Right Into

Wrong
by

Chuck Fair
Other Literary works:

Novels:

White, Red, Black & Blue

Hellpath 1859
The Percolators
Deviants
Damnation Days of the Duck Doctrine
A Town of Plenty

Steven Sockeye Salmon, a novella

Retribution, a screenplay

Outside Intervention, a stage play

Contact author at chuck@chuckfair.com

2
Copyright © 2008 by Chuck Fair. Online editions may
purchased at www.chuckfairlcom

Lulu Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved by the author. No

part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers
and/or authors. While every precaution has been taken in
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resulting from the use of information contained herein. The
appearance and contents of this book are the sole
responsibility of the author.

Chuck Fair 1939--

Printed in the United States of America

1. Israel – Palestine – American Born Again Christians --

Islam.
2. Thermonuclear Bomb – Crucifixion Nail – Middle East
-- Fiction.

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 *LEYB*

“What is Mohammad’s monkey up to, scratching about that

goyim high, holy site?”
“In this moonlight, the rock does look like a skull.”
“It is just another Roman crucifixion hill, soon to be this
Arab’s place of death.”
“Let’s kill him and get away from here. This place gives
me the creeps.”
“Relax. We are armed to the teeth.” The larger man points
his automatic weapon, an American M-16, at the shadowy
figure, obviously a Palestinian by the checked Kaffiyyah
that adorns his head.
“I feel uneasy. Stalking and assassinating on Passover
eve!” The thin faced, young man, his red hair balding
under his skull cap, grabs his friend’s arm. “I don’t think
this is what the Rabbi had in mind.” He releases the larger
man’s arm, his hand moving to turn up the lapels of his
windbreaker, only to realize that he has already turned them
up.
“If the rabbi had not been murdered by Arab fanatics, he
would tell us to kill this terrorist. They are all one in the
same, you know. Blow themselves to pieces, at the drop of
a hat, to kill a Jew. I have seen this monkey picking his
fruit on the outskirts of Jerusalem, right next to our
settlement, Kiryat Arba. Do I have to remind you that

4
Adonai commanded the Jews to rid this holy city of all non-
Jews? Now there will be one less terrorist living on our
ancient land.” The big man, done with bolstering his
cohort’s nerve, crosses the clearing to where the Palestinian
digs in the ground, reluctantly followed by the smaller man.
He speaks in perfect Arabic to the Palestinian: “You should
have sold the land when we tried to buy it, pig meat.”
The startled Palestinian pulls back from where he was
digging in the ancient limestone, horrified by the sight of
the two armed Israeli settlers. He is in his thirties, but his
graying hair and beard makes him appear much older. He
speaks in an awkward Hebrew:
“I am doing nothing to disturb you. What do you want?”
“Your checkered headdress disturbs me. Your presence in
this land disturbs me,” the more aggressive settler answers.
“No kill me. I mean no one harm.”
The bigger man, known asLeyb, raises his weapon to take
aim on the smaller Palestinian, who lunges at him with a
knife. Leyb, standing three feet away, fires a round point
blank at the Palestinian. The bullet hits a metal object the
Palestinian carries in his robe’s pocket, throwing off a
cascade of sparks that momentarily freezes the two
attackers.
The Palestinian, first to realize what has happened, takes
the hot, damaged object from the pocket of his robe and
studiesit. He smiles as he chants: “praise be to Allah.”
Instead of fleeing, he slashes at the settlers with his knife,
challenging them to kill him.
The two settlers take their time so as not to miss, and then
fire their weapons, spraying the Palestinian with bullets,
until he drops into a bloody heap. He barely gasps, “I am
shahidi. Allahu Akbar.”
The more aggressive of the two settlers uses his boot to
probe the Palestinian for a sign of life. When he finds
none, he takes the metal object from the dead man’s hand.

5
“Put your flashlight on this thing. It feels rough and
pitted,” he orders his cohort.
“Let’s get out of here before we have the entire Palestinian
population on our necks,” the nervous man says, backing
away from the dead Arab.
“You are nervous enough to unnerve the dead. Give me the
light.” Leyb tucks his weapon under his arm and grabs the
flashlight from the thinner settler and illuminates the piece
of metal, examining the nine-inch long object. “It’s an old
spike of some sort. See how the four sides taper down
from the head. I bet there is a point under this clump of
dried mud fixed to it. My rifle fire mangled it some, but
you can still see the blacksmith’s hammer marks where he
forged the head.”
“We have to leave now. Our rifle fire must have alerted
someone who is probably on the phone informing Fatah
Security or worse yet, Hamas.”
“This old spike could be worth a lot of money. That is why
this dead monkey was digging in the old crucifixion hill,
finding one and wanting more of the same. We’ll take it to
the Colonel. Jonathanis an archaeologist who is always
digging in the dirt for biblical artifacts. He will know how
valuable this spike is.” He cuts a patch of cloth from the
dead Palestinian’s robe; with it he carefully wraps the
object. The flashlight goes dark, and the two settlers
disappear into the night shadows.

*MAHMOUD*

In the shadow of a vegetable vender’s stall forty paces from

the shooting, an eleven-year old boy grins to himself,
speaking in an inaudible tone: “After tonight George will
see what dedicated work I do. He pays me one Jew shekel
for each Israeli I report in our section of town. Tonight, he
will pay me much more, maybe even as much as fifty Jew
shekels for what I report.”

6
He straddles the old bicycle with its small wheels and high
handlebars that his brother built for him out of discarded
parts, before the Israeli soldiers shot him for throwing rocks
at their tank. He can hear the weapons of the two settlers
slap against their bodies as they walk to where the Israelis
occupy Jerusalem. He knows they are soldiers, part of the
Israeli Defense Forces, because they are allowed to carry
their weapons everywhere, even into the greatest of holy
mosques if they choose to show such disrespect. He
silently rides his bike in the same direction the two settlers
walked.
Ahead of him, he sees the brightly lit Israeli section of
Jerusalem. His eyes scan the claustrophobic stone streets
of the Arab section around him, no more than alleys, dark,
dirty and drab, cluttered with rank smells and debris;
deserted even in mid-evening by its inhabitants. That
these invaders live so much better in their well-lighted,
wide street section of Jerusalem than he and his people do
in this section rankles him.
The two murderers of the orchard farmer exchange
greetings with the soldier guarding the street entrance from
the sleepy Palestinian section to the lively Israeli one, and
then walk to the place they call Zion Square.
The boy removes his robe and carefully rolls it into a
bundle, which he fixes to his handlebar. Underneath the
garment, he wears the black suit jacket George gave him to
wear if it becomes necessary for him to follow a suspected
enemy back into the Israeli occupied part of the city. From
the pocket of the jacket, he removes the black Hasidic hat
with its two, stupid pigtails attached to the sides of the
headliner. He smoothes the hat, places it on his head and
rides as fast as he can toward the Israeli Defense Force
soldier guarding the street. Without slowing his speed, he
yells at the armed man in the flawless Hebrew that he has
learned in order to survive under foreign occupation:

7
“Good evening, brave defender of Eretz Israel.” He speeds
past the guard. George has told him that no soldier will
shoot a Hasidic boy.
“Stop! Where are you going? What are you doing in the
Arab part of town?” the soldier shouts after him, but does
not pursue. The boy enters Zion Square with young well
dressed Israelis sitting on the stone benches in the center,
chatting with each other. New infidel automobiles glide on
the neatly paved streets around the benches. There are
many, brightly lit shops open for milling pedestrians; above
the shops’ decorated, flashing business signs are flower and
plant covered balconies. Stacked high enough to touch the
heavens, he thinks, where comfortable Israelis live behind
glass doors. There is so much space in Zion Square that
they even plants trees here. He grits his teeth, angry that on
his side of town the automobiles are rusty and battered, the
streets crumbling and potholed. He spots a soldier, his
weapon slung muzzle down, kissing a pretty girl and knows
the man is too busy making out with the girl to be a threat
to him. In fact, no occupant of the square gives him the
slightest notice. He is after all, only one of hundreds of
Hasidic boys in Jerusalem.
The two murderers head toward a Jewish deli. The boy
reads the Hebrew sign above the entrance: ART’S DELI.
EVERY SANDWICH IS A WORK OF ART. He takes a smooth stone
from his pocket, the one he found in his brother’s pocket
after he and his mother received the body from Hamas
people, saving it for an opportunity like now. The boy
hurls the rock at the bigger of the two murderers, hitting
him in the head and knocking off his skull cap. Seeing the
man’s hand fill with his blood, he jumps on his bike and
rides as fast as he can toward the Arab section of Jerusalem,
but not before hearing the man he hit with the rock scream,
“you crazy Hasidic kid. I will find you and then you will
pay for your mischief.”

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The boy grins to himself, thinking: all us Hasidic kids look
the same, but only one, like me, is not so crazy.

* *

“My name is Mahmoud Hasseissi. Tomorrow, I will join

the great martyrs in heaven. My brother, who is already
there, will greet me with pride. After today, my mother and
sisters will have money to live like princesses. My picture
will cover the buildings alongside the other martyrs,forever
to be seen by my people.” The boy pauses, uncertain, and
looks away from the camera to someone unseen,who
whispers instructions. He continues: “I will have
preformed the most honored of jihads and will spend an
eternity entertained by the many, beautiful virgins who
await my arrival. God is great. There is no God but God.
Mohammad is His messenger. Praise be to him.
Tomorrow,I will join the Messenger. Praise be his name.”
He bends forward and kisses the Qur’an placed on a
pedestal and reads: “Say not of those who die in the path of
God are dead.”
“Do you think this pre-pubescent pup can handle seventy
horny virgins, Uncle George?”
“Hold you tongue Haifa.”
The young woman, standing, tall for a Palestinian, studies
the boy wearing a waistband of explosives, appearing on
the television screen. He looks too small for the AK-47
assault weapon and rapier he holds that form an X across
his chest. The immature youth is dressed in a white, satin
blouse cinched by a green sash over loose white, Arab
pantaloons; a black scarf is wrapped around his head. She
thinks the boy‘s eyes too innocent for the grownup image
he tries to project, and he is, standing there as a shahidi,
more sad than menacing. On the wall behind him hangs the
forbidden green, red, black and white Palestinian flag.
Next to it is the Hamas emblem, crossed swords under a

9
picture of al Aqsa Temple, designed after the Palestinian
declaration of a second intifada due to an Israeli intrusion
of Islam’s third holiest place. The image on the screen
flickers and then turns to static.
“That was yesterday. This is today,” the uncle informs his
niece.
The woman studies the source of the voice, a burly, fully
bearded man, dressed in an Arab robe and sitting in one of
those decadent, western-styled, overstuffed chairs. Behind
him stand two shabeds--young Hamas soldiers-- both
holding Russian assault rifles. They are also sporting full
beards and wear tight, black shirts, revealing their muscular
torsos. Her uncle, known as the pious of pious men, uses
the remote control to restart the video tape. This leader of
fanatics did not usedto be so pious, Haifa recalls,
remembering the few short years after her parents’ death,
when he took charge of her upbringing. At first, he was
what uncles should be: avuncular, friendly and fun. Before
his personality changed, there were trips to Beirut, lounging
on the beach, shopping, and cabaret outings into the wee
hours of the night. But the long string of setbacks by
Israeli hands, his brother’s—her father’s death and
George’s torture and subsequent imprisonment changed
him from a secular grade school teacher to the stern,
vindictive extremist standing before her. She reminds
herself that all his frustration and suffering does not justify
what he did to her.
She studies a second video recording of the boy, now
dressed as an IsraeliHasidic youth in a long black coat,
pigtails bouncing under a black hat, riding his bike into the
Israeli Zion Square. She is somehow titillated over what
she suspects is about to take place, for she hates how the
Israelis have changed Jerusalem. The boy casually stands
his bike in a rack in front of a place named Art’s Deli,
written in Hebrew over the door. He walks past the armed
civilian guard at the entrance, without incident, greeting

10
him in a friendly way. Haifa can almost hear the boy say,
Shalom.
Her uncle stops the recording, as if anticipating her
condemnation.
“The boy was precocious, perfect for the mission.”
“How old is he, Uncle George?”
“Eleven. But, there was no one else who could so
successfully slip into the Israeli section, let alone into a
private party on the first night of their Passover, the Jews
enjoying what they call a Seder.” He laughs in anticipation
of what will follow on the video tape. “There was no time
to prepare the boy. Then again, he did not need the usual
week of indoctrination. Very brave and focused for his
years. Born to be a martyr. I saw no reason to deny him a
shahid glory because of age.” He restarts the video tape,
which focuses on the guard standing before the deli’s glass
entrance door.
“Look closely, Haifa, and you will see the Jews bowed
under their white scarves, eating their unleavened bread
and fish cakes at the tables.”
She can see the tables packed with celebrants looking up as
the Hasidic boy, appearing no more than a silhouette,
movestoward them. Then the explosion consumes the
television screen.
“Retaliation had to be swift, so the message is
unmistakable. We made sure the two zealot freaks who
murdered the fruit grower in our section of the city were
inside the restaurantbefore the boy triggered the bomb.”
He turns off the television. “Twenty-seven Israelis dead.
Three times that wounded. Allah be praised.”
“I am impressed that you were able to get a camera so close
to capture the explosion. Perhaps, you should have been a
movie tycoon, Uncle George. Hamas Studios. How do I fit
in with this television production?” The educated woman
studies the various suras of the Qur’an, referring to jihads
against disbelievers, framed and hanging on the walls. She

11
wants no part of a religion where thought must recluse
itself in favor of conformity.
“My brother’s daughter, you and your women have done
well attacking the enemy’s checkpoints. I think it is time a
woman became a martyr. Of course Shariah will demand
that each woman have a chaperone to accompany her to her
final destination.”
“All very proper according to a man’s version of the
Qur’an. I am amazed at how you and your following have
distorted the Prophet’s teachings. I am also curious, are
you running out of Palestinian boys and now must recruit
women?”
“I think the enemy should know Hamas is one hundred
percent united, that there are male and female martyrs who
will sacrifice their lives for a Palestine that stretches from
the Mediterranean sea to the Jordan River. God willing, we
will not rest until all Muslim land is purged of these
infidels. That is what the Qur‘an tells us to do.”
“Do you think Hamas is capable of pushing the Israelis into
the sea?” The woman breaks into a laughter that ridicules
his words. She paces in front of her uncle, her laughter
momentarily astonishing him. “If we women become
shahida, how different would our lives be there than they
have been here on this earth? In this heaven, with which
you enticed the boy, would we stop being secondary
citizens, a man’s demure chattel? Tell me Uncle George,
where in your men’s Qur’an does it state there will be
seventy virgin men for each of us, waiting to service my
women and me. Their virgin pricks untouched, perennially
stiff, following us throughout heaven--a gaggle of horny
geese, ready to ejaculate upon our command?”
Her uncle jumps to his feet, outraged. “Haifa, you go too
far.” He motions to the two armed guards to leave the
room. “I could have you stoned for such apostasy.”
“Don’t look so shocked,” she replies, wanting to make her
uncle even more uncomfortable than he appears, knowing

12
that between them she has the bigger ax to grind. “We both
know men fashioned Islam, fashioned your heaven and
certainly fashioned the lives of Palestinian women in this
land.”
“I was a fool to think time had mitigated your ungodly
nature,” he counters.
“Or the memory of the dirty mullah you brought to me
from the primitive sands of Somalia.”
“That was a long time ago. I think we best put that behind
us.” He composes himself and drops into the chair. “The
chairman is returning from Tunis, you know. He has
promised the Israelis that Palestinians will not retaliate
against their apartheid state.”
“He sold you out, recognizing Israel‘s right to exist.
Discarding our people’s right to return to the land stolen
from them.”
“Arafat betrayed all the Palestinian people, not just me.
Hamas will not recognize the PLO agreement with the
Israeli Prime Minister. We will continue to fight the
occupiers for our land. Will you join me?” He studies his
niece. The white embroidered robe and headdress she
wears to fool Israeli spies, cannot obscure her tall, well-
developed body. She has inherited her mother’s flawless
complexion and dark penetrating eyes and his brothers, her
dead father’s, classic hawk-like nose, a distinction that
makes her appear more imperial than beautiful.
She does not answer his question, instead remarks,
“retaliation was predictable, using the boy bombagainst the
settlers who murdered the fruit grower. An Israeli
retaliation for the Passover bombing is also predictable, and
that attack will not come until their Passover concludes.
Then, they will bulldoze the boy’s house and leave his
family abandoned in the rumble.”
“I know. There is nothing Hamas can do to stop them, but
someday, Allah willing, we will.”

13
“Maybe this time, Palestinian women will not stand by and
watch while the Israelis displace another family.”
“What do you intend to do?”
The woman laughs again. “Stay tuned. Update on the late
news.”

