome, but the slickness of his American attitude annoyed her. Where some might have seen confidence she saw only entitlement. But the contemplation of Yaniv Grossman only partially distracted her from the thoughts in her head that seemed to be coming from twisting strands of DNA.
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942 BCE
    A HIMAAZ LAY AWAKE, staring at the low ceiling of his house, thinking about the things that Naamah had said to him, wondering whether he’d ever get to sleep in the palace of the high priest. For years he had accepted his lot of being a minor functionary in the priestly hierarchy of Israel. Azariah, his brother, was the favored one, the gifted one in the family.
    But now he held in his grasp the chance of becoming high priest himself. Suddenly he had a patron, a woman who had recognized his talents. And why not? Why shouldn’t he be the high priest? As a descendant of the line of Zadok, why shouldn’t Ahimaaz rise to the top? He knew as much, was as devoted to Yahweh, and prayed just as fervently as any other priest.
    Yet, though he smiled and bowed,