And keep him warm.” He is a dermatologist, for God’s sake, who has not looked beyond skin for twenty years. But they, the armed men in the basement, they are the Party of God.
Tawfeek Nur-al-Din places his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “You will stay with us,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. “What is required for both prisoners, write it down, and you will have it. These boys must not die.”
The commander’s use of the term boys seems to indicate a sympathetic streak, one that may be appealed to. “What I need is to be with my wife and family. They do not know where—”
Before the dermatologist can finish the sentence, the man they call Commander Tawfeek hits him in the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose. Blood flows freely.
“You are a physician,” the commander says. “Treat yourself.”
44
On the sixth floor Dahlia can find neither Zeltzer nor Kobi, but farther down the hallway she discovers Zaid Jumblatt in his office. She stands by the door. Next to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite his desk is a sepia-tinted portrait of Theodor Herzl, the founder of political Zionism. “Working late?”
“We Druze are not shirkers.”
“That is your reputation.”
“When you are a minority, you must be twice as good, work twice as hard, three times as long. Come in.”
Dahlia tosses a folded sheet on his desk. “Is this what you wanted?”
Jumblatt examines the paper. “It was. But now it is no longer sufficient.”
“You requested approval for extraordinary measures. You have it.”
“Zeltzer gave orders.”
“Chaim Zeltzer has no authority in this area.”
“On the contrary. Only Dahlia Barr may permit an extraordinary act, but only Zeltzer may order it carried out.”
“We have Al-Masri only a few hours longer.”
“Extended. Kobi went to the Supreme Court. Another forty-eight.”
“Without my knowledge?”
Jumblatt removes the steel-framed spectacles whose tinted lenses protect his eyes from those of others. His eyes are red, tired. “You have been away,” he says softly.
“So?”
He picks up the remote control on his desk. “So it is unlikely you have seen this.”
Dahlia finds herself looking down at the remote, as if the issue is this slim bit of electronics encased in plastic. “I don’t understand.”
“An intercepted transmission. By morning Al-Jazeera will display it to the world. Otherwise we would keep it from you.” He fingers the remote. “Regrettably, it has fallen to me to bring you this news.” On the opposite wall the flat-screen lights up as tinny Arabic martial music booms out.
Dahlia blanches at what she sees.
“They are working on the Bedu because they believe harming your son will anger the Israeli public. They are racist so they believe we are as well. Dahlia, they will keep your son safe.”
“That poor boy,” she says, though it is unclear which of the two she means. Later, when told what she said, she herself will not be sure.
45
Escorted by four Cyprus Police motorcycles, a black Ford SUV flying the United States flag on its right front fender comes to a halt before the American embassy in a residential suburb of Nicosia. Cyprus is literally an island of neutrality in the Middle East—in most of which flying the U.S. flag on a vehicle would not be a good idea. Even so, two Israeli security guards in aviator glasses and ill-fitting blue blazers step out of the vehicle to check the empty street. They give an extra look at the windows of the neighboring Greek Orthodox monastery, which happens to own the land on which the embassy stands. Only then does one of the security guards open the left rear door.
A small older man steps out. He wears fifties-era round sunglasses, a sixties-era blue suit, and a new gray tie. Entering the building—which like some outsize mausoleum is faced with limestone inside and out—he is greeted by the embassy’s chargé d’affaires, a well-dressed bureaucrat whose
Tawfeek Nur-al-Din places his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “You will stay with us,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. “What is required for both prisoners, write it down, and you will have it. These boys must not die.”
The commander’s use of the term boys seems to indicate a sympathetic streak, one that may be appealed to. “What I need is to be with my wife and family. They do not know where—”
Before the dermatologist can finish the sentence, the man they call Commander Tawfeek hits him in the face with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose. Blood flows freely.
“You are a physician,” the commander says. “Treat yourself.”
44
On the sixth floor Dahlia can find neither Zeltzer nor Kobi, but farther down the hallway she discovers Zaid Jumblatt in his office. She stands by the door. Next to the flat-screen television mounted on the wall opposite his desk is a sepia-tinted portrait of Theodor Herzl, the founder of political Zionism. “Working late?”
“We Druze are not shirkers.”
“That is your reputation.”
“When you are a minority, you must be twice as good, work twice as hard, three times as long. Come in.”
Dahlia tosses a folded sheet on his desk. “Is this what you wanted?”
Jumblatt examines the paper. “It was. But now it is no longer sufficient.”
“You requested approval for extraordinary measures. You have it.”
“Zeltzer gave orders.”
“Chaim Zeltzer has no authority in this area.”
“On the contrary. Only Dahlia Barr may permit an extraordinary act, but only Zeltzer may order it carried out.”
“We have Al-Masri only a few hours longer.”
“Extended. Kobi went to the Supreme Court. Another forty-eight.”
“Without my knowledge?”
Jumblatt removes the steel-framed spectacles whose tinted lenses protect his eyes from those of others. His eyes are red, tired. “You have been away,” he says softly.
“So?”
He picks up the remote control on his desk. “So it is unlikely you have seen this.”
Dahlia finds herself looking down at the remote, as if the issue is this slim bit of electronics encased in plastic. “I don’t understand.”
“An intercepted transmission. By morning Al-Jazeera will display it to the world. Otherwise we would keep it from you.” He fingers the remote. “Regrettably, it has fallen to me to bring you this news.” On the opposite wall the flat-screen lights up as tinny Arabic martial music booms out.
Dahlia blanches at what she sees.
“They are working on the Bedu because they believe harming your son will anger the Israeli public. They are racist so they believe we are as well. Dahlia, they will keep your son safe.”
“That poor boy,” she says, though it is unclear which of the two she means. Later, when told what she said, she herself will not be sure.
45
Escorted by four Cyprus Police motorcycles, a black Ford SUV flying the United States flag on its right front fender comes to a halt before the American embassy in a residential suburb of Nicosia. Cyprus is literally an island of neutrality in the Middle East—in most of which flying the U.S. flag on a vehicle would not be a good idea. Even so, two Israeli security guards in aviator glasses and ill-fitting blue blazers step out of the vehicle to check the empty street. They give an extra look at the windows of the neighboring Greek Orthodox monastery, which happens to own the land on which the embassy stands. Only then does one of the security guards open the left rear door.
A small older man steps out. He wears fifties-era round sunglasses, a sixties-era blue suit, and a new gray tie. Entering the building—which like some outsize mausoleum is faced with limestone inside and out—he is greeted by the embassy’s chargé d’affaires, a well-dressed bureaucrat whose
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