* JONATHAN *

A surge of nostalgia warms the Israeli officer as he turns off

the main road running south through the Negev desert onto
the dirt road of his father’s farm. Both of the soldiers
guarding the entrance recognize him and wave him on with
big smiles on their faces. As he tips his soft cap to them, he
thinks, it is terrible that his father, the Minister of Defense
and hero of the last war, the one the world calls the Yom
Kippur War, does not have a bigger protection than just two
soldiers, but he knows his father is too macho to request it.
The green fields, alive with tomato and lettuce plants,soon
to ripen, flank both sides of the road; olive trees show as a
dark green mantle in the distance. He slows his auto to
fully enjoy the strip of burgundy-leaf, plume trees his
grandparents planted along the access road; many were
gifts from supporters in America. His grandparents, Bobe
and Zeybe, one of few pioneer families who immigrated
from Poland long before Israel declared itself a nation of
Jews, barely scratched out a living on the arid land until the
1967 war when the Sea of Galilee fell into Israeli hands,
and Israeli ingenuity irrigated the arid land, so that it could
be bountiful. Bobe and Zeybe are dead now, but he will
forever remember their kindness to him.
As a boy, he, his brother and father planted orange trees
closer to the house, and they never fail to strengthen his
resolve as an Israeli soldier, for, to him, the trees symbolize
the strength of the allies who sent them--the Americans. As
he reaches the top of the small knoll that obscures the
farmhouse from the road, he spots his father, behind the

14
simple family dwelling, directing a tractor, pulling a load of
pipes that he distributes along the length of a fallow field,
later to install them for the drip-irrigation that has made his
crops so healthy and plentiful. Jonathan stops the
automobile, gets out and walks toward the cloud of dust left
in the tractor’s wake.
“Shalom, papa,” he shouts over the growl of the tractor as
he nears his father. “No rest for the wicked I am told,” he
comments in Hebrew.
“Shalom, my son. I am glad you could come so soon.” His
father kills the diesel engine and slides from the tractor’s
seat to the ground, removing his ever present skull cap to
wipe the sweat from his brow.
“I view an invitation from the powerful Defense Minister
as a command.” Jonathangrins, noting that his father has
gained quite a bit of weight in the three months since he
last saw him. “I see you have been eating well.”
His father laughs and envelopes him in his still-strong
arms. The son thinks the Lion of the Sinai is growing fat
and old, but still possesses the tenacity of the man who
turned the last war with the Egyptians and Syrians from
sure defeat to victory for Israel. His column of tanks
crossed the Suez Canal and flanked the Egyptian army, less
than a hundred kilometers from their capital, Cairo.
“Is that why you wear your uniform?”
“Your invitation is about business rather than pleasure, is it
not?”
“Unfortunately at a time when your mother, you, your
family and I should be celebrating Passover, it is.” His
father steps back from his embrace and takes on a solemn
look. “This bombing in Zion Square, the government
cannot allow it to go unanswered. I spoke to the Prime
Minister, and he has given me a free hand to retaliate as I
see fit.”
“I would be honored it you choose me to deliver the
message.”

15
“It is yours to deliver. Eleven years old, that was the age of
the terrorist bomber. These so-called Palestinians never
cease to amaze me--a boy no older than my grandson, your
oldest son, blew himself up to kill Israelis.” He guides his
son away from the house. “Walk this way, out of sight of
the house before your mother spots you in uniform. There
will no end of it for me, if she finds me discussing I.D.F.
business with you at ourhome.” Jonathanfollows his father
as he walks toward the orange orchards.
“Two of the Rabbi Kook’s oldest followers were killed in
the Passover explosion. Coincidently, one was a tank
driver, the other a tank gunner in my battalion,” the son
informs his father.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Good men. I am sorry to lose them. But there is more to
it than that. They brought me this on the day of their
deaths.” He takes the long spike from the patch of cloth
belonging to the dead Palestinian’s robe and hands it to his
father.
“It looks ancient. What do you make of it?” the father asks.
“And what is this chipping?” He touches the part where
the settler’s bullet hit the spike.
“No idea what the mark is. But the object could be an old
spike, maybe even a crucifixion nail. My initial Carbon 14
test on some weed in the soil encrusted on its end indicates
the period around Herod Antipas’sreign. Could be later,
A.D. 70 on the Christian calendar--the time of our temple’s
destruction, when Vespasian and his son, Titus crucified
thousands of rebellious Israelites after Romansoldiers
sacked the city. But I need to go to the university and run
an advanced analysis on it for absolute verification.”
“Amazing.” The older man turns the old object in his hand,
examining it like he would a holy relic. “If this nail is what
you first thought it to be, then it has tremendous value in
the United States.”

16
“I would think its greater value would be here in Israel.
You should know that I suspect the two, dead NCOs,who
gave that object to me, took it off a Palestinian after they
executed him. You may recall the dead Arab, riddled with
M-16 bullets, found in the Arab section of Jerusalem. I
believe the bombing in Zion Square was in retaliation for
killing that Arab who originally possessed this nail, since
the same two men who gave it to me were celebrating
Passover at the bombed restaurant in Zion Square.”
“Nevertheless, I want you to take as many tanks as you
deem necessary and destroy this terrorist boy’s house and
ten houses in every direction around it. Raze the
neighborhood if you have to. I want the Israeli
government’s message to be loud and clear: We will not
tolerate our citizens being senselessly murdered.”
“God willing, it shall be done as you wish, papa.”
“God willing. Do not attack until the sun falls on the last
day of Passover. Between now and then, run your
extensive dating tests. If this nail comes from anywhere
near the terrible period you say it might, the American
religious community will, as they say, pay a pretty penny
for it.”
“Papa, no known dating test exists to exactly match this
object to the crucifixion time of their so called son of god.
Even if it did, how could a scientist separate the nail from
hundreds used in that particular period? That is the reality.
It is best Israel hang on to it.”
“My son, did you forget how the Shroud of Turin
hypnotized the Christians into believing their son of god
was buried in it; that even when the shroud was proved to
be a phony, the more devoted Christians hung on to the
belief it was authentic? Any ancient pottery cup, one of
thousands that must have been made in that same period,
turning up in the holy land, these Christians are anxious to
believe it is the Holy Grail, the cup their deified Jesus
drank from. At the beginning of this century in Fatima,

17
Portugal, three children and no one else could see the
Christian Virgin Mary appearing as an apparition; this was
enough for faithful gathers to see a glowing light and Rose
petals floating to the ground. Sighting of a cross on a
coconut tree, portraits of deities opening and closing their
eyes, the list goes on and on. Devout Christians do not
doubt the reality of those miracles. No my son, where the
Born Again Christians are concerned, we are not dealing
with reality. We are dealing with blind faith. And they
have more than enough to overcome any archeological
doubt pertaining to this old nail. This time I will request
something even more valuable than money. Something they
will gladly pay.” He hands the nail back to Jonathan.
“Keep it on your person until we next meet. Now go with
God.”

* *

The Defense Minister’s son feels the power of the

behemoth Merkva 3 Baz tank underneath him as it creeps
toward Aide, the Palestinian refugee camp south of
Jerusalem. Beneath him in the armor-protected
compartment sit Yodye, the shell loader, Tzviel the gunner
and Migdana, the driver. He is proud of his tank team; they
are veteran reservists, having served their two years of
active duty like all Israeli citizens must do, and now are
called up from the reserves for this mission. Yodye, the
dark hair, blue eyed man, so boyish that he still giggles
when given an order he does not understand, is the
grandson of German Jewswho lost their lives at the Nazi
camp, Auschwitz. Tzviel, which means gazelle of god, is
the son of Best Israel immigrants from Ethiopia, whose
parents Jonathan’s father almost single handedly brought
from Africa, along with thousands of other black Jews.
Although separated from Jewish culture in Africa, they had
kept their faith for a millennium. He is most proud of

18
Migdana, his female driver, the tall, statuesque woman,
whose name means gift. She has proven herself to be just
that, turning out to be not only as macho as his toughest
tank soldier, but as patriotic as anyone in the Israeli
Defense Force. The crew is young, not one over thirty, the
generation that follows his one, so loose and likeable that
they do not address him as sir, but as Jonathan.
Two other Merkvas tanks follow his lead in the pre-dawn
hour. At his signal, two huge armored bulldozers,
American-made Caterpillars, will begin smashing a path for
the tanksthrough the Palestinian camp, toward the suicide
bomber, Mahmoud Hassiessi’s house. A platoon of
soldiers, twenty-four in all, are in the process of evacuating
the Palestinians from their dwellings; they will be given
fifteen minutes to grab their children and possessions
before the bulldozers plow over the houses. Small loss to
society, as the structures are more hovels than houses, he
tells himself. The minister’s son marvels at how those
people live: almost a half century since the War of
Independence when they fled their homes and property,
finding shelter in this refugee camp, and they havenot
improved their conditions one iota. He thinks these
Palestinians are an inferior people, not even remotely close
to the Jewish people’s lifestyles in the surrounding
settlements.
The defense minister’s son grits his teeth over the
frustration he feels, having to constantly police the
troublemakers from completely getting out of control, they
are all mad with this second intifada of theirs, the one his
father allegedly triggered by visiting al Aqsa Mosque in
Jerusalem, one of the many holy places of Islam. They
should be in Jordan, not here in the West Bank,
Israel’sancient land ceded by God. Here in the Jewish
peoples’ holy land, this surly bunch isobsessed with
regaining what they believe to be their land. No matter
how pious they profess themselves to be, no matter how

19
many times they prostrate themselves in prayer, facing their
holy city five times a day, they are still heathens to him.
He cannot accept a people or a religion that sanctions a
mere boy, a pre-pubescent, or anyone for that matter,
blowing himself up to kill innocent people. A cold chill
runs through his body when he imagines one of his own
sons, trading places with the dead Palestinian boy. The
mere thought of sacrificisng his sonin such a horrible way,
even for Israel‘s need to survive its many enemies, causes
his stomach to turn sour.
The proud father conjures up the images of his two sons,
Shaul and Shlamo sitting so maturely at his parents’
Passover dinner, their hair thick and eyes brightunder skull
caps. The boys staringin awe at their hero grandfather,
hoping he will share one of his many war adventures with
them. His parents sitting at each end of the table, doting on
their grandchildren, as loving to his sons as he remembers
his own grandparents, Bobe and Zeybe being loving to his
him. His parents, married almost fifty years, are still
devoted to each other; his father, not only Israel’s foremost
warrior, but a man respected for his stern religious devotion
and high family values. His beautiful, still-youthful mother,
a teacher with a Ph.D. in Middle East History, recently
retired from the prestigious Tel Aviv University. She,
unlike his father, has maintained her youthful figure. In his
mind’s eye, he recreates the six of them sitting at the table
during the last day of Passover, a seventh place set for his
older brother, Joshua, who died when a Egyptian missile hit
his tank during the push across the Sinai Desert in the Yom
Kippur War. He recounts how his father said the ancient
saying that always ends Passover: NEXT YEAR IN JERUSALEM.
He smiles, thinking the Jewish people are in Jerusalem, and
they will hold onto it until the end of time.
His fingers find the ancient nail he carries in a fanny pack
strapped to his waist, because it has turned out to be very
valuable, remembering how pleased his father seemed after

20
learning that the ancient find is authentic. Advanced dating
technology placed it close to the time of Roman occupation
during Herod Antipas’ reign, about the time of when the
Sadduceans controlled the temple and Pontius Pilate
reigned in Judea, when the alleged son of the Christian god
was crucified.
A tinge of light breaks behind himas he stands with his
upper torso above the tank’s open hatch. He checks his
watch; four thirty in the morning, and it is time to move.
Jonathan says, “cut the bushes back,” a code in Hebrew,
into the short-wave radio, the signal for the bulldozers to
move. Within seconds, he hears the first rumble of the
giant earthmovers, one thousand meters ahead of his
position, moving along the dirt street to the boy’s house,
awaking the refugee camp. He cannot resist whispering out
loud, “kiffers, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet, wait until me and
my gang roll into town.” Jonathan pats the tank’s machine
gun, confident of his power.
Yesterday, he had reconnoitered the camp by helicopter,
believing the retaliation for the Passover bombing to be a
simple exercise, one he had preformed many times before;
the bulldozers would clear the street leading to the little
terrorist’s home of all vehicles, steps and overlapping
porches; if a house is built too close to the street, it will be
crushed by the scooping blades of the bulldozers. His tanks
have to have rapid access to the area in case there is
resistance to the mission. He did not expect resistance, so
did not request helicopter gunship support. Passover was
over at sundown yesterday and these Palestinians knew an
attack would be imminent after the seventh day of
observance of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, but what
resistance could they put up against the toughest armed
forces in the Middle East? The bulldozers alone were force
enough to overcome poorly trained Fatah resistance
fighters and the inept police force. When facing three ultra-
modern Israeli-built tanks, eachcarrying a four men crew,

21
7.62 millimeter machine guns, 120 mm high penetrating
shells, 60 mm mortar shells, any Palestinian resistance
against the retaliation attack becomes unimaginable. He
knew the Merkvas, powered by a 1200 horsepower diesel
engine could smash through anything as crudely built as the
motley collection of mud and brick huts these refugees
exist in, but losing a bulldozer was a lot less expensive than
losing a tank should some renegade camp dweller get lucky
with a rocket propelled grenade and take out a tank track.
Ahead of him in the early dawn’s light he sights the camp,
its small, flat-roofed hovels sprawling across the land like
unchecked weeds, some early morning lights visible.
Somewhere toward the northern center of the camp, a great
cloud of dust rises from the bulldozers clearing a path to
the terrorist boy’s house.
He feels Migdana tug on his trouser leg to alert him of a
radio communication and then hears: “Colonel, this is
Lieutenant Dekel,” sound from the tank’s short wave radio.
“Go ahead,” he says to the leader of the evacuation team in
the camp ahead.
“All the Palestinian houses are deserted. We foundmore
than thirty so far. The bulldozers are beginning to raze the
terrorist’s house, but it is very suspicious that no residents
are here, although lanterns burn inside the homes as if they
are occupied.”
“It is more than suspicious, Lieutenant. Someone has
alerted them to withdraw. Pullyour men back until I can
get the Merkavas into position.” Before Jonathan finishes
his order, he hears the cracks of machine gun fire over the
radio.
“Colonel, we are taking small arms fire from all around
us.” Before he can reply, the tank patrol leader hears
numerous loud explosions.
“They got the bulldozers. They took them out with two
anti-tank missiles. Two more missiles have hit our troop

22
carrier. It’s burning.” Jonathan can sense hysteria in the
young lieutenant’s voice.
“Take cover. We will be there in less than ten minutes,” he
instructs the junior officer. He could shell the boy’s house
now; he has the coordinates and it is easily within range,
but indiscriminate shelling could hit IDF troops

* HAIFA *

In the pre-dawn light, the Palestinian woman observes the

Israeli armored troop carrier slowlymoving to within ten
meters of the martyred boy’s house. The dark-green clad
soldiers, wearing their distinctive round helmets, quickly
disembark, loaded down with sophisticated equipment.
She counts twenty-four Galil Assault weapons pointed at
the houses, as an officer knocks on the martyred boy’s door.
Haifa smiles as she hears the Israeli bulldozers in the
distance clearing a path for the tanks to get in and out of the
camp, thinking the IDF is so confident, so predictable. Her
twelve women have taken positions in a few lightless,
evacuated houses around her, almost all of them college
educated and seeking autonomy from men. Each volunteer
wants no part of a Palestinian woman’s subservient life,
even if it means death opposing the occupiers. All these
women sought to join her after she shot two settlers as they
drove on their private road to their well-guarded
settlement--an act unprecedented by a woman. Since that
first successful attack, she and her followers have regularly
attacked the occupiers’ checkpoints that continuously
delayscores of Palestinians trying to get in and out of
Jerusalem. She and her women wore traditional Arab robes
called a jellab, a Bedouin covering, carrying Kalashnikov
rifles underneath; always catching the cocksure Israeli
troops off guard when they emerged from the queues, firing
their weapons rapidly and escaping before enemy
reinforcements arrived.

23
She calculates the refugee village she gazes upon would be
called a slum by any description, graffiti everywhere,
scribbles defaming Israelis and ragged posters glorifying
past Palestinian martyrs, crumbling buildings, some no
more than corrugated tin sheets nailed together with small
openings to catch a breeze, small relief from the relentless
heat. Across from the boy’s house is an empty field, one-
hundred and fifty by fifty meters, where the weeds are
trampled and the martyred boy probably played soccer with
his playmates, as boys do after school. She hopes the boy
will be martyred as the nonsense fed into young men’s
heads tells them they will be, but thinks his premature
death foolhardy. During the day, venders sell their
merchandize from moveable carts occupying the field,
bringing their unsold wares home after each day’s
commerce. When the first tinge of light hits the field, she
can see the abandoned appliances, useless furniture and
other rubble scattered about, a mosaic of disrespect,
motivated by the refugee camp dwellers’ miserable
existence. They hate their existence, so why pay respect to
it by clearing away the debris, she surmises. In the field,
during the last five nights of the enemy’s Passover
celebration, she and her women took advantage of the sky’s
pitch-black cover to bury five one hundred pound charges
of volatile explosives that can be remotely detonated. This
she plans to do when the Israeli tanks, the metal monsters
they think Palestinians are helpless against, take up position
in the field, which they surely will as it is the most tactical
spot.
She continues to observe the soldiers with some amusement
while they go about knocking on doors of illuminated
houses where no one answers, then kicking the doors down,
using their military tactics to ferret out the enemy, although
in this case, non-existent residents.
Haifa waits until the bulldozers enter the area and begin to
level the martyred boy’s house, one using a long extended

24
shovel resembling an inverted praying mantis’ arm,
smashing the roof inward; the other bulldozer crushing the
front wall of the house until the sides collapse. She levels
the barrel of her semi-automatic rifle at the two soldiers
approaching her position and fires the weapon at them,
wounding them both. Her women followers immediately
open fire on the other soldiers, killingtheir rear guard. The
Israeli soldiersbolt for the open doorways of the deserted
houses, frantically seeking shelter. She signals for two
women to fire their hand-held Iranian-made Katyusha
rockets at the bulldozers. Both firings are direct hits, taking
out the near sides of the caterpillar tracks, rendering the
machines helpless atop the rubble of the Hassiessi house.
Her attention goes to the heavy machine gun fire coming
from the troop carrier, directed at one of the women’s
positions. She taps the shoulder of the young woman
beside her and watches another Katusha rocket explode at
the front of the vehicle, killing the gunner and causing the
vehicle to explode into flames. The Israeli soldiers, so
confident a few minutes ago,are in disarray and have only
returned light arms fire at the women hidden about them.
She orders all three of the Katyusha rocket launchers to
fire upon the positions the Israelis have taken in the
deserted houses. All four houses burst into flames, the
soldiers fleeing into the open square where her rifle fire
cuts them down, others escape through the back doors into
the Aide refugee camp where Fatah or Hamas gangs, now
alerted to the Israeli assault, will surely finish them.
The first part of her plan executed, she orders everyone to
withdraw, except for the four women operating the anti-
tank weapons. Within a few minutes, the first Israeli tank
appears in a cloud of dust, so predictable attacking with the
morning’s sun behind it, its projecting cannon immediately
firing at the non-burning houses. She is momentarily
unnerved by the size of the behemoth machines, the
monsters’armor spreading eight meters across, massive

