more congenial and discreet location back at the office, don’t you?”
Checkmate, she thought, nodding deferentially. “I appreciate what you are saying, Jack. But if you will just indulge my ignorance for another moment or two. Where in hell, exactly, are we? And are these windows bulletproof?”
“We are in Palestinian Authority territory, controlled by Arafat’s security forces, about four kilometers from Kalkilyah and a few kilometers from Israel’s coastal cities, Herzliya and Netanya…”
“I had no idea the distances were so small between Israel and the West Bank. It’s tiny…”
“Yes… well.” He paused, bored. “That’s what the Oslo Accords were all about. The Israelis taking a chance on living in peace, not worrying about the closeness to Palestinian townships. To answer your questions, the windows on the car are shatterproof, but not bulletproof, but I’m wearing a chest protector, so I’m all right. You’ve got one too, Sean, don’t you?”
”Oh, never go into this part of the world without one.” He nodded soberly.
Her heart began to drum, and she felt her cheeks flush with heat. Then she saw the two men slap their knees and howl.
“All right, all right.” Jack patted her knee. “We are just teasing. Everyone knows who we are in these parts, and they are always happy to see us. Believe me, you are perfectly safe.”
“And what happens if we broadcast something that our good friends here don’t like? Will we still be perfectly safe the next time we come back?” she whispered, suddenly aware of Ismael’s steady, expressionless eyes watching her through the rearview mirror.
“I don’t think you really want us to answer that, do you, Julia?”
She tore her eyes away from the driver’s, gripping her hands tightly in her lap and staring out the window. “No,” she said.
The scattered olive trees turned suddenly into a grove of tall evergreens that blocked out the harsh Middle Eastern sun. She could just see the headlines now: BCN REPORTER AMBUSHED ON WEST BANK. AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST FINDS DEATH ON FIRST DAY OF NEW ASSIGNMENT. COLLEAGUES MOURN. THE BRITISH JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION CREATES SCHOLARSHIP IN HER NAME . . .
The car came to a halt, the doors flinging open. Jack and Sean jumped out. Dark shadows lined the road, their faces half covered in kaffiyehs , automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.
“It’s all right, Ms. Greenberg. You can go out. You are in no danger, I assure you,” a voice said politely in charmingly accented English. She looked up, realizing it was simply Ismael who stood at her right, his head made strange and unfamiliar by a red-and-white kaffiyeh. “Here. Just cover your hair, and don’t tell anyone your name.”
She took the scarf from his outstretched hand. Neither piece of advice required an explanation. She didn’t ask for one. Sean and Jack were already way ahead of her on the road, surrounded by a group of armed men. Her heart beat wildly as she reached for her pen, notebook, and tape recorder, hurrying to catch up.
“No recorder,” Ismael snapped, keeping pace with her. She raised her eyebrows, but slipped the recorder back into her bag. Neither he, she, Jack nor Sean were in control of this situation, she realized. Or of the quality or quantity of information they would be allowed to glean.
The thought rankled her. If they had any illusions she was going to do PR work for the PALS (as the Palestinian Authority was called), they were highly mistaken. It was true that she had come with the intention of showing the Palestinian side, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be manipulated by anyone.
With Ismael’s help, she pushed her way through the tight little group that had formed around the bureau chief and Sean.
“What are they saying, Ismael?” Jack shouted to him above the high-pitched and rancorous discussion.
“They are asking if you brought money.”
“Tell them no money yet. Tell them to give me what
Checkmate, she thought, nodding deferentially. “I appreciate what you are saying, Jack. But if you will just indulge my ignorance for another moment or two. Where in hell, exactly, are we? And are these windows bulletproof?”
“We are in Palestinian Authority territory, controlled by Arafat’s security forces, about four kilometers from Kalkilyah and a few kilometers from Israel’s coastal cities, Herzliya and Netanya…”
“I had no idea the distances were so small between Israel and the West Bank. It’s tiny…”
“Yes… well.” He paused, bored. “That’s what the Oslo Accords were all about. The Israelis taking a chance on living in peace, not worrying about the closeness to Palestinian townships. To answer your questions, the windows on the car are shatterproof, but not bulletproof, but I’m wearing a chest protector, so I’m all right. You’ve got one too, Sean, don’t you?”
”Oh, never go into this part of the world without one.” He nodded soberly.
Her heart began to drum, and she felt her cheeks flush with heat. Then she saw the two men slap their knees and howl.
“All right, all right.” Jack patted her knee. “We are just teasing. Everyone knows who we are in these parts, and they are always happy to see us. Believe me, you are perfectly safe.”
“And what happens if we broadcast something that our good friends here don’t like? Will we still be perfectly safe the next time we come back?” she whispered, suddenly aware of Ismael’s steady, expressionless eyes watching her through the rearview mirror.
“I don’t think you really want us to answer that, do you, Julia?”
She tore her eyes away from the driver’s, gripping her hands tightly in her lap and staring out the window. “No,” she said.
The scattered olive trees turned suddenly into a grove of tall evergreens that blocked out the harsh Middle Eastern sun. She could just see the headlines now: BCN REPORTER AMBUSHED ON WEST BANK. AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST FINDS DEATH ON FIRST DAY OF NEW ASSIGNMENT. COLLEAGUES MOURN. THE BRITISH JOURNALISTS ASSOCIATION CREATES SCHOLARSHIP IN HER NAME . . .
The car came to a halt, the doors flinging open. Jack and Sean jumped out. Dark shadows lined the road, their faces half covered in kaffiyehs , automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.
“It’s all right, Ms. Greenberg. You can go out. You are in no danger, I assure you,” a voice said politely in charmingly accented English. She looked up, realizing it was simply Ismael who stood at her right, his head made strange and unfamiliar by a red-and-white kaffiyeh. “Here. Just cover your hair, and don’t tell anyone your name.”
She took the scarf from his outstretched hand. Neither piece of advice required an explanation. She didn’t ask for one. Sean and Jack were already way ahead of her on the road, surrounded by a group of armed men. Her heart beat wildly as she reached for her pen, notebook, and tape recorder, hurrying to catch up.
“No recorder,” Ismael snapped, keeping pace with her. She raised her eyebrows, but slipped the recorder back into her bag. Neither he, she, Jack nor Sean were in control of this situation, she realized. Or of the quality or quantity of information they would be allowed to glean.
The thought rankled her. If they had any illusions she was going to do PR work for the PALS (as the Palestinian Authority was called), they were highly mistaken. It was true that she had come with the intention of showing the Palestinian side, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be manipulated by anyone.
With Ismael’s help, she pushed her way through the tight little group that had formed around the bureau chief and Sean.
“What are they saying, Ismael?” Jack shouted to him above the high-pitched and rancorous discussion.
“They are asking if you brought money.”
“Tell them no money yet. Tell them to give me what
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