Zealot by Donna Lettow Page B

all eternity. Blessed, praised and glorified, exalted, adored and honored, extolled
     and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He; though He be high above all the blessings and hymns, praises and works
     of solace which are uttered in the world; and say ye, Amen.”
    Avram stopped on the “Amen,” hearing footsteps nearby. He turned his head to see a man, gray-haired, yet tanned and very fit,
     coming toward him.
    “Son, are you all right?” One of the guides who helped patrol the complex and conducted tours for the visitors stopped in
     the ruined doorway.
    Avram smiled at the old man. “I’m fine. Just resting a bit.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I had to be Rambo and come up the
     long way.” They shared a chuckle at Avram’s expense.
    “The next tour’s starting up in about fifteen minutes.” The guide was full of enthusiasm. “Bet you I can show you some things
     you never imagined were up here.” He gave Avram a wink. “I promise I won’t go too fast for you.”
    “Fifteen minutes? Sure,” Avram said amiably, “meet you there.” With a wave, the guide continued on his way.
    Avram turned back to the corner by the oven, reached out to touch a faint mark of scorched rock on the wall nearby— still
     marking the spot where he had burned the last of their possessions. He bowed his head and continued.
    “May abundant peace and life descend from heaven upon us and upon all Israel; and say ye, Amen. May He who makes peace in
     His heights bring peace upon us and upon all Israel; and say ye, Amen.”
    Then he stood up and removed a handful of pebbles from his pocket. He had collected them during his hike up the serpentine
     path. Pebbles that predated the concession stands, the sound and laser show, the cable cars. Pebbles that predated even the
     Romans. He rolled them around in his hand for a moment and then set them down in a little pile on top of the clay oven, marking
     his visit. His
kaddish
complete, Avram took one last long look around the ruined fortress and started the journey back down the mountain. He’d be
     back in Jerusalem before
Pesach
began with the setting of the sun.

Chapter Seven

    Paris: The Present
    According to Monday morning’s paper, which MacLeod read over a leisurely pot of coffee and a fresh baguette smothered in grapefruit
     marmalade on the deck of his barge, the previous day’s negotiating session had been relatively undramatic. No fistfights had
     broken out over minor points of protocol. No one had walked out in a fit of pique over some slight, imagined or otherwise.
     No one on either side had threatened to pick up their toys and go home. But, once again, for the seventh day of the Israeli/palestinian
     talks, only an impasse had been reached. No agreement. No understanding. No movement toward a peaceful resolution of the fate
     of East Jerusalem, which the Palestinians envisioned someday as the capital of their new autonomous nation, and which the
     Israelis viewed as an inviolate part of the Holy City.
    MacLeod spent most of the day on the barge, washing her glass, touching up her paint, polishing her chrome, and getting her
     ready to embrace the spring after a long, hard winter. Puttering, really, though he probably wouldn’t admit that to himself.
     It was the first day of Passover for the Israeli delegation, there would be no negotiations that day, and he worked with half
     an ear toward the phone—but Maral’s call never came.
    Later that night, as he settled on the couch in front of a cheerful fire with a snifter of brandy and a copy of Joyce’s Ulysses,
     he tried to see her in the back of his mind. Alone in the sumptuous appointments of the Lutétia, picking over a first-rate
     dinner delivered on a room-service tray. A beautiful bird in a gilded cage.
    It had been a long time since he’d been this infatuated with a woman, a long time since his waking thoughts were preoccupied
     with the image, the touch, the smell of a woman. Probably not