25
turrets swinging about, searching for a first target, the tanks
overall height close to five meters. The bruising tanks exit
the path cleared by the bulldozers and move onto the field,
firing thunderous canon shells into the refugees’ houses,
leaving heapsof dust and rubble. Haifa had passed the
word to the occupants of the nearest twenty-five houses in
all directions to evacuate in the dead of night; this they
managed to do without alerting the Israelis or their paid
informers. She now signals the remaining women to
execute the last part of her plan by firing a flare into the air,
and immediately retreats from her position before the lead
tank fires a shell in her direction. The tanks begin to
maneuver into position in the field, spreading out into
atriangle formation, the lead tank in the middle, the other
two flanking it. While the tanks show their profiles to the
positions of the old Chinese Anza MkI anti-tank missile
launchers, the females fire missiles at them. Fiery rocket
fuel shoots out behind the weapons, shells hitting the tanks,
but unable to penetrate the thick armor. Haifa expected the
black market anti-tank missiles to be harmless, hoping the
tank commander, bolstered by the shells ineffectiveness,
would not realize the firings are a ploy to hold his position
in the field and continue to destroy every refugee house in
sight. The two women continue to shell the tanks as they
retreat behind the rubble of destroyed huts, with the tanks’
cannon fire destroying everything in their vicinity. The
Merkvas tanks finally zeroing in on the rocket firers’
positions, release a barrage of the 120 mm high penetrating
shells. Haifa realizes that if the women are still alive, then
they are trapped under a ton of rubble.
The female leader, the last woman to remain, sets off all
five charges of TNT; the explosions are monumental,
rocking the wall she hides behind and sending dirt and
debris over her head. When the smoke and dust clear
enough for her to access the damage, she is overjoyed; two
Israeli tanks on the flanks are literally blown apart, pieces

26
of metal scattered about the field are blazing under black
smoke. The lead tank was spared the direct hit of the other
two, but the force of the blasts has knocked it on its side; it
too has burst into flames. She tries not to be self-
congratulatory, wanting to focus on what lies ahead of her,
but telling herself that never before has an insurgency
destroyed one of these monster machines, and she and her
women demolished three. From the many separate, fires
that send an eerie flickering onto the dawn, she watches an
Israeli soldier, his legs burning, pull another soldier on fire
from the fiery lead tank. Two other Israelis from the
overturned tank roll in the dirt, trying to extinguish the
petrol fire attacking their flesh. Their agonized screams
assault the momentary stillness hanging over the
devastation. The Israeli with his legs on fire manages to
put out the flames, but Haifa can see he is in pain. She
waits a few minutes to make sure none of the Israeli
soldiers she earlier ambushed have returned to resume the
fight and creeps forward, watching the one Israeli not on
fire trying to extinguish the flames engulfing the man he
pulled from the tank.
The pieces of burning metal snap and crack mischievously
around her as she stands less than ten feet from the burning
soldiers. She knows she has only a few minutes before the
Israeli helicopter gun-ships fly overhead. One Israeli, a
women Haifa thinks, but cannot be certain because the head
and hair are inflamed, looks to her for help, then the
suffering woman sees the Kalashnikov rifle she holds. The
burning creature stands and tries to run. Haifa sends a burst
of bullets from her weapon into the back of the burning
figures’ legs, and it collapses to the ground, no longer able
to roll in the dirt, just writhing from pain. The non-burning
Israeli turns toward the sound of gun fire, and, for a second,
she sees the whites of eyes peering at her from a blacken
face. Before he can react, she slams the heavy wooden butt
of her AK-47 into his temple, and he too collapses.

27
With the muzzle of the Kalashnikov touching the
unconscious man’s forehead, she decides not to shoot his
three burning comrades preferring to watch them burn to
death, prolonging their misery. The faces of her
grandparents on her father’s side materialize in her mind’s
eyes, remembering that the Israelis executed them when the
terrorist unit, Irgun, captured the Palestinian village, Deir
Yassin, during The Catastrophe of 1948. Her own mother
and father were brutally murdered at Shatila in Lebanon
when the invading Israeli Army, led by the man she most
wants to kill, allowed the Christian Phalangists to enter the
refugee camp and slaughter the defenseless Palestinian
inhabitants, but not before raping the women, her mother
included, killing their children as the naked mothers looked
on horrified. So three Israelis burning to death before her
eyes is small recompense for the destruction of her family.
She watches until the three burning creatures’ screams
subside to mere whimpers, telling her they are in their last
stages of life and then focuses on the unconscious man, his
uniform still smoking. She pokes his nose with the muzzle
of her rifle. He stirs and his eyes open, searching his
surroundings to evaluate the situation; she pins his head to
the ground with the rifle’s bore and studies him. He has
short-cropped hair, a well-proportioned face now turning
soft as is his one-time, well-conditioned body; upon closer
examination, she sees the officer’s insignia on his shirt’s
epaulets. Kneeling down with the rifle bore pressing
against his temple, she searches his pockets for Israeli
intelligence. An identification card in his shirt pocket
informs her he is Jonathan Mattath, who, she surmises, is
most certainly the son of the infamous Israeli general who
ordered her parent’s death at Shatila and later triggered the
second intifada by an unwelcomed visit to a sacred mosque.
This half conscious man she gazes upon belongs to the
family who named themselves after Israelite warriors from
a thousand years ago. Those early Jews all died violently

28
for being intransigent, and so will this Mattath, leaving just
the father alive, and she has plans for him.
“Son of my enemy, you shall die slowly,” the victor vows,
her face so close to his that she can feel his gasping breath
on her lips. Pulling a combat knife from its sleeve attached
to her boot, she plunges it into his stomach, careful to only
slit a couple inches of small intestines.
The Israeli cries out in pain, and then gaining control of his
wits, says, “if you heathens believe in a Hell, then I hope
you burn for eternity in yours.”
He rolls away from her, drawing himself into a fetal
position. Haifa observes his body writhe spasmodically.
She stands and uses her boot to roll him into a supine
position in order to give him a second sticking and becomes
curious when she sees his hands do not clasp his bleeding
stomach, but grasp a small packet fixed around his waist.
Her first thought is that he must be carrying important
military papers, as she slices the packet’s canvas belt with
the knife, and then pulls the packet free from his weak grip.
Opening the still smoldering pouch, she examines a paper
too burnt to reveal anything wrapped around an old spike.
“What is this object, Jew?”
“Burn in hell, harpy.”
Haifa hears the distant beating of helicopter blades. She
plunges her knife a second time, slitting him from breast
bone to groin in such a way as to let him linger before
death. Her surviving women now surroundher and look to
her for orders. Not one member of the attack team
mentions the women, dead or alive, buried under the
rubble, for as Haifa did, they all undertook the mission
prepared to die.
One young woman, an ambulance driver before joining her
group and who was wounded by an Israeli sniper as she
rushed to pick up a wounded protester in Ramallah, stands
over the Israeli, shock appearing on her face at what Haifa
has done.

29
She pulls the young woman away from the dying man.
“Do not waste your feelings on him. He is, this day, only a
small atonement for what his father has done to the
Palestinian people.”

* HARLAN *

“’The coward dies many deaths, the brave but one,’” the
wheelchair bound man mumbles to himself as the handicap
transport enters the boundless parking lot, packed with cars
without end for this Sunday service. The non-biblical
quote is a favorite of his; he thinks it is by Shakespeare,
having embraced it after being cured of alcoholism and an
addiction to methamphetamines by the preacher who will
give today’s sermon. He has no fear of being caught by
the authorities, as he has decided to die rather than go to
prison and a subsequent long-drawn out execution by lethal
injection. He feels the nine millimeter automatic piston,
cold steel againsthis stomach and knows he will go down
shooting if the FBI discovers him. His eyes find the
beautiful pale pink, stucco exterior, trimmed in stained
glass and polished steel, of the 12,000 seat church. The
surrounding, rich rolling lawns and impressive buildings of
God’s University in the distance were created by the
preacher. He is careful not to move his head for a better
view from the slow-moving transport, one of ten handicap
transport vehicles the church provides to bring physically
and mentally challenged people to Sunday service, careful
because he is supposed to be paralyzed from the neck
down, stretched out in a wheelchair on extended leg
supports, his head unnaturally craned to one side. The
pseudo cripple wears large, very dark sunglasses with side
shields, the kind the aged wear to block out bright light on
a cheerful Sunday morning like today. He is aged, at least
that is what his disguise indicates, wearing a scraggly
white-haired wig, pasty white makeup, unsightly

30
pockmarks dottinghis makeup. His makeup may not be
prefect, but he does not worry, as experience has shown
him that even these God fearing people find it hard to look
closely at such a sad creature as he has made himself up to
be.
It is time for his transit to unload passengers at the church’s
main entrance; even though it hinders the entrance of the
many ambulatory church goers, the preacherinsists the
handicapped enter as proudly as any member of his flock.
The driver unlocks his wheelchair from the floor mounts
and pushes it upon the hydraulic lift that lowers the
handicapped manto the ground. He can see as many as
twenty-five wheelchairs being pushed by church
volunteers; other volunteers follow the electric operated
ones. Once on the ground, an attendant grabs the handles
of the manual one he sits upon and asks, “where would you
like to view today’s services, my friend?”
“The balcony,”he says in a low, guttural voice. “Please
adjust my blanket. I am paralyzed from the neck down.”
The attendant does as asked, smiling patiently. He is
satisfied his disguise works as the neatly dressed
manavoids looking directly at his face. “Brother, once you
situate me, there is an envelope for the preacher’s secretary
in the breast pocket of my jacket. Be so kind to see that he
gets it immediately. It is important and one that he would
besorry not to receive.” The church volunteer is too polite
to inquire about the content and nods his agreement.
The attendant wheels the man over the lobby’s thick
carpeting, past the rich, dark wood trim and past the
humming human activity that is everywhere he can
glimpse. He is proud to belong to a faith offering so many
services: a store selling books that praise the Lord, a sign-
up booth for church league baseball, another for soccer,
Sunday school service for the youth and toddler care for
new parents. He allows his lips to form a smile, approving
of the coffee shop that serves pastries and croissants to

31
early arrivals. He and the attendant enter one of four
elevators and ascend to the second floor. From there, he is
pushed to a flat viewing area, above the congregation and
directly below the projection booth.
“This viewing area is perfect,” he says to the man, noting
that there is only one other wheelchair there, and it is
twenty feet from him.”
“Is there anything else that I can do to make your time in
God’s house more enjoyable?”
“The note for the secretary.”
“Of course.” The attendant removes the note from his
jacket pocket and leaves.
Harlan scans the ultra-modern, mega church, and sees it is
gigantic,column-less and so spacious, not one hindered
view for the 12,000 spectators. Four gold inlaid crosses
cover the white plaster of the dome ceiling, each end of the
cross beams touching another; the walls are plain and
humble, broken only by a series of four tall, slender
windows conforming to the church’s contour with
transparent renderings of the Lord Jesus’s most triumphant
moments--walking on the Sea of Galilee waters, the
Sermon on the Mount, Raising Lasuras from the dead,
entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. He can see that every
seat in the balcony, except for a small section around him,is
taken and senses the lower auditorium is equally full. A
youthful rock group, made up of two electric guitar
players, drummer, bass player, sax player and lead singer
occupy center stage, performing a tempestuous rendition of
Give Me That Old Time Religion. Everyone of God’s
faithful that he can see, except for the handicapped, stand
and sway to the music, their hands elevated and grasping
the closest hand to them, as they sing in jubilation.
Give me that old time religion,
It was good enough for mother,
And it is good enough for me.
Tis the old time religion. . . .

32
It will take us all to heaven. . . .
Tears of gratification well up in his eyes as he thinks, such
happiness, such openness, such devotion. We owe it all to
the preacher. “‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of
the Lord,’” he quotes aloud a verse from the Christian
bible.
“Harlan, you should not be here. My message informed
you that someone would find you and deliver your
instructions.” The wheelchair bound man looks up at the
very fit and extremely well groomed secretary in an
expensive dark blue, finely woven linen suit. He examines
Harlan’s disguise, not approving or disapproving of it. He
has dark, meticulously combed hair, a strong chiseled face.
They are the same age and size, but for Harlan the
similarity ends there, as the preacher’s secretary possesses a
refined manner and cultivated speech, having attended the
preacher’s divinity school for ministers and then went on to
get a Ph. D. in religion from Yale. In comparison, his
limited high school education has molded his manner to
that of a worker, a plain man that does not always fully
define the ins and outs of life. He has read numerous
newspaper articles stating the secretary runs the preacher’s
vast ministry on a daily basis; the preacher preferring to
stay in the background, only hosting his weekly
televisedholy hour. Even though the incumbent president
in Washington DC has proven sympathetic to the preacher’s
born again religion, there have been rumors that the great
man of God will make a run against him for the presidency
in the next election.
“I couldn’t wait. I must leave the country immediately.”
“At least we agree on something. What if you are
discovered? If the FBI even got a hint of you attending this
service, your presence here could destroy everything--the
television and radio stations, the college, the missionaries,
our investments in Africa, everything the preacherhas
worked his entire life to give to God’s glory. May I remind

33
you that you are listed at the top of the FBI’s wanted
people.”
“You disapprove of me, don’t you?”
“You are a loose canon, but my opinion is irrelevant, for I
serve the preacher, and he loves you.”
“As I love him. Like you, my only wish is to serve him.”
“Be that as it may, you should not be here.” The secretary
retrieves a folding chair and sits close to Harlan.
“I am here to receive my instructions.” Harlan looks away
from the secretary at the large screen above the main stage
where the words of I walk with Jesus are projected for the
congregation to follow in song. He remembers all too well
the first time he met the preacherin his hometown of
Hazzard in Eastern Kentucky near the Virginia border. The
preacherhad just finished divinity school after resigning
from the Marine Corps, giving up his rank of captain after
six years service. At the time, Harlan did not know the man
was wealthy, having inherited a fortune from his father, a
one time member ofthe U.S. Senate. His service as the
minister of a small church on Smoot Creek proved his
commitment to the Lord Jesus’s example of tending the
poor, as the young minister could have started a more
affluent church in his home state of Virginia.
Twenty years ago, when Harlan was twenty-five years of
age, he had heard of the preacher, his loving ways and his
insistence on following the fundamentals of the Bible to the
letter, but at the time Harlancould not entertain any thought
but his own misery. Thinking back, he thought if a man
ever hit bottom, I did: he had been drunk for three weeks,
having lost his job at the coal mine during that particular
binge. Only getting fired was not the real reason for his
drunken debauchery. The fiery death of his wife and infant
daughter, while he was drinking and whoring around at a
nearby roadhouse, was the real reason. Even now, after all
the years, the memory resurrects its ugly head: on a Friday
night, at the end of his evening shift at the mine, he did not

34
go home, choosing to drink at a roadhouse and seeking to
pick up a local woman for fornication in the backseat of his
car. He drank long and deep, he fornicated fast and furious,
while the short in an electrical wiring his wife had asked
him numerous times to fix did not blow a fuse this time. It
started a fire that consumed his two loved ones while they
slept in their wooden bungalow. For six months following
their deaths, he drank heavily, ingested what narcotics he
could buy on the small town streets, unable to remove from
his sodden head the memory of his lost love ones and his
culpability for their deaths.
As he reclines in the wheel chair in the preacher’s splendid
church, the time of his earlier salvation lives in his head.
On that fateful day, he leaned against an oak tree in a
meadow behind his destroyed house. He had decided to
end his life, sitting with his shotgun resting between his
legs, dead drunk, his bare foot ready to push the trigger of
the weapon he positioned to where the bore was on his
forehead. He remembered thinking that there was time to
finish the quart of whiskey; it would be his last
indulgenceon earth.
The preacher had heard of his tragedy and subsequent self-
debasement and asked Harlan’s neighbor to notify him
when the widower returnedhome.
Harlan sat in the meadow so drunk and distraught that he
did not notice the preacher kneeling beside him, praying for
his salvation, until the saintly man took the shotgun from
his lap.
“There is a much better way to solve your problems than
the way you have chosen.”
Harlan grabbed onto the barrel of the shotgun to regain
possession. “And what would that be, preacher?”
The preacher jerked the rifle, only Harlanrefused to release
the weapon. “The Lord Jesus’s way.”
“I am going to Hell, preacher, and there ain’t you or anyone
else who can stop me.”

35
“The Lord is at this moment stopping you, HarlanStegal.
That is why Hehas sent me.” Neither man will release his
grip on the shotgun.
“If ever a man deserves to die, I do. I killed my wife and
daughter.”
“So I heard. Will killing yourself bring your wife and child
back? We both know it will not. The coward’s way is to
take the course you have chosen. The brave way is to stand
up to what you have done and make amends to your love
ones in heaven,watching you as we speak. The choice is
yours.”
“To do what? Live in torment, never to rid myself from
visualizing their fiery deaths. No good to myself or anyone
else. Give me the shotgun and let justice be done.”
“Suicide may be your justice. It is certainly not mine or the
Lord’s and certainly not the justice of your innocent wife
and daughter watching you from Heaven above. Take the
shotgun, use it if you must and burn in hell for all eternity.
Your wife and child sit at the feet of God, and you will
never, never be united with them.”
“Well, they can’t do much worse than me, can they?
Maybe your Lord Jesus will find them a proper husband
and father to be with in eternity.” Harlanstood and placed
the barrel of the shotgun in front of his mouth. “You mean
well, preacher, but for sinners like me, Hell is the proper
place.” He bends his torso so he can reach the trigger.
Before he can find the trigger, the preacher slams his fist
into the drunken man’s jaw, sending himand the shotgun
sprawling across the grass.
“Suicide is a crime against God,” the smaller, more
compact man says as he walks to Harlan, who pulls himself
to his knees. The preacherswings the butt of the shotgun
upwards, catching the kneeling man full in the temple.
Harlan collapses onto the ground. The preacherturns him
over with the toe of his shoe, places the rifle’s muzzle on
the backside on the prone man‘s hand. “You want to suffer

36
for what you have done, let me blow off your hands; one
for your wife, one for your daughter.”
The fallen man looks up at his assaulter, the thought of
living without hands sobering him.
“I think two fingers will satiate your pain, and satisfy your
sense of justice.” The holy man steps on Harlan’s left hand
so that it flattens palm down on the grass, placing the
weapon’s muzzle on the inebriated man’s small and ring
fingers, he squeezes the trigger, destroying two fingers.
The wounded man is too shocked by the blast to do
anything more than pull his bleeding hand to his stomach,
curling into a ball at the other man’s feet.
The preacher throws the shotgun as far into the distance as
he can, kneels and takes the wounded man’s head in his
hands. “Harlan, it will not be this mortal wound, but your
spiritual wound that will destroyyou. The Lord Jesus is
here to save you. Through me, He will cure you and give
you the will to pass through your dark days, setting you on
a well lit path to redeem yourself to your family.”
“I don’t have the will to do that.”
“Take your self-loathing, and direct it toward those who
deserve it. Join me in the fight against the killers of the
Lord Jesus’s helpless babies, against the homosexual
defilers of marriage, against the secularists who scheme to
destroy the Lord‘s world that we His flock live in.” The
holy man, wrath reddening his face, spittle spilling from his
lips, has pulled Harlan to a sitting position, taking him by
the shoulders.
Harlan feels himself to be sober, in full control, yet the
power of the preacher’s words intimidates him. He forgets
the pain emanating from his bleeding hand, mesmerized by
the passionate message. “Do you think my wife and
daughter grieve in Heaven, when they think of the way I
betrayed them?”
The preacher wraps Harlan‘s bloody left hand in his
handkerchief. “As serene as their life in Heaven may be, it

37
cannot be total until they know you have found the Lord,
and are once again whole and functioning with His power
living within you. A Born Again Christian sworn to service
in the Lord’s army.”
“How do I serve the Lord?”
“Get down on your knees and say with all the power of
your being, forgive me Lord Jesus.” Harlan, who feels his
head will explode from the desperation packing it, mutters:
“forgive me Lord Jesus.”
“No. No. You must scream it to the heavens, scream it
until you can scream no more.”
“Forgive me Lord Jesus!”
“Again. Louder. ‘Repent thee for the Kingdom of Heaven
is at hand.’”
“Forgive me Lord Jesus! Forgive me Lord Jesus! Forgive
me Lord Jesus!” For what seemed hours, Harlanscreamed,
“forgive me Lord Jesus,” until the holy man put his hand on
his shoulder, and said, “that is enough. Now ask the Lord
Jesus for direction. Tell Him you will stop drinking,
doping and follow the path He has lain down, and He will
give you everlasting guidance for He loves you more than
you can know.
For the first time in his life, Harlan’s emotions flowed
freeof inhibitions. He felt light with a child’s innocence, as
he repeatedly asked the Lord Jesus for the divine path.
Tears flowing from his eyes, he thought with the help of
this exceptional man of God, he might find peace and the
will to live.
“Harlan, I am talking to you,” the secretary pleads, lightly
shaking the pseudo paraplegic man’s shoulder. “Why do
you not answer me? I am prepared to give you your
instructions. First, you must promise to leave immediately
thereafter and never enter this holy church again,” the
secretary speaks, urgency lacing his words.
Before the man in the wheelchair can answer the secretary,
the singing comes to an end, and the preacher leaves his

38
seat next to his wife in the front row of the auditorium and
takes a position behind the dais on the stage. “Turn me so
that I can see the great man,” Harlanwhispers to the man
seated next to him.
The secretary does as requested, but again pleads, “it is too
dangerous here. You must leave now.”
Harlan ignores the man, his attention riveted on the
preacher as he begins his sermon. The holy man has aged,
his hair now solid white, but his physique is still trim and
muscular; he wears thick glasses, although the voice
remains passionately strong. The devoted follower thinks,
he is the best man God has produced for these difficult
times; many Christians want him to run for the presidency
of the United States and make God’s rule the law of the
land.
Harlan, his attention riveted upon the preacher as he
speaks, knows the great man’s words will invigorate him:
“most of you seated before me this Sunday morning know
me as a tolerant man, a man of God who believes in live
and let live. A man, who under most circumstances, would
turn the other cheek to an assailant. Only now, new types
of assailants are upon us, and the evil circumstances they
create are what I want to address this bright Sunday
morning. The assailants I speak of are products of the devil
and can no longer beleft to their own devices. This recent
demonic bombing at the World Trade Center basement in
New York City by Muslim thugs has made me face the
facts and view the world as it really exists, not how I or any
peaceful person would have it. Throughout Africa, the
Middle East, even throughout this great country of ours, in
fact, throughout the entireworld, evil has emerged, its
tentacles creeping forward from murky medieval madness.
As I speak, battles rage in Somalia, Algeria, throughout
Africa, throughout the Middle East, to eradicate
Christianity. The evil perpetrators seek control, which is an
absolute obedience to their religion. And that religion is

39
called Islam. It strives for control in every facet of life,
strives for control in every facet of government, plots for
control in every millimeter of Arab land and for control of
every foot ofnon-Arab land. This evil wants to take over
this country that you and I dwell in, end a standard of living
unsurpassed in the history of mankind. They call this
control of theirs, Shariah, a law they manufactured in the
name of their Qur’an to be obeyed absolutely. The false
men representing this evil call themselves sheikhs, imams,
mullahs and ayatollahs. They believe that only Islam has
the right to control governments, to control every citizen,
five times a day, from morning to evening prayer to control
what they eat, how they sleep. These pretenders of
righteousness, professing a mandate from their god, in
reality spew a dark-age mentality and morality over the
earth.”
“Harlan, you are to meet a military man, a man of God,
born again after serving in the Vietnam War,” the secretary
whispers impatiently.
“Do not interrupt me while the preacher speaks,” he growls
at the urbane man. Once again he focuses on his
benefactor’s words: “these heathens have no tolerance for
anyone who does not pledge their souls to the war-
mongering babble that their prophet put down in the
Qur’an, be that person Christian, Jew or Buddhist. Their so
called prophet, this Messenger of God, was a warrior, a
man who slaughtered thousands in the name of his god,
Allah. His own tribe threw him out of Mecca, the place
they call their holiest of holy cities. He fled north with his
followers and conquered Yathrib, now called Medina, later,
in the role of a bandit, he ambushed Mecca caravans as
they travelled their ancient routes. He did not convert
people by word and deed as did our Lord Jesus Christ; in
both Medina and Mecca, he brought the people to their
knees, forced them to worship his god—swear faith to
Islam or lose their heads. In the ancient village of Kheibar,

40
he slaughtered the Jews--men, women and children--when
they would not covert to his new born religion and worship
his declared god. The victims were the ancestors of our
devoted friends in Israel.”
“Harlan, the man you are to meet is a graduate of West
Point, a general in the army,” the secretary adds.
Even though, the man in the wheelchair realizes it is
extremely dangerous to do so, he grips the secretary’s wrist
and forcibly squeezes it, demonstrating his irritation at the
continual interruption of the preacher’s sermon.
The secretary grimaces, but endures the pain to deliver his
message: “this military man will give you a formulawith a
package that you are to deliver to a high-ranking official in
Israel.
“Harlanreleases the secretary’s wrist, his curiosity aroused.
“Why would a general risk his career to hand a fugitive like
me a formula?”
“He risks everything, because he knows the mission that
you are about to undertake may be the most glorious since
our Lord sent forth his disciples to deliver his holy
message. In exchange for the formula, the Israeli will give
you a. . . .” the secretary abruptly stops when he notices
the preacher’s eyes are locked on him, sending him a
warning from the stage not to talk during his sermon.
The preacher returns to his sermon: “the Israelis, the
modern-day Israelites, are our friends. From their bible,
they call the Torah and subsequent histories of the Jewish
people, our Old Testament was derived. Their prophets are
our prophets. Today, in Israel and in the territory called
Palestine, Jews are being slaughtered by Muslim terrorists.
In fact, throughout the Middle East and Africa, Muslims
torture, stone victims, amputate and behead in the name of
their god, Allah.”
“What is in this formula that you want delivered to the
Israelis?” Harlan inquires.
“It is a scientific one, too complicated to discuss in

41
detail and of small importance compared to the miraculous
object you will receive in return,” the secretary answers as
he moves his seat behind Harlan, obscuring himself from
the preacher’s sight.
“If I am to expose myself to the authorities by trusting an
Israeli who I don’t know, then I must know what is in this
formula.”
“It is a thermonuclear bomb as powerful as twohundred
megatons. The Hiroshima one was merely thirteen
megatons. This one has a pure fusion reactor fitting into a
space the size of a bowling ball that could be hand carried
to anywhere with the force to obliterate modern cities, as
far apart as Mecca and Medina. Normally a weapon this
powerful would be as large as a coffin, not size of the small
package you are asked to deliver. Besides being hand
carried, this small package can be mounted on the simplest
of guided missiles”
“Since you know the Israelis only stay our allies as long as
it serves their purposes, you would give them a ‘small
package’ like that?” He emphasizes, ‘small package’ to
illustrate the secretary’s choice of words for such a
destructive bomb.
The secretary does not answer, instead indicates for Harlan
to listen to the preacher: “Islam is an erroneous faith,
because it denies our Lord Jesus is the son of God. These
Muslims believe our Lord to be only a prophet, a lesser one
than their so-called Messenger of God--Mohammed.
“An alleged majority of Muslims who say their religion is a
peaceful and benevolent one, claim this with a wink,
because they believe that Muslim terrorists are only
following the dictates of the Qur’an, a violent jihad or
cause set down 1300 years ago by thisso-called prophet.
This Qur’an orders Muslims to convert the infidels.
Brothers and sisters, in their eyes, infidels are you and me.
If they cannot convert us infidels, then they must wipe us
from the face of this earth. For them, there is no moving

42
from that murderous purpose, because they know we will
never be converted to a corrupt religion, because they
realize that you and I will never abandon our Lord God and
his Son, our Savior. They entice their young men to
eliminate us by becoming human bombs. The proponents
of this terrorism have set up one of the most far-fetched
afterlives one can imagine. These brainwashed killers
believe they will become martyrs after blowing up innocent
people, sitting at the side of their Allah in a supposed
Garden of Eden, each murderer with seventy captivating
virgins serving their base demands.
“I often have informed you of our many enemies: the baby
killers, women who lie with women, men who sodomize
men, liberals who tear God’s words from our schools,
secularists who plot to unweave the moral fiber of this
nation by establishing their lawover God’s. Put them all in
a bag--feminists, baby-killers, homosexuals, liberal
politicians--and shake them up, and you cannot tell one
from another, for they all are sinners in the eyes of the
Lord. Repeat after me: “SINNERS.” The roof literally
trembles before the tumultuous, “SINNERS,” the
congregation shouts in unison.
“We must continue to combat these evil doers and at the
same time, combat the latest evil, perhaps the greatest of
all--Islam. Mosques are within ten minutes drive from this
holy church we are attending today, where Muslims are
plotting to harm us and the country we live in. It is
tempting to take up arms against these evil doers, beat them
back with our fists, but we must fight them in a non-violent
way. But fight them we must. If you suspect your Muslim
neighbor, be he or she the proprietor of your laundry, the
proprietor of your gas fill up, the mother of your child’s
playmate, any suspicious evil doer in one of a hundred
casual meetings duringyour workweek, then it is your duty
to God, to your country, to report those suspects to the FBI
or local authorities, but report them you must. From this

43
day forth, let us become watchful, non-violent soldiers in
the army of the Lord and the service of our nation. Let us
pray to God for the strength and fortitude to see this
mission through to its holy conclusion.”
The preacher’s church services ends with the song Bless Us
All. Both the secretary and Harlan join the congregation in
singing the full version.
“Carry a bowling ball. Wear a mustache and an orange
plaid shirt, the type that are sold at outdoor stores. The
general, dressed similarly, will find you at Kennedy Airport
before you board the flight to Israel.”
Harlan had no way to know if the preacher knew of his
presence in the balcony, although he sensed the great man
gave him some thought today. Since he felt the preacher
has sanctioned his mission to Israel, he would devote every
fiber of his being to its success.

* FAWN *

“You look so pretty in your new dress, Fawn.” The man

takes the small girl’s hand, thinking how young and
delicate it is, as he kneels beside her wheelchair.
“My mother made it for me. It is purple velvet like
princesses would wear.” The girl smiles at the man, and he
is unnerved by how her eyes seem to search his as if to
determine if he has the same unwavering faith in God that
she owns. He looks away to her mother whose lips have
formed a sad smile, yet the face reflects the same
determination he sees in her daughter.
“And it is a beautiful creation that she had made.” He
continues to gaze at the mother, trying not to think how
much she has aged since the Lord took her husband in the
Green Mountain Mine explosion, and now, a year later,
seeing her daughter, Fawn, struck down with such a terrible
disease.

44
“Is this what you truly want to do, Fawn?” he asks, turning
toward the Virginia Superior Court building sitting regally
on the rolling, landscaped lawn, its dome reflecting the
early morning sun, Richmond’s skyline in thedistance. Its
monumental steps just like the big court ones in DC—the
federal court that legalized baby killing. The steps lead up
to a portico that is held aloft by ten, six-feet in diameter by
forty-nine feet highlimestone columns.
“Fawn, see those columns, the tour books say together they
weigh as much as fifteen African elephants.” The little girl
smiles at the image of so many pachyderms, as she and her
mother follow his gaze to the building where the most
important issues in Virginia are argued before the highest
court. For the moment, their joint purpose takes precedent
over the compassion he feels for the small girl suffering
from diabetes, whose right leg less than a year ago had
been amputated above the knee.
“The liberals must know they cannot continue to attack our
Lord, Jesus. I must strike a blow for Him. Blessed be His
name,” Fawn strongly replies without hesitation, then
repeats the words her Lord spoke two millenniums ago: “’.
. . those who drink the water I give them will never
thirst.’”
“And you, Molly, is this what you want?” Harlan asks, his
attention going to the mother.
“Those high and mighty justices had no right to remove our
lord’s hands depicting Him in prayer from the courthouse.
This land was built with God’s will, now they throw His
Son’s hands out like they would the day’s trash.”
He still holds the small girl’s hand, as he takes the mother’s
hand with his other one, satisfied that the three of them are
joined by common purpose. “What the superior court had
done is a terrible thing, citing separation of church and state
when the country was built by god-fearing men. I must
know if you believe the purpose your daughter is about to

45
undertake is important enough to sacrifice her life for the
Lord?”
“The Lord took Johnny, my husband and your friend. Now
this.” The woman, tears flooding her eyes, releases the
man’s hand, and strokes her daughter’s long, dark hair, as
she gives her reasons: “my daughterhas had her one leg cut
off. Now, the doctors say the other one must go. When I
ask them, will that be the end of it, they don’t answer me,
but I can see the look of no hope in their eyes. I cannot
watch Fawnbeing chopped up like they would do a fryin’
chicken. I don’t think the Lord has seen fit to take her in
such a way as that. As precious as she is to me, I know she
is equally precious to Him. I will help her meet her Maker
as a soldier in the service of Christ.”
“You are determined to go with her?”
“Harlan, we in Letcher County are mighty proud to know a
man like you who has struck so many blows for the Lord.
Your brave attacks on the unfaithful, the murderers of
Christ’s babies have sent out a call for all of the faithful to
follow your example. Fawn and I can do no less, especially
when our purpose is so plainly sent from Heaven above.”
“Very well.” He moves directly in front of Fawn, his eyes
cannot avoid seeing the stump projecting from under her
loose-fitting, purple dress. He takes the small girl by her
youthful shoulders, looks into the innocent, luminescent
eyes, and instructs, “it is unlikely that any deputy sheriff
will search you, but in the event they do, you must pull the
cord to the explosives as I have shown you. If you are able
to get inside the courtroom, get as close to the men in the
black robes as you can. The rest is up to you, my sweet
child. Bless you.” He kisses her forehead, placing a thick
lens pair of eye glasses on her. She begins to sing:
“My sweet Lord/I really want to see you/ I really want to be
with you/ but it takes so long, my Lord.”

46
“Not long now, beautiful child,” he adds, rising and
embracingher mother. “Go now and do this wonderful
thing.”
“No one will be able to trace the explosion to you, Harlan.
Or to the preacher.”
“Hush.” He releases his dead friend’s wife, and watches
the mother push the little girl onto the walkway leading to
the courthouse, hearing Fawn and Molly sing, “My sweet
lord. Halleluiah.”

*HARLAN *

Getting an international flight to New York from Baltimore

undetected had been easier than he thought. Baltimore has
a large Jewish population, so getting a booking to
Jerusalem went unnoticed after he identified himself as
being Jewish. The religious man is nervous over exposing
himself to the public, knowing he has bombed abortion
factories in three northern cities, executed two baby-killers
in their homes, one in New Jersey, the other in
Pennsylvania, forcing him to hide from the FBI in his
native Kentucky hills. He puts his uncertainty aside for the
moment, wanting to get to what is really capturing his
thoughts: The Richmond Times he had bought at the airport
newsstand before boarding the flight to New York.
He reads the front page story with happiness, verifying that
the little girl and her mother have so successfully carried
out their mission and would surely at this moment be sitting
by the side of the Lord. The mother had used the handicap
walkway to push Fawn past the giant limestone columns
into the marble rotunda where the praying hands of the
Lord once held a prominent place under the Virginia
Supreme Court and past the deputy sheriff’s security
station. The law officers had not searched Fawn, allowing
that the metal in her wheelchair would trigger the alarm.
As instructed, her mother, instead of taking the small girl to

47
the visitors’ gallery elevated above the courtroom on the
third floor, waited until court was in session. When the
deputy sheriff guarding the entrance door to the second
floor courtroom relaxed his watch, the motherpushed the
wheelchair past him through the unlocked doors into the
round, marble courtroom. The deputy immediately
restrained the woman from pushing the wheelchair farther,
disturbing the court proceedings, enough to cause one
fatherly jurist to rise from behind the curved bench where
the justices sit and inquire of the little girl what she wanted.
As instructed, Fawn replied that she could not properly see
from the visitors’ gallery, and since the issue of the state
reducing social assistance to the less fortunate was now
being considered by the court, she hoped she might sit on
the main floorso that she could see and hear the
proceedings. The judge, who had inquired about her
purpose, took note of her amputated leg and thick eye
glasses, obviously moved by her beautiful long, dark hair
and appealing features enhanced by her new velvet dress,
left the bench and approached mother and daughter. The
newspaper accounting quoted him as saying, “I think today,
this court can set aside its restrictions and find your
daughter a better place to observe this court’s proceedings.”
He then escorted the mother and daughter to a place off to
the right of the attorneys seated at their circular tables,
pleading their cases.
The little girl did not hesitate: as soon as the man in the
black robe seated himself in front of her and ordered the
hearing to proceed, she pulled the cord as instructed. The
ten pounds of military C-2 explosives wrapped around her
torso demolished the courtroom, severely cracking the great
dome, blowing out the windows and doors, exciting a fire
on the second floor that gutted the upper two stories. All
nine supreme court justices who previously ruled the
Lord‘s hands should be removed from the rotunda, stating
religion had no business in state affairs, were blown to

48
Kingdom Come for their offense, at least that was the way
he interpreted the newspaper report. Along with Fawn, her
mother and the justices, six attorneys, four bailiffs and
fifteen interested parties had been destroyed. Thirty-seven
spectators and court employees had been seriously injured
or suffered third-degree burns.
As Harlan folds the newspaper, he feels a mixed joy over
the success of the little girl’s mission, for she had made the
ultimate sacrifice, giving her life before her time. He also
feels a reaffirmation of his purpose in life, and that is
fighting the Lord’s battle against the unbelievers. He
pushes his face into the window, muffling his voice as he
quotes: “‘Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey
Him!’"

* *

It is always dangerous for me to expose myself in public,

Harlanthought as he stepped from the shuttle bus,
transferring him from his Baltimore flight to the Tel Aviv
one. Especially now after the sweet, innocent Fawn
destroyed the devil’s workers in Virginia and the broadcast
media were devoting countless hours to replaying the scene
of damage and debating why the senseless deaths took
place and who was behind the bomber. “Born Again
Christians, God’s true children, that’s who,” he said silently
to himself, stepping into the international terminal and
immediately seeing the El Al clerks checking in passengers
for the flights to Israel. He fingers his phony mustache,
knowing that most fugitives are apprehended, because they
allow their nerves to get the best of them, and that is the
biggest tip off to the law enforcers; edgy nerves do not
apply to him, because getting caught holds no fear for him,
as it will take him, after the trial and execution, to the arms
of the Lord.

49
There are other international carriers in the terminal, such
as Air France, Air Italia, British Airlines, but his interest
stays locked on El Al agents interrogating boarding
passengers in the queues before the ticket counter. Jews
wearing skullcaps and Anglo tourists seem to get less
attention from the interrogators; the swarthy ones receive a
lot more scrutiny before they reached the ticket counter;
some are removed for further interrogation behind closed
doors. In addition to his mustache, he trimmed his hair
back to get a clean-cut look, wore the orange plaid,
overpriced shirt and jeans cut off above the knees and now
carries a bowling ball in its red, white and blue Spalding
carrying case. His dress is so outlandish, yet so typical of
the character he means to emulate that he might just get
pass the federal, airport watchdogs, who he suspects are
more interested in arriving passengers than departing ones.
Preferring to avoid standing in the long queue, he walks to
the newsstand, fronting a lounge, buys a Big Gulp cola and
a long cellophane tube of peanuts and watches the local
news report on television, until the national news goes
immediately to the Virginia Supreme Court bombing, at
which time he moves back into the terminal, as it is old
news to Harlan, setting his bowling ball down in front of
the screens displaying theincoming and outgoing flights.
The fundamentalist drinks his cola and eats his peanuts
while studying the electronic flight schedules, as any
traveler would do.
“What is your average, bowler?”
Harlan turns to the questioner and sees a very fit man, twice
his age, his hair cut short to a flattop, the kind Harlan’s
mother made him wear as a pre-adolescent. He holds a
Spalding bowling ball case exactly like the one the wanted
man holds. Lines give the questioner’s chiseled face the
appearance of knowledge, his square jaw that of character.
Harlan suppresses a grin, because in spite of the man’s
strong persona, his dress is laughable: he wears the green

50
plaid outdoor shirt the secretary said he would, only the
casual shirt is mitigated by sharp creases in his black,
walking shorts, as are the expensive red, white and blue
training shoes mitigated by black, dresssocks pulled up to
his knees. If the man intends to appear as a bowler, then he
is even more outlandish than what Harlan sees himself to
be.
“I average one eighty-seven. Harlan answers the man’s
question. “What is your average, bowler?”
“Seventeen points higher at two o four.”
“Two, zero, four, that impressive. Might be I will have to
settle for second place if you are competing in the same Tel
Aviv tournament.”
“Did I say seventeen points? Sorry I should have said
seven. I average one ninety-four.”
Harlansmiles and shakes the general’s extended hand,
satisfied that the password exchange went off in the manner
that he was informed it would. He likes the fit man with
his low commanding voice and earnest eyes.
“You always dress like General Buck Turgitson in the
movie, Doctor Stangelove?” Harlan remarks to break the
tension he feels exists between them.
“By the way you are dressed. . . The older man
methodically studies Harlan’s cutoff jeans and too tight
green plaid shirt and rundown athletic shoes. “. . . you
probably spent countless hours watching Gomer Pyle on
TV, as you have done a fine job emulating him.”
Harlan smiles, as he gives a retort: “if a person lives in a
glass house, he shouldn’t throw rocks, bowler.”
The general slaps the younger man’s shoulder good
naturedly, picks up his bowling ball case and uses the toe of
his shoe to nudge an identical case forward, causing Harlan
some apprehension over the unexpected switch.
“When you board your flight, Mossad agents will let you
pass though their security with my ball. I will carry your
ball. You will have no problem getting past Shabak, the

51
Israeli secret police in Israel. Everything has been
arranged. How is your memory?”
“Average. Look, I only have a high school education, so I
am not up to memorizing a complex, nuclear formula.”
“I didn’t think you would be. Are you going to offer me
some of your peanuts?”
Harlan hands over his tube-like bag of peanuts, somewhat
surprised by the request.
“The bomb’s design is in the form of the bowling ball by
your feet. Replicas of the layout---spacer, reflector, pit are
inside. The actual atomic ingredient and weight equations
are in the blue capsule I just spit into your peanuts. You are
to swallow it.”
“And do what?”
“Once there, retrieve it. And if you believe the Israelis are
on the up and up, give it to them.”
“By taking a dump?”
“I wouldn’t do it with them watching. If they play games,
as they have been known to do, chew up the capsule until it
is mush. Even with a nation of propeller heads as they are
known to be, it will take six months to a year for them
figure out the atomic weights and their arrangement.”
“Then, what is my leverage once I give them the bowling
ball, for I have heard the Jews are a very methodical and
patient race? For them, a year to discover the design could
be no more than a long day at the library.”
“Dudes, I am desperate. Can you help out a teenager in a
fix. Give me fifty dollars each, and I will be your
cheerleader.” The plotting men, so deep in their discussion,
did not notice the well developed brunette approach them;
her shorts so brief the cheeks of her butt hang out, an
equally brief halter and sandals are the only other articles
covering her body.
Irked by the interruption, the general replies, “Get lost,
Daisy Mae.”

52
“Who’s Daisy Mae, old timer? Let us start over: I will do
anything you ask, just give me the money,” she says in a
provocative manner.
The fit and very proper military man, struggling to hide his
displeasure, replies, “what I want you to do is to go home
and put on respectable clothing. You should be ashamed of
yourself. You look like a harlot.”
The teenage beauty, amused by his reply, says, “excuse me
for living. I didn’t realize I was talking to two bad asses
from god’s bowling team.” Seeing that she is not getting
anywhere with panhandling, she takes a new tact, offering
up: “I have some super smoke. You want to score.”
“Young lady. . .” the general speaks through clinched
teeth, . . “you are making a real nuisanceof yourself. I
am kindly asking you to leave us alone.”
“He is right, little darling. The only thing we want to score
is a perfect game of three hundred,”Harlan adds, attempting
to halt the interruption. The teenager, fully aware that the
halter she wears struggles to contain her ample breasts,
pushes her chest forward, saying: “take a hit on my stuff,
and you will giggle at any score over ten.”
“Get away, you little hustler, before I call the police. I am
sure your parents would be overjoyed to know you, half
naked, are peddling dope at the airport,” the general
remarks, no longer able to swallow his irritation.
“Save your breath, shmuck. My parent’s flight from Israel
arrives inabout an hour. Give me a hundred dollars, and I
will vanish.”
“I am not giving you zip shit, you dirty mouthed
panhandler. Now, go home and put some clothes on,” the
general, his patience worn thin, barks.
“I am wearing clothes, you cheap, moronic putz. I now
realize I am dealing with a lower mentality in you two, so
let me get down to your level: I will blow you both for a
hundred dollars each.”

53
Anger reaches the point to where it constricts the general’s
normally controlled face, draining all color from it. He is
barely able to growl his words: “young lady, do not say
another foul word. Your soul is teetering on the precipice
of a unforgiving and fiery Hell.”
Ignoring his condemnation, she adds, “I will swallow your
come or spit it on your belly, hot from your throbbing
shlong. Look, I am in a real jam, so I’ll do whatever your
fantasy is: up the tochis,if that turns you on. Two hundred
is all I need.”
The stiff military man, unable to bear another irreligious
word, turns his back to the determined teenager. Harlan
reaches into his trouser pocket and says, “prostitution can
get you a week in the slammer. Here is twenty dollars, if
you promise to go pester someone else.”
“I tried to play fair with you two self-righteous klutzes. If
anyone is going to the slammer, it will be both of you for
twenty years. What do you think the police will think
about mature men propositioning a minor—me-- big boy?
Your word against an innocent young girl who is waiting to
greet her parents returning from the holy land.” She
wiggles her hips to put a period on her threat. “Since you
both have demeaned me, you owe me a lot more than
twenty dollars.”
“Give you forty,” Harlan replies, checking his anger,
knowing this underdressed and under aged girl could
unwind his mission.
“As I said before, one hundred dollars each,” the teenager
says with authority.
“So now it’s a shake down, is it?” the irritated military
man, unable to walk away, comments.
The girl’s heretofore commanding mannerbegins to
dissolve. “I am really in a jam and fast running out of time.
I swear this is the truth.” Her pretty face turns sour, as tears
roll down her cheeks. “I took my dad’s custom made golf
clubs from the trunk of his Beamer and hocked them for

54
two hundred and fifty dollars to buy some stash, hoping to
keep half and sell the rest to classmates for a quick profit.
The deals fell through, and I need to redeem the clubs
before my dad discovers his Saturday morning playthings
are missing. I managed to sell a few joints, but still need
two hundred dollars. Please!”
“That is a true crock if I ever heard one. Here is five
dollars, now get out of my sight,”the general extends the
money. The bawling teenager can do no more than stare at
the offer, her tears drying on her cheeks.
“You cheap, goymother fucker. That is probably the first
five dollars you ever earned. What an uptight idiot you are.
I would not take money from you two, if you were the last
people on earth.” The teenager is so annoyedshe spits her
words onto the general’s green plaid shirt. Not knowing
what else to do, she grabs the cellophane tube of nuts
Harlan holds.
“At least give me a handful of your peanuts for all the time
I wasted here.” Instantaneously, the hands of the general
and the fundamentalist latch on to her wrist. Genuinely
astonished by the desperation showing in the eyes of the
two men, “she entreats, “okay, let go. I didn’t realize you
mushugas were so much into nuts.”
“Careful you don’t spill the nuts,” Harlan pleads to the girl,
who notes the panic in his voice.
“I will tear your bag to shreds if you don’t let go of my
wrist.”
“Bowler, I believe we should give this young lady the
money she needs, and cut our loss before it gets much
bigger,” the general, regaining control of his senses,
suggests, as he carefully releases the teenager’s wrist.
The previously mischievous, previously tearful and afore
angry girl’s pretty face, sensing a successful quest, bursts
into a portrait of delight.
“Thank you, my two benevolent bowlers.” She turns to
Harlan, who sighs as he releases her arm. After she

55
removes her hand from the bag of nuts, he hands her two
hundred dollars. Both men watch the voluptuous teenage
saunter to the airport gift shop, counting her money.
“She must be the devil’s very own daughter,” Harlan
remarks.
“I think we avoided biting a bullet. If she is an example of
the next generation, we truly are outgunned,” the general,
his face showing relief, adds.
“Where were we?” the general asks Harlan. “Oh yes, after
examining the bowling bowl, why wouldn’t the Israelis go
ahead and develop the bomb and keep the holy object we
seek? The drawback for them, Harlan, is the firing
sequences of the mechanisms that transfer our gift from an
inoperative device into a lethal one beyond any force
imaginable. That bit of info is in the second capsule, a red
one, that I am about to give you. Memorize the contents.
Don’t swallow this one, or you will have to expel it before
your flight leaves, “the military man adds, in better humor
after the teenager disappeared.”
“Say I keep my wits and don’t swallow the red capsule.
What am I to memorize?”
“I do not believe there is any harm in letting you
understand the complexity that took our top nuclear
scientists more than forty years to formulate. You are
memorizing the firing sequences for two multi-laser
emitters in spinning fly eye configurations. Enough fire
power in two baseball size devices to generate the heat of
the sun that will trigger atomic collisions at the speed of
light.”
“General, fly eyes are known to have a hundred facets.
How am I, an ex coal miner, suppose to commit to memory
two separate firing sequences of such complexity?”
“I am informed the sequences areeven more complicated
than that. How about using the number one hundred
squared to the hundredth degree? That should put you
somewhere over a trillion possibilities for each sequence,

56
ten billion to the tenth to be exact, with only two workable
ones in the mix. And those two sequences must be
harmonized for full effect. Mind boggling, huh? Those
impossible numbers are why one particular nuclear scientist
has been working on it since the Cuban Missile Crisis,
when the world almost slipped into a nuclear holocaust.
The Israelis or anyone else cannot figure out the
mechanisms within any sensible timeframe without the
firing sequences you are to trade for the item the preacher
and I so fiercely desire.”
“I owe the preacher my life, but I don’t understand why he
doesn’t send this nuclear scientist and eliminate all this
swallowing, expelling and memorizing business?”
“For starters, he is a Heb, not a Born Again like we are. If
that is not a good enough reason, he mysteriously died of
heart failure the same week he worked out the two firing
sequences.”
“Risky business being a dedicated nuclear scientist,”
Harlan comments, suspecting foul play, but indifferent to
the scientist’s death.
“It can be for a Jewish one with a brother who is a senior
officer in the Israeli Defense Forces. You have one hour to
memorize the formulas of the two firing sequences, before
you board your El Al flight. Now, swallow the blue
onewith your Big Gulp drink. I have no
communicabledisease, so don’t worry about catching
anything. And, I suggest you buy a laxative when you get
to Israel.”
Harmon gulps down the blue capsule with a few peanuts.
“Offer me the bag of peanuts again,” the general instructs
the fundamentalist.
He hands the cylinder bag to the general, who holds the
cellophane tube to his mouth, spitting the red capsule into
the bag. “Go to the men’s rest room, find a stall and open
the red capsule I just spit into thisbag of nuts and memorize
its contents. Once you do that, immediately shred the paper

57
and flush the pieces down twoseparate toilets. The Israelis
are our friends, but they can be tricky at times, so do not
fail to destroy the equation. And above all, do not reveal
what you have memorized until you receive what you are
being sent to get. Now get going. I will wait for you in the
boarding queue.”
“Look, I may not be the smartest guy in town, but I know
the bowling ball going to Israel has to be radioactive.”
“It is only a facsimile of the real thing, using different
colored plastics to represent the various atomic
components. Harmless! The Israelis will allow you to
keep possession of the bomb facsimile until you hand them
the blue capsule with the bomb’s atomic structure. Now
let’s move before another weirdo drops by.”
Harlan sits on the toilet seat, thinking, after swallowing the
tiny blue capsule, no bigger than a jelly bean, he isfully
committed to the venture that lies ahead. It is a different
commitment, carrying the capsule in his stomach, than
executing abortionists and secular blasphemers, but still a
commitment to God. He twists the red capsule, twice the
size of the other one, and it separates, revealing a tiny
scroll. Unrolling the curled paper, he studies the two
mathematical formulas. None of what he reads makes
sense to him, but the formulas, short equations, although
different from each other, are easy to memorize, which he
does is a short time, and then shreds the tiny scroll and
flushes half of the shreds down the commode underneath
him and discards the remainder in another commode as
instructed.
Carrying the general’s bowling ball, he finds the man
carrying his ball and steps beside him in front of the ticket
counter. “Completed as instructed,” Harlan says in an easy
way.
“An American archeologist will contact you upon checking
in at your hotel. He will authenticate the object you are to
take in trade. The Israeli VIP probably will have a nuclear

58
scientist to make sure you are not handing him the formula
for a bogus bomb. Once the trade is made, you are to
contact the preacher’s secretary, and he will make
arrangements to collect the object. It is as simple as that.”
“The Israelis have their own neutron bomb, why do they
want another?’
“Any Israeli politician that you corner will deny having
such a weapon, even though any American high school kid
knows their spies stole a fission formula from us. Be that
as it may, I believe they have yet to develop a
thermonuclear bomb, so this will be a big leap forward for
them. The bomb we are about to give them is extremely
powerful without much of a radiation fallout, which means
the Hebs can do our dirty work for us--blow Mecca and
Medina to Kingdom Come, send the Arabs scattering like
ants without a nest. In the doing they won’t contaminate
the Middle East population with much radiation fallout.”
“Do you think that even the Israelis would do that?”
“Understand this: the holy land is the devil’s playground; it
hosts surrounding fundamentalists in Iran, Syria, Iraq,
Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Sudan and Yemen plotting to destroy
Israel. Israel, in turn, would welcome the opportunity to
destroy them. In addition to those hostile countries, the
mother of all diabolical murderers, al Queda in
Afghanistan, lurks in the background. To save their tiny
country, any Israeli government in power would not
hesitate to use our bomb.”
The two pseudo bowlerspick up their tickets and move to
the electronic scanner before the boarding area.
“You are a senior military officer, how can you give the
murderers of Jesus Christ Our Lord this super bomb?”
Harlan asks, still uncomfortable with turning over such a
deadly weapon to a foreign country.
“Well, I don’t think the Hebs will use it on us. Hopefully,
they will slow down these multiplying terrorists from
getting to our doorstep.”

59
The senior military man places the bowling ball he took
from Harlanon the conveyer belt to be x-rayed by security.
He gives the younger American a fair well handshake,
instructing, “you are to carry your ball onto the plane.”
The general’s bowling ball passes through the security
scanner without incident, but when the incompatibly
dressed man steps through the metal detector, the alarm
goes off, prompting two security agents to pull him out of
line. They seem almost apologetic until their search of the
suspect finds a penknife. And then the men fit enough to
be Mossad operatives, quietly escort the pseudo bowler
away from the boarding area, disappearing behind a door
with the lettering: Private. No Entry. At first the Christian
fundamentalist is distraught, thinking the general’s
detainment will thwart his mission, and then chuckling to
himself as he realizes the incident has been staged to
excuse the general from boarding the Israel bound airplane.

* *

The forged passport supplied to him by his benefactors was

a good one, for the Israeli inspectors let him carry his
bowling ball aboard the El Al flight to Israel without
incident as the general stated. Like Baltimore, New York
City has a large Jewish population, and he passed as just
another Jew visiting the land of his ancestors. But in
reality, he knows he is a soldier in the service of Jesus with
a bomb’s design in his belly, the equation for ignition plus a
covenant with God in his head. He hoped the general
would also be correct when he said Israeli customs would
not search him upon arrival in Tel Aviv, and he could safely
travel to Jerusalem. If not, then he would be discovered
and returned to federal authorities in the United States.
And immediately upon running his fingerprints, the FBI
would discover his true identity, that of being the most
wanted man in the nation, next to Muslim terrorists.

60
 * DOVID *

The Israeli Defense Minister turns his back to the boy, and
gazes out his Jerusalem apartment window at the distinct
Knesset building in the distance, wondering what new
problems are being hatched there by his liberalfoes.
“It had to be a trap, sir. At least, twenty-five to thirty
refugee dwellings in all directions were deserted. The
attackers were women, not men, shooting at us. I could not
retreat with the others because of my wounded leg, so I
played dead.” The young man touches the cast on his leg
where a bullet shattered the bone. “It is not right that my
comrades in arms should die, and I am the only one to live.
The Palestinians must have planned the trap for weeks.
Our tanks never had a chance. It was awful, sir.”
“Planned it for one week,” the minister comments to
himself. Remembering his order to Jonathan to level the
terrorist boy‘s house after Acharon Shel Pesach, the last
day of Passover was observed, he has difficulty facing the
young, overwrought soldier,. With difficulty, he directs his
attention to the wounded soldier barely out of his teens. “I
want you to discard your guilt. You had nothing to do with
the others dying. A mistake on our part caused the tragedy.
Now, I want you to go home and recuperate with your
family. The general will see to it that you receive active
duty pay until you are well enough to resume your life as
you knew it before the attack. Your duty for this year is
over, so enjoy civilian life. You are a music student are you
not?”
“Yes sir, I study piano in Hefa,” the wounded boy answers,
his attention going to the balding four-star General of the
Israeli Defense Forces. The ageing, yet fit and sturdy
commander of the army places a hand on his shoulder and
says, “that will be all, Private. Thank you for telling us
what you witnessed at Aide”

61
“Sir,” the soldier directs his words toward the Defense
Minister, seemingly unsure of what happened at Aide: “Are
they are all dead. The tank crews? Everyone in my
platoon?”
“Yes,” the heavyset minister answers, leaning back against
the wall to steady himself against the wave of grief hitting
him over the demise of twenty-four young men serving
Israel. They are all dead, except for the young man,
crutches aiding his movement,being escorted from the
room by a male nurse. The soldiers were either killed
during the trap or mutilated by Aide inhabitants, probably
Hamas militants, when they fled into the refugee village,
their violated bodies later discovered in a lot littered with
garbage. Three tanks, the armored transport, two
bulldozers all destroyed. The tank crews dead. Three
young Israelis burnt to death outside Jonathan’s lead tank.
His son gutted and left to die in agony---the highest single-
battle casualties since the Yom Kippur War of 1973. Adding
to the setback, the valuable nail he promised the American
religious leader was missing from Jonathan’s possessions.
The minister just wants to curl up somewhere and die, but
he cannot, because his nation is calling for retaliation,
especially since the newspapers, television and radio
stations have kept the disaster at Aide in the public’s eye;
some of the leftist stations even calling for his resignation.
The prime minister has ordered him to explain the incident
in writing after his son’s funeral at the family house in the
Negev.
Mattath turns to his old friend, the man who turned the
Syrian Army back when they attempted to capture the
Golan Heights in the last war.
“Solly, who planned and who executed the trap?” he uses
the pet name for Solomon, as he and the general have
known each other since they were recruit commandos
attacking Palestinian strongholds in Jordan. Subsequently,
the elite Golani unit of the army was patterned after their

62
early commando exploits.
“Dovid, senior agents at Mossad believe it could be
a pack of women, possibly the ones who have been
spasmodically murdering soldiers at checkpoints in the
territories.”
“Arab women, how can it be?”
“Mossad suspects the ringleader to be a woman recently
returned from England where she purportedly studied
World Political Theory, gaining a Post Graduate Degree
there. They have no description of her. Although, if this
particular woman was the ringleader she could be the niece
of a high profile Hamas leader, George Hamad, a real
Rashi.”
“Is not that a contradiction in terms, General; the niece of a
Hamas fundamentalist being allowed to have militant
followers and add to that improvability the notion she is
given the leeway to combat men, even Jewish ones?”
Rabbi Shimshon asks; he is the most renowned Rebbe in
Jerusalem, not only because of his ultra conservative
scholarship, but also because his family was one of the first
immigrates to Palestine from the Ukraine in the former
United Socialist Soviet Republic. The general restrains his
irritation at being questioned by a civilian, because he
knows his old friend, the minister, is heavily influenced by
the ultra-conservativeRabbi. But the venerable firebrand,
this Rabbi, who as a young man encouraged Menachem
Begin to implement the settler program in the Palestinian
Territories, irritates him. Because as general of the IDF he
has to deal with the Palestinians’ growing hatred over
having their land confiscated for ultra-conservatives to
move into newly build homes paid for by the government.
He puts aside his irritation, knowing the rabbi is here to
console his friend over the loss of his last surviving son.
He turns to the very thin man in black who sits relaxed in a
chair, studying the full red beard the religious leader wears,

63
thinking he resembles a red-headed Rasputin, and replies to
the question:
“This high-ranking Hamas leader allows her more
autonomy than any Arab womanfor some unknown reason.
Possibly, he has unusual tolerance for her, because her
grandparents, his parents, were killed during our War of
Independence, her parents his brother and sister-in-law
were killed at Shatila by the Lebanese Christians.” He
hesitates, not meaning to mention Shatila, because Dovid
almost resigned in disgrace for allegedly masterminding the
carnage at the Lebanese refugee camp.
“Shatila is a matter long in the past, Solly. Please
continue,” the minister instructs his general, staring at the
al Aqsa Mosque dominating the far horizon outside his
apartment, his visit there reportedly sparking the last
intifada, known as the second one.
“We have no physical description of her as she has never
appeared on intelligence’s radar screen. We do know, prior
to her schooling in England, she attended Cairo University,
which has always been a hot bed for Muslim Brotherhood
dissidents. Reputed to be a very assertive woman, almost
unbelievably so for a female Muslim, she probably had
some dealings with that extreme group in Cairo. What I
find curious is how did she, a Muslim woman, gain so
much clout to influence the Aide refugees to not only
evacuate two hundred or more hovels, but to do it in such a
covert manner.”
“And without Israeli Intelligence even knowing about her.
Thank you, General. If you can place her at the time and
place of the trap, I want you to find and eradicate her and
her followers.”
“As you wish, Minister.”
“Dovid,” the Rebbe addresses the minister softly, standing.
“I only speak because your current grief may be clouding
your thoughts. There is the matter of Aide. It has been a
hornets’ nest for attacks on our brave settlers living nearby.

64
This could be an excellent opportunity to rid ourselves of
the pests. I suggest you take advantage of public opinion
against the Palestinians to level the camp and scatter the
inhabitants into the four winds.”
The Defense Minister moves away from the wall and
begins to pace back and forth across his spacious study
without responding to the rabbi’s suggestion.
“Dovid, your grandparents immigrated here from Poland,
mine from the Ukraine. The people of those lands kept our
people persecuted and isolated for generations. All the
wrongs perpetrated against us have given us a mandate to
dwell in the land of our ancestors. Our ancient land
runsfrom the Mediterranean to the Jordan River. We must
rid it of the Arab pestilence.
“What you say is true, Rebbe. But we have our supporters
in Europe and especially in Washington, D.C. to consider.
General, please order the Air Force to drop leaflets advising
the Aide refugees to evacuate within twenty-four hours to
placate the world media and then level the camp a mile in
each direction from the spot of the infamous attack on our
brave men and women.”
“Dovid, that action could displace as many as 8000 men,
women and children into the desert between Jerusalem and
Bethlehem.”
“Perhaps a good thing. It will give the PLO something
constructive to do upon their return to the territories,”
Rabbi Shimshon interjects.
“See that the order is carried out within the next forty-eight
hours,” Dovid adds, and then addresses the Rabbi, “will
you lead us in Mincha and perhaps a Yizkor in memory of
my son?
The three powerful Israelis put on their Tallis and the Rabbi
chants in Hebrew Psalm eighty-four: “How lovely is Your
dwelling place, O Lord of. . . .”

* HAIFA *

65
The tall, statuesque Palestinian woman, the victor over the
Israelis at Aide, now a fugitive, walks the narrow street in
Suq Hamadya, the main market in the Old City of
Damascus, desiring to buy fresh vegetables and fruit from
the vendors. It has been a week since her escape from the
refugee camp outside of Jerusalem, and she is still
uncomfortable in this city notorious for its secret police and
foreign spies, including Israeli ones in spite of Syria’s open
hostility toward Jews. She will take the food back to her
modest room in the Old City on the bank of the Barada
River, as she has taken food from a different marketplace
every evening since arriving here.
After taking the ancient nail from the dying Israeli officer,
she ordered her female followers to flee the country in the
best way they could, for the Israeli Defense Minister would
have blood in his eyes when notified of his son’s death and
the army’s disaster. Haifa knew some women had made
plans to flee to Cairo, some to Baghdad, some to Beirut--all
metropolitan Arab cities where single, unescorted females
would not be marked by the unyielding Shariah practiced in
many Arab cities, such as Riyadh, and Teheran. She read in
the Damascus newspaper that two of her women were shot
trying to escape to Egypt at the Gaza border near the Sinai,
and the Israeli army leveled a third of the Aide refugee
camp. No reports of her uncle’s house in Ram Allah being
destroyed appear in the Palestinian media, so she knows for
the time being the Israelis have not placed her at Aide. For
herself, she had previously planned her escape, and it went
well; speaking fluent Hebrew, thanks to the Chairman who
instructed, “know thy enemy,” when speaking to her
undergraduate class at Cairo University, she successfully
got past the Israeli checkpoint on the Palestinian side of the
King Hussein Bridge leading to Amman,Jordan. Her
Hebrew with a touch of a British accent, along with a
forged British passport,indicating her Jewish nationality,

66
got her past the four soldiers and their young officer. By
their flirtatious manner, she assumed they had not heard of
the army’s disaster at Aide. The young Israeli officer even
patted her buttocks, much to the titillation of his
subordinates.
In Amman, maybe the most secular of Arab cities, she
openly functioned as a Palestinian woman, dressing
conservative in loose clothing, wearing gloves and a kijab
over her hair. After the Aide attack dominated all TV and
print stories in Amman, she caught a French Airlines flight
from the Jordanian capital to Damascus, resembling any
professional Arab woman on a business trip. Immediately
after the trap she set for the soldiers and their tanks, she
arranged one more attack on the murderer of her parents,
the Israeli Minister of Defense. This is another reason for
her risking exposure in the marketplace, searching for news
of what she hoped would be a disastrous funeral for the son
of the infamous Defense Minister. She had not anticipated
Mattath’s son driving the tank into her trap at Aide, but his
death gave her the opportunity to put into play a kidnapping
she had placed on hold for months, waiting for the right
time and location. This would be one last gift to the man
who orchestrated the deaths of so many Palestinians,
including her parents at Shatila, but to date no news of the
deadly gift has surfaced.
She finds herself moving aimlessly through the street
traffic, down the center of a narrow street choked with
venders and occupied by a hundred scents--some good,
some not so good. The vendors sell their wares from stalls
hanging offancient walls enclosing the venerable
marketplace. The street, looking strangled by the many
overhanging electrical wires, is crowded with conservative
Syrian women shopping for their dinners as she appears to
be, and a blend of contemporary dressed women and men
she assumes are their husbands. They mill about,
examining shoes, dresses, shirts and accessories jammed

67
into cramped shopping areas. She picks out two oranges
with some irony, because the vender guarantees they are
fresh from Palestine, and a few tomatoes, a leafy head of
lettuce and a loaf of flat bread. The gnarled vender, his
yellowed beard thinned by age, takes in her modest,
although tasteful dress and quickly reveals a bottle of
expensive Syrian wine.
Knowing it is foolhardy to break character, that of a devout
Muslim woman, she pays the vender his outrageous asking
price and tucks the wine in the bag containing her dinner.
When poverty pulls on it populace as it does in this poorer
section of the city, predators and opportunists abound. As
she turns, departing from the vender, a dark faced Syrian
with a jackal’s darting eyes catches her attention. A week‘s
beard covers his face; a shirt unbuttoned to the navel
displays a gold chain holding a tiny gold scimitar with a
red-gem handle bouncing on his hairy chest. She has seen
this type of flirtatious look many times during her
undergraduate days and avoids this flirtation as she brushes
past him into the crowded street.
“Want some company, sexy,” he asks, putting his hand on
her breast as she tries to walk away. Disgusted over her
carelessness, she bites her tongue, thinking, unescorted
Arab women on the streets are fair game for Arab men,
especially when unthinking females purchase an alcoholic
drink forbidden by Muslim law. She would literally like to
beat herself for such a sophomoric mistake, but now has to
deal with the results of it, as the modishly dressed
opportunistis following her. She carries no gun or knife,
fearing the Syrian custom officers at the Damascus airport
would search her upon arrival, which was probable since
she had no escort. She darts into the first, dark passageway
off of Suq Hamadya and runs, hoping to outdistance the
Syrian following her. As she runs, she hears his leather
shoes sounding on the cobblestone passageway. She
detours into another passageway, more of a dirt covered

68
dark alley with garbage piled up behind run down
businesses. The faster she runs, the quicker the beat of his
shoes soundbehind her. Breathing so fast she has trouble
filling her lungs with air, the fleeing woman drops her food,
holding onto the wine bottle, hoping to use it as a weapon
to injureher pursuer. She turns to face him, as he runs
toward her, slowing his step when he notices she has
stopped to confront him. There is just enough thin light
from a second story tenement window above the
passageway for her to discern the lecherous grin on his
face. Even as tall as she is,he appears to be a good three
inches taller, perhaps as much as six feet, two inches. She
notes that he is not intimidated by the bottle she holds like a
club.
He speaks in Arabic, the profanity sounding incongruous to
the language: “it is time to show me your pussy, baby doll.”
“The only thing you are going to see is a long lasting Hell,
if you come any closer.” Although agitated by her
situation, Haifa is not frightened by the aggressive man.
Ever since her uncle hired the mullah to violate her body,
she has prepared herself to fight off the violations of men,
especially Muslim men. In England, it had been easy to
hire an expert, a veteran of the Royal Marines, to teach her
hand to hand combat to discourage predators.
The attacker takes off his sports jacket and wraps it around
his forearm, extends his other hand to grab the bottle she
holds. He lunges forward, grabbing her dress by its lapel,
but not before she shatters the full wine bottle against his
jaw, its contents splashing onto his open shirt and chest.
Blood squirts from his busted lips, as he dropsto his knees,
ripping the top of her dress open. The bottle had shattered
to its neck, cutting her hand. She holds a sharp piece,
almost a stiletto, about to plunge it into his eye, and then
she hesitates, realizing the force of her thrust will cause the
razor sharp glass to further slice her hand to the bone. Her
pause gives the attacker time to regain his senses, he grabs

69
her at the knees and pulls her down to where he jumps on
top of her, at the same time bending her wrist backwards
until she dropsthe splintered piece of glass. He quickly
slams his elbow into the side of her head, stunning her.
Pinning her arms to the dirt, he gloats over her defenseless
position as she triesto fight him off. The Palestinian
woman recognizes him as a street tough, one of countless
thousands in the Arab world--devout at the mosque and an
animal outside of it. This animal has his knee between her
legs, pushing her long skirtup to her groin.
Fighting to beat off her rapist, she does not notice the
shadowy figure moving toward them. The non-descript
figure kicksthe attacker in the ribs. After the kick, the man
with the wine-stained shirt rolls over, howling with pain,
the intervention astonishing him. Haifa, just as surprised
by the intruder’s sudden appearance, sees a large, burly
man, guessing he is somewhere in his thirties by the
imposing way he stands over them. For a few seconds, no
one moves as much as a twitch, and then her attacker flicks
a knife blade out, pulling himself to his knees and slashing
the four-inch blade back and forth in the direction of the
intruder. The burly intruder chuckles, as he pulls an
automatic pistol from his suit jacket, motioning for the man
to place the knife on the dirt.
When the thwarted attacker does as ordered, the gun-
wielding man sends the toe of his shoe into the kneeling
man’s mouth. This time the blow seriously injures the
attacker, prompting him to crawl to the wall; too battered to
escape, he collapsesagainst it. The figure standing in the
semi-darkness levels the pistol and methodically shoots the
debilitated man in the head. The killer next turns to Haifa,
ogling her naked legs. She pushes herself off the ground,
pulling her skirt down, standing somewhat baffled by the
cold-blooded killing in her behalf.
“It is one less sinner Allah will have to deal with. Let him
burn in Hell.”

70
“Thank you for coming to my aid. How did you know I
was in trouble?”
“Trouble is my business. I saw you buy the wine as did
this piece of dead trash. Unusual for a devout Muslim
woman, such as you appear to be, to buy wine, especially
for a womanwho is alone on the streets at night. Some
might say suspicious.”
“Are you Mukhabarut?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Palestinian.” Haifa’s survival instincts scream alert with
the realization she faces a national security policeman.
“Your business in Damascus?”
“I planned to visit a classmate of mine, but she is out of
town until next Monday, I have taken a room until then,”
Haifa lies, trying to buy some time to escape further
questioning from a member of the feared Mukhabarut,
notorious for their ruthless interrogation methods. She
realizes that even as much as Syrians hate the Israelis, it
does not put the Palestinians in a favorable light, because
ever since the PLO foolishly sought to take over a
Lebanese government that was strongly influenced by the
Syrian government, Syrian authorities are suspicious of
Palestinians. Yasser Arafat and Hafez al Assad were said to
be openly hostile to one another, so she is not about to
divulge that she is running from the Israelis after destroying
three of their tanks.
“Your passport please.”
The tall woman, uneasy with the situation, does her best to
act calm as she takes her Palestinian passport from the
pocket of her skirt. The Syrian policeman inspects it, but
cannot read it in the poor light. He puts his hand on her
bare shoulder where the dress has torn away. “Let us move
to where the light is better.“ Instead of being alarmed by
his brazen move, that of touching a Muslim woman, she
remains calm, knowing she has a bargaining chip.

71
He keeps his hand on her bare shoulder, leading her to
where the narrow alley meets the passageway she first fled
into and stops under a street light. He studies the passport,
commenting, “you have been to England.”
“I went to school there, yes.”
“What kind of school? Perhaps a spy one,” he removes his
hand as if suspecting the worst of the woman.
His remark sends a chill up her spine. Under the
streetlight, she evaluates the man: he is, although burly,
quite good looking, a strong, dark face displaying the
popular Syrian mustache. He smiles sinisterly, revealing a
perfect set of white teeth. “A devout Muslim woman who
buys wine. A Palestinian woman who has studied in the
crusader’s land. All very suspicious.” He puts her passport
into his jacket pocket, and places his hand on her naked
shoulder once again.
“Officer. . . .”
“You can call me Amer.” His hand massages her back
where it meets the neck.
“Amer, the English gave the Jews my people’s land, the
Jews stole my grandparents’ land during Narkba, our
catastrophe. I would die before I worked for the infidel
English. I studied there because to destroy your enemy,
you must know him first,” she pleads, allowing
unnecessary panic to flood her voice.
“What you say is possible, but there is the matter of the
wine.”
“Amer, I wear thismodest dress so as not to be molested on
the streets as solitary women often are. My beliefs do not
forbid me to drink wine.”
“All that you say is logical, yet your statements need some
authentication. If I take you to the police station until I can
get that authentication, then I must file a report and my
superiors would wish to talk to you. Perhaps you have
some evidencewhere you are staying that can support what

72
you are stating? A room nearby where we can satisfy my
police officer’s curiosity?”
“Haifa, knowing she has little choice but to comply, allows
him to slide his hand onto her breast, noticing the
policeman becomes immediately aroused after discovering
she wears no undergarment there.
“I have a small room at the nearby Hotel Rushid. You
have my permission to question me there.”

* *

The Palestinian woman escorts the man who prevented her

rape in Suq Hamadya to the tiny Rushid Hotel by the river,
named after the male owner, leading him through the
narrow doorway into the ornate lobby with its hand painted
blue and green tiles covering the lower walls up to a
wainscot; hot brown and orange stripped wallpaper
clasheswith the cold tiles. It is late so the owner has retired
for the evening. She ascends the narrow steps to the third
floor, feeling the man’s hands fondle her protruding
buttocks at each step. She finds herself in a situation that
she did not seek, but now welcomes the opportunity,
because men using their authority to take advantage of her,
expecting her to comply with their demands, so sure of the
outcome, need an awaking.
They enter her small room, and she switches on the bedside
lamp, waitingwhile he studies the room with its tiny alcove
where a hot plate and microwave oven sit near a sink. He
then opens the bathroom door, switching on the light and
inspectsthe interior. His attention goes immediately to the
bed, taking a moment to savor the prospect of being in it
with the Palestinian woman. Removing his jacket and
tossing it on the chair, he sits on the bed, revealing an
automatic pistol in his hip holster for her to see.
“For the moment, let us postpone the proof you wish to
show me. It is possible that you can convince me in other

73
ways.” He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt collar, so
there is no mistaking his meaning. Haifa, seeing how
aroused the man has become, is confident of her moves.
She slowly removes her loose shirt, revealing her bare
chest, caressingher breasts until the nipples are hard. She
knows it is a show that most Muslim men fanaticizeabout,
having subdued their wives into impassionate robots. She
steps to within a few feet of him, unfastening her long
formless skirt and stepping out of it, inviting his eyes to
caress her well-formed legs.
“Please remove your weapon.” The fingers of both her
hands form a V on her crotch, directing his attention to her
genitalia under sheer silk, certain that the security
policeman will not release her after she performs a sex act
with him. The enamored Syrian follows her instruction,
dropping his pistol and holster on the chair and removing
his belt in the process. Haifa undoes his pants, overcoming
her revulsion, caresses his penis as she frees it from his
underpants. His hands find her hips, and she knows exactly
whatshe must do. She places both hands on the small of
her back, arching her pelvis toward him.
“I am so hot I cannot wait another moment. Please remove
my undergarment.” The man grasps the sheer cloth by both
hands, undecided whether or not to remove the panties or
ripthem apart. While he is so occupied, Haifa’s fingers
probe the crevasse near her anus where her buttocks swell.
In the crevasse, she has taped a single-edge razor blade
inside one cheek, intending to use it to slit her own wrists if
she ever is captured by the Israelis or punished by the
Muslims as she once was. The Mukhabarutofficer has slid
her panties from her hips to the floor, burying his face into
her pubic hair. Taking her time, she pulls the razor blade
free, and with her hands behind her back, removes the thin
cardboard shield. She ever so gently pushes his head away
from her body. When he gazes up to her, she tilts his chin
as if to kiss him. At the instant he closes his eyes to enjoy

74
the kiss, she slits his throat with one deep slash. She
watches him writhe on the bed, blood squirting from his
throat, unable to call for help, as the deep slash has severed
his vocal cords. Before she dresses, she has one last piece
of business: if Muslim men favor castrating promiscuous
women, then she will return the favor. She amputates his
still stiff penis and holds it before the dying man,until he
averts his eyes. She tosses the amputated piece of flesh
into the corner, lastly taking her passport from his jacket
slung over the chair.

* DOVID *

“A child should bury his parents, not the other way around,
the heavyset, old man comments to his bereaved wife, as he
stands on the stone patio behind his farm house, his gaze
upon the family graveyard situated on an elevation in the
distance. Three generations--his grandparents, parents and
oldest son--are buried where he can view their gravesites
from the house; his wife, Hannah’s parents are also buried
there. He can see chairs arranged for the service and the
mound of dirt that will cover his youngest son. Hannah,
slips her arm across his ample back, unable to reach his
waist, noticing how much he has aged since news of their
son’s death reached them.
“He came to see me in his uniform on the second day of
Passover, and I sent him away before you discovered his
presence,” he says to his wife, who seems to manage her
grief better than he does.
“Why, Dovid?”
“Do you see the Palestinian laborers who showed up today
to pick tomatoes and lettuces. They have been with us for
years. In the rush to bury Jonathan within twenty-four
hours as custom dictates, we forgot to give them the day
off. Why can’t all Palestinians be as peaceful as they
appear standing idly before the fields? I will send someone

75
to give them this day off. Our guests and members of our
son’s tank unit will be arriving soon, and they will not
understand Palestinians lingering in the background.”
“I will order it done,” his wife volunteers, anxious for any
distraction from her grief.
“No, it would seem improper on this first day of Shivah. I
will send one of our attendants to tell them to leave.” He
turns to his lovely wife, noting as he does each day he
spends with her that she carries her age well, her hair only
now beginning to show gray strands. Her face as finely
molded as when they first met at the university in Tel Aviv,
she a graduate student, when he appeared as a young, trim
commando on leave from training exercises in the Negev
Desert; the lively eyes and sensitive mouth that so
captivated him as a young man have not lost their appeal.
“Dovid, why did you keep my son from me the time he met
you in the fields on the second day of Passover?” Hannah
asks, worry lines at the corners of her mouth tightening.
“At that time, I did not want you to know that I brought
him here to conduct military business. The business
seemed a simple retaliation for the bombing at the
Jerusalem deli the day before. As it turned out, I sent him
to his death, as I sent our oldest son to his death.” He
tenses, knowing he is emotionally pulling down the woman
he loves, but cannot stop verbalizing his guilt. “I could
have ordered any officer from scores of tank commanders
to retaliate.” The remorseful father feels his wife sag
against him, as she absorbs the full impact of what he has
said. He steadies her, as they both silently watch the
Palestinian field hands, appearing as anomalies to the
pending Hebrew funeral.
He stands motionless while his wife regains her bearing
and speaks: “hopefully time will mitigate my memory of
the last day of Passover with Jonathan, his wife, our
grandchildren and you, my husband, when you kept me
ignorant of the mission of death you planned to send him

76
on. Dovid, the question you must deal with for the rest of
your life is, did you have no other choice than sending
Jonathan to his death, just as you sent Joshua to his in
defense of our country? For now I will tell myself it was
necessary for the preservation of Israel. I must tell you that
two sons are all I can give to Israel to cast off her enemies.
I beg you to make peace with these hostile Palestinians and
spare our grandchildren the same fate as our sons.”
“I fear peace will not come until all Palestinians are dead.
Hannah, we must gain strength from our sons’ deaths, not
divisiveness.” The ageing father turns his wife to him, as if
to rejuvenate his resolve with her nearness. He attempts to
kiss her on the forehead, as she stands stiffly before him,
only to be interrupted by one of his military attaches.
“Minister, please accept my heartfelt apology for
interrupting you in what must be a difficult time.” The
middle aged military officer’s erect body sags, displaying
his discomfort. “Madam, I would not impose upon you in
your time of grief if it were not absolutely necessary. An
urgent matter has materialized that must be attended to.”
“Please do not berate yourself, Colonel,” Hannah softly
commands her husband’s subordinate. “I understand that
time does not stand still, even for the Minister of Defense.”
She kisses her husband on the cheek. “I will wait for you
inside the house.”
“The matter will have to wait, Colonel,” Dovid commands
in a harsher tone. The officer hesitates, not leaving the
patio area, appearing extremely awkward. “Is there
something else, Colonel?”
“I sincerely regret to inform you that this matter demands
your attention before the service.”
“Please go with the Colonel, Dovid. I will send someone to
dismiss the field hands.”
“I extend my regiments and my own deepest respect to you
madam on your son’s departure. We all liked and admired
him,” the colonel offers sympathetically.

77
The minister watches his wife tense, tears welling in her
eyes as she can only nod her appreciation before she
departs.
“Minister, I have delayed the mourners at the entrance gate,
stating security reasons until you are appraised of the failed
assassination attempt on you and your family.
Furthermore, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you, the
assassin is a close friend of your family. I believe the
funeral service should be closed off as there could be more
than one attempt to kill you today.”
“No, I will not deny Jonathan the tribute a son of Israel
deserves.”
“Your daughter-in-law is in the house, is she not?”
“Shalva is with my two grandsons and Hevra Kadisha
attendants in Jonathan’s boyhood room. Please dispense
with the mystery and get to the point.”
“We are holding Jonathan’s and Shalva’s friend, Liya
Perez, in the storage barn. If the Minister will be good
enough to accompany me, I will explain the details to you
on the way.”

* *

They enter the large, corrugated tin barn at the rear entrance
to the farm, a safe distance from the funeral arrangements
and arriving mourners. Amidst the many fresh produce
crates stacked to the ceiling, the father sees his son’s one
time betrothed sitting disheveled in a chair, flanked by two
soldiers and two men in civilian clothes he recognizes as
Shabak agents. She once was the potential daughter-in-law
Hannah and he assumed would bear them grandchildren,
until her best friend Shalva returned from her schoolingin
Germany. Shalva and Jonathanhad shocked everyone when
they announced their engagement a month later. Liya,
being the practical one of the three young people, accepted
their decision without bitterness, moving from Jerusalem to

78
Tel Aviv, starting a practice in dentistry. Eventually she
married and gave birth to a boy and girl the same age as
Jonathansand Shelia’s children. The minister can do little
more than stare at the young woman sobbing on the chair.
“Minister, this is Major Bevetz and Capitan Stein of
Shabak. On the table, you will see a belt of explosives,”
the colonel in charge of security says. “We took them from
under her dress and outer coat. She has confessed her
intention to kill you, your wife, grandchildren and the
guests,” the military officer adds.
At first, the minister is too stunned to respond, for the
overwrought woman is a childhood friend of his daughter-
in-law, and she had dated Jonathan since she was a
teenager, that is, until his son jilted her and married Shalva.
His mind races: could losing Jonathan to Shalva prompt
this woman to extract such terrible vengeance. He
observes the attractive woman, clad only in her slip,
shoulders heaving as she cries uncontrollably. He picks up
her black mourning dress from the floor and drapes it
across her bare shoulders, and kneels before her.
“Why Liya? My family and I have only given you
affection. My son’s children have played with your
children. We have prayed side by side at schul. How could
you attempt such a terrible thing, on the day of Jonathan’s
journey to heaven, the final day on earth for the man you
once loved?”
The weeping woman cannot bring herself to look at the
questioner, let alone answer him.
“I believe this picture will explain it all, Minister. We
found it in her car,” the Shabak major says as he hands the
photo to Mattath.
The minister has seen many photos of this type, so becomes
analytical as he studies Liya’s pre-pubescent older boy, no
more than eleven and a girl, the image of her mother and no
more than eight years old, kneeling before two, noticeably
small, hooded men, both holding large knives before the

79
youngsters’ throats. Behind them stand three more small
hooded kidnappers, arms folded across their chests. The
children’s abductors are obviously Muslims, probably
Palestinians, although there is no identifying flag reflecting
their origin. In fact the room, wherever it may be,is
chillingly bare. He thinks, killing children, our most
precious commodity, where will this fighting take us?
“Thiswoman was unusually nervous when I checked her
name against the guest list,” the captain adds. “If I hadn’t
ordered her searched. . . well. . . .” He gestures with his
palms open, indicating the worst outcome.
“Dovid, I am so sorry. They were going to decapitate my
children. You must understand. . . no life could be more
precious to me than theirs.”
“Fortunately, Liya, no one has died,” the minister consoles
the hysterical woman, knowing that her children will be
beheaded by sundown, because of the failed bombing
attempt. ”I will press no charges against you. You are
suffering enough.” He stands and questions the Shabak
major, “her husband?”
“He is in Los Angeles, guest lecturing at the University of
Southern California dental school. We believe he is
ignorant of this plot against you.”
“See that he is brought back without informing him of the
reason. This poor woman, what will you do with her?”
“She must be thoroughly questioned about her contact with
these terrorists.”
“I will deem it a personal favor, if after your interrogation
verifies her as an innocent victim, you allow her to return to
Tel Aviv and her life there. Her only crime is being a
mother. Now I must attend my son‘s funeral. Please allow
our guests to enter.”
He walks to the door, furious at the unknown initiator of
the failed assassination. The attempted murder fermenting
in his mind is a terrible sacrilege to his son’s memory. He
desiresto strike back with all the power he controls, but

80
knows losing his temper could be disastrous. He turns back
to the men guarding the captive woman. “Colonel, please
accompany me.”
Outside the packing house, Mattath asks the colonel: “you
are familiar with the circumstances surrounding the deaths
of my son and his detachment?”
“General Shamon informed me after assigning me to
maintain security during your son’s funeral.”
“Good. Those small terrorists in the picture you
found in Liya’s automobile, could they be women?”
“Possibly.”
“There is too much coincidence between the trap set at
Aide and thisattempted murder of my family and me. If
both instances prove to be carried out by women, then, I
suspect this niece of the Hamas leader, George Hamad, is
involved. The woman has disappeared, so arrest her uncle.
I need leverage to find her.”
“As you wish. But it is my duty to inform you that his
arrest will send up a howl across the West Bank.”
“It will fall on deaf ears as the PLO controls the territories,
and they will be glad to be rid of one more Hamas
opponent.”
“The charge?”
“Instigating terrorism against the Israeli people. Destroy
his house and those of his aides, but do not cripple him in
any way, for he must be questioned pertaining to this
woman,” the grieved father orders, seeing the invitees
gathering by the graveyard. He finds it difficult to breathe,
as he fortifies himself for the burial, but the Lion of Sinai
will not be deterred from honoring his son. “I will walk
alone to the house, Colonel.”

* *

Dovid rips the left lapel off of his suit jacket and watches
his wife rip the left sleeve off her mourning dress as is the

81
Hebrew custom. Six high ranking officers of the IDF Tank
Corps, acting as pallbearers, lift the plain wooden coffin
from its supports in his living room. Dovid and his wife
walk behind the coffin covered with Israel’s Star of David
flag, followed by their daughter-in-law, grandchildren and
Havra Kadisha attendants. Rabbinical codified custom
dictates immediate burial with the coffin sealed. The father
and mother ignored their protocol advisor, Rabbi
Shimshon, to not view their deceased son, bathing and
dressing Jonathan in a plain white shroud, placing his
personal skullcap and talit upon him before placing himin
the wood box.
The funeral procession stops the customary seven times
before arriving at the burial site; the Rabbinical mandated
observation derives from Adonai creating the earth in that
many days, subsequently recreated each week in Hebrew
observance, therefore a human death reduces it by seven
days, therefore the seven pauses. The minister’s grief is
mitigated by the sight of the Prime Minister and Lukud
members of his cabinet standing reverently by the
gravesite, paying tribute to his son. A full squad of
Jonathan’s tank unit, in military dress uniforms,
standbehind the important personages. The soldiers all
wear, as he does, skullcaps, a sign of their devotion to the
Lord God; he places more trust onto men devoted to the
Lord, than ones without devotion. Rabbi Shimshon and a
celebrated Cantor stand before the open hole, their focus on
the approaching coffin. At the procession’s fourth pause,
Dovid’s and Hannah’s few close friends fall in behind the
grandchildren, following the coffin to the gravesite. As
soon as the pallbearers place the wood coffin on the mounts
over the gravesite, the Cantor begins to chant Kaddish, an
Aramaic prayer, in a melodious voice; the funeral
participants joining in.
At the end of the prayer, Dovid and Hannah sit on hard
chairs, as does everyone else, and listen to his longtime

82
friend, Solomon Shamon, the general who was grooming
Jonathan for military leadership, eulogize their son’s all too
short life and his devotion to family, friends and the Israeli
nation. Before the service ends, Hannah reads a verse
from Psalm 27, her words becoming shaky: “One thing I
ask of the Lord, only that do I seek: to live in the house of
the Lord. . . . to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord. . . . ”

* HARLAN *

“Finally, the preacher’s courier mumbles to himself as he

exits the Jerusalem Marriott Holyland Hotel onto the Via
Dolorosa, Christian Jerusalem’s most famous street, “the
time has come to trade.” The Israelis have made him wait a
week, saying conditions were not right for the exchange,
and now only giving him an hour to rendezvous at the
sacred place where Jesus was taken prisoner by the Jews.
He refused their offer of transportation, saying he would
take a taxi, because he has to pick up the American
archeologist, a Ph.D. from Michigan University,who has
been digging about the holy land. The first time visitor
walks across Via Dolorosa, carrying the bowling ball in the
red, white and blue case, to where there is a sheltered bus
stop and seats himself on the bench, intending to wait for
one hour. He has kept the facsimile of the fusion bomb
constantly within sight, except when he has no choice but
to check it in the hotel security room.
Cautious habits, accompanied by an observant eye, have
put him on alert; upon arrival in Tel Aviv, an aggressive taxi
driver at the airport jumped into his path in the lobby,
insisting he was the only driver who could properly serve a
bowler from the United States. Since when is a cabby so
anxious to pick up a blue collar bowler, he thought as he
entered the cab. The American had changed out of the
ridiculous outfit he wore boarding the El Al flight in the Tel
Aviv Airport men’s room, the one Israelis probably were

83
aware of, into one befitting a non-descripttourist. No
longer dressed in the identifying bowler’s garments made
the cab driver’s eager solicitation to drive him seem
suspicious. The taxi driver, who spoke too well to be an
immigrant, never blinked an eye when Harlan, a supposed
bowler in Tel Avivfor a tournament, asked to be driven to
Jerusalem. The American fugitive knew from his scant
research pertaining to Israel that many newly arrived
immigrants fill all menial jobs such as washing dishes and
driving cabs. And immigrants have a thicker accent than the
driver’s Israeli one. A well spoken man like the cab driver
would have found better employment, because Israel is a
prosperous country gainfully employing its educated
citizens. And, the man’s all-too clean cab alerted the
American; it had been completely wiped clean of stains and
smudges, but most tellingly, of old fingerprints that could
hinder identifying his ones. He had been a fugitive for too
long, not to be suspicious about such an obvious ploy to get
his fingerprints, so cleaned away any place he touched on
the cab.
Delaying the meeting one hour while he waits across from
the elegant fifteen story hotel located in the Christian
section of the city is a test of the trust he has been told to
expect from the Jews. The famous street, where tourists
believe Jesus Christ carried the cross of his crucifixion,is
clogged with visitors celebrating the upcoming Easter
weekend. The fundamentalist regrets that he must miss the
chance of a lifetime, not able to participate in the
celebration of his Lord‘s assent to heaven.
Bidding his time, he is very mindful of the week the Israelis
have kept him waiting, for it is the exact length of the first
mourning period following a Hebrew funeral for a family
member. The television and newspaper media, at least the
ones in English, have termed that week a time of intense
mourning, known as Shaivah, the reason for the Minister of
Defense, Dovid Mattath, being absent from government for

84
a week. The same media have reported and speculated on
the vicious trap inflicted upon the Minister’s of Defense
last surviving son and a unit of Israeli soldiers massacred at
a nearby Palestinian refugee camp. Harlan read that the
son, Jonathan Mattath, was a respected archeologist, as
esteemed as the one he is about to pick up to verify the item
for exchange. What makes the one week mourning period
interesting to Harlan is the Israeli high official he is to meet
could very well be this Minister Mattath, the bereaved
father. An archeologist like the minister’s deceased son
could have been the one who discovered the ancient nail
the preacher’s secretary ordered him to obtain. After
discovering the object’s value, the son would have told his
father, the very same high official with whom Harlan is to
meet. The father is a highly decorated past general of the
Israeli Defense Forces, perhaps with a past military
connection to the American general who gave him the
bomb‘s formula. All this is speculation, but enough
possibilities exist for Harlan to mind his Ps and Qs at the
arranged meeting. Especially, since the Born Again
Christian believes Jews are not to be trusted, being of the
same bloodline that betrayed and lobbied for his Lord’s
crucifixion. He reinforces his belief of the Jews betrayal
verbalizing a biblical verse from Mathew, “then answered
all the people, and said, His blood be on us and on our
children.”
He checks the big clock in the men’s haberdashery window
across the street from where he sits, but pious pedestrians
elbowing their way along Via Dolorosa, walking the route
that Jesus Christ was forced to carry his cross to the
crucifixion hill, force him to stand to see the exact time.
He watches the big clock until one hour has passed, enough
time for the aggressive Israelis to act, if they plan to act.
Crossing the street clutching his bowling ball case, he
pushes though a stream of tourists exiting the hotel, walks

85
across the interior’s plush carpet and takes the elevator to
his suite on the tenth floor.
His suite, thanks to the Israeli high official, whoever he
may be, includes sitting and bed rooms. He sees that
nothing has been disturbed, and everything is as he left it.
He goes to the bathroom where for the last six days he has
removed the showerhead to see if the capsule that he placed
there, the blue one the general gave him, is still there. And,
it has remained untouched until now. He congratulates
himself for his foresight, for today the capsule supposedly
elaborating on the bomb’s atomic design is gone. It is
precautions such as this one that has kept him out of an
American death house. His mind has learned to extrapolate
on irregularities such as the missing capsule: if the Israelis
searched his room, stealing the capsule, before they met
with him, what future trick do they have in mind? And
why did they jeopardize the pending trade with him,
knowing he would discover the robbery? He has no idea,
only a suspicion that something may have gone wrong with
their plans. Hopefully, they have no more tricks.
Disobeying the general’s instructions, he previously opened
the blue capsule after his body expelled it, taking advantage
of the seven day wait the Israelis imposed upon him to
memorize the atomic weights, compositions and
placements of the bomb’s beryllium-deuterium spacer
depleted uranium tamper, tritium booster and the forty-six
Plutonium-239 pellets, positioned like chromosomes,
making up the helix designed pit. He then destroyed the
formula and replaced it with a blank piece of paper to
frustrate the descendents of his Lord’s murderers. He
requests the hotel concierge to order him a taxi. It is time
to meet this high official and give him the bowling ball.

*RABBI*

86
Harel Shimshon waits outside the security hut near the
entrance to the Garden of Gethsemane, holding the cellar
phone Dovid’s aide gave him to use to inform the minister
—still very much overwrought over Jonathan’s death--of
any irregularity during the arranged meeting. The graying
red haired, ultra-conservative Rabbi nervously shifts his
weight from foot to foot, because the American is an hour
late, but decides not to prematurely call Dovid whose place
in the proposed meeting he has taken. He chose the garden
meeting spot, because Americans become child-like near
any place they think their so caller savior walked, and he
knows he will need all the distraction he can get to secure
the bomb‘s formula. Ironic, he thinks, the same hard line
Christians who once persecuted Jews, now befriend them
because of some pie in the sky belief about a second
coming of their son of god. Now that the garden is so
packed with Christian tourists anticipating their Easter
holiday, he is not sure meeting here is a good idea as
privacy will be limited. Doctor Barnum Mansel, a retired
nuclear scientist, the man who first headed up the Israeli
nuclear program, waits in the Chevrolet sedan to
authenticate the American’s formula for a pure fusion
explosion. Such a weapon, carried on an ordinary missile,
releasing energy enough to obliterate the rats’ nest called
Gaza, heretofore only existed in one’s dreams.
Ace in the Hole pops into his mind, an expression for the
stud poker he played as a boy in the Ukraine, notorious for
his ability to pair up with his down card. He smiles to
himself, realizing he had not thought in the Russian tongue
for ages. He hates the Russians for the way they terrorized
his isolated community near Luts’k. As a boy of thirteen, a
day after his Bar Mitzvah, he had beaten a Ukrainian youth
bloody, causing as much outrage in the community as an
assault on a Russian Orthodox priest would, because every
Jew was thought a subhuman degenerate by Soviet
governments. The incident forced him, his parents and

87
siblings to flee to Israel or face beatings, perhaps even
imprisonment. Fortunately, the early Zionist community in
Palestine controlled by the Ottoman Empire prior to WW II
were in need of Rabbis, and his father quickly found a
following and subsequent livelihood in the coastal
community of Haifa. The Americans, with their limitless
wealth, revenged him for being forced to flee the Ukraine
without knowing it when they all but destroyed the Soviets
in Afghanistan, later bankrupting that empire at the end of
aninsane arms race.
In his mature years, the Rabbi directs his hatred toward the
Muslims, the Palestinians in particular, the ones who lay
claim to Israel’s ancient lands given to his people by their
Lord, Adonai. He repeats a verse from Genesis, the one in
which God promised Cannon, a land flowing from the river
in Egypt to the Euphrates River, to the descendents of
Abraham. These Palestinians have vowed, in spite of their
numerous defeats before Israeli armies, to wipe his nation
from the face of the earth. To his way of thinking, the
settlers’ program, initiated many years ago when he and
Dovid were youngermen, as effective as it has been to drive
out the Palestinians, is too slow and leaves too many
parcels of land in the enemy’s hands. He yearns for another
war, a reason to drive all Palestinians into Jordan, Lebanon,
Syria and to the four corners of the Arab world. This bomb
the American will deliver, this Ace in the Hole, for Israel,
will guarantee the nation’s solvency for ages and lend
enough muscle to further beat the Muslims to their knees.
The mere hint of using it will not only render the Arab
nations harmless, it will discourage any European
interference as well; it will allow Israel a free hand with the
Palestinians. “‘Walk softly and carry a big stick,’ a massive
explosion with small radiation fallout. Who can fault its
usage?” he mumbles, smilingto himself, feeling evil for
speaking the quote in Russian. “With a weapon like the

88
one the American religious community has promised, a
nation can do anything it deems necessary.”
The cell phone rings in his hands. He believes the caller
will be Dovid, returning to government duties even with so
much pain in his heart.
He hears the defense minister’s voice: “Rebbe, you must
understand the need for discretion, as I cannot allow myself
or the Israeli government to be linked to the exchange. I
want to share with you the recent information brought to
my attention about the American you will be dealing with.
We became suspicious about this courier when after his
flight from New York to Tel Aviv our agents were not able
to lift one fingerprint from him. They eventually got a print
from his hotel room, of all things, off a much used page of
his King James Christian bible. These religious zealots in
America must be sniffing angel dust, sending the most
wanted man in the United States to deliver the goods.
Interpol identified his fingerprint, informing us, that his
name is Harlan Stegal. He is wanted for murdering three
abortion clinic doctors and crippling a liberal radio talk
show host in the United States. He is also suspected of
masterminding the recent bombing of a superior courthouse
in the state of Virginia.”
“How would you have me handle the situation, Dovid?”
“It goes without sayingI want you to be careful. It is
unlikely that he has had a chance to arm himself since
arriving in Israel, but these extremists are capable of
anything when disturbed, especially now after he has
discovered his capsule missing from his room, giving us a
blank piece of paper for our break in. After your specialist
examines the bowling ball, you must convince him to give
you the composition of atomic elements we failed to find in
his hotel room. You have the nail I had duplicated from
what the university lab personnel could remember from the
original one. The archeologist accompanying this
American, who will do the authentication, has been paid a

89
great deal of money to verify its origin to be the same as
the original.”
“What if the American will not give the bomb formula to
me?”
“With or without the bomb’s formula, I intend to have him
assassinated by would-be Palestinians, the phony nail
disappearing in the process, and his remains turned over to
the American authorities. That way the nail can never be
found a phony, so our associates in the U.S. will think he
mishandled his mission, keeping our valued relationship
intact.
“Dovid, we must get the formula before you eliminate
him.”
“Believe me, we will. If he does not give you the formula, I
will have him thoroughly interrogated, before he is
eliminated.”
“Leave it to me, my old friend. I will get what Adonai has
willed,” the Rabbi assures his cohort, mentally committing
to the task before disconnecting his call, at the same time
noticing a taxi pull out of traffic and head toward the
security hut.
The yellow cab stops behind the car occupied by the retired
nuclear scientist. The Rabbi watches the lean, hard
appearing man dressed neatly in a blue light-weight sports
jacket and darker blue slacks exit, followed by the
American born archeologist. He is surprised at how clean
cut and attractive the abortion clinic murderer appears. The
American nods to him without smiling or offering his hand
for a cordial greeting; the archeologist stands a few feet
behind, awaiting instructions from the weapon’s courier.
“Behind you on the hill is the Garden of Olives,” the aging
Rabbi says the first line of the pre-established code.”
“Will the fruit ripen soon?” Harlan asks, scrutinizing the
old, thin man in a shinny, black suit and tieless, rumpled,
buttoned at the neck white shirt.
“The fruit only ripens before the rains.”

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“Are they holy olives?”
“If you mean h, o, l, e, y. He spells out the last
word. “Then, of course, they are to be pitted.”
“As the Lord will have it.”
The exchange of six sentences between the two men went
as planned, so the older man introduces himself. “I am a
Rabbi and close confidant of the man who originally
intended to meet you. He, because of your history, cannot
be present.”
The American fugitive grits his teeth as he searches the
Rabbi’s face, a man who looks to have had orange red hair
in his youth, realizing the Israelis have identified him. And
once they get what they want, they will turn him over to
American authorities, as the Israelites turned Jesus over to
Pilate. “Do you have the item I have traveled to obtain?”
The Rabbi is surprised that the American does not
introduce himself before getting to the purpose of the
meeting or even requesting some credentials from him.
“I have and do you have the items in exchange?”
“I have the items, and I believe you already have the blank
piece of paper missing from my hotel room.” Harlan
enjoys seeing the man, he is sure stands in for Prime
Minister Mattath, wince at his mention of the stolen
capsule. “May I see the item I have travelled over the
ocean to see?”
The Rabbi beckons to one of his two bodyguards watching
the exchange from inside the security hut. A young, strong-
looking man, wearing a skull cap and a full beard, his
unbuttoned shirt showing a hint of a hair-covered barrel
chest, hands over a small wooden box with a carrying
handle to the conservative Rabbi, who opens it for Harlan’s
inspection.
Upon the taxi entering the garden where his Lord was
betrayed, the American avoided any distraction, refusing to
gaze upon any of the venerable landscape, but he cannot
stop himself from gawking at the ancient nail that could

91
have very well pierced the body of Jesus Christ, God
Almighty‘s Son. For a brief moment, he is one with his
God while holding the nail. He turns the nine inch object
over in the box, examining the many hammer marks made
by the forging. It is worn, slightly bent by some recent
force with a small clump of dirt at its point. He finds it
remarkably free of corrosion, as he cups the object in his
hand and feels the weight of the iron, giddy from the touch.
“Harlanhands the box to the American archeologist. “How
long will it take you to authenticate this object”?
The middle aged man with a perfect tan and wearing the
short beard scientists so value, looks to the Rabbi and
inquires: “Did you bring the dating equipment requested?
“The items are in the security hut.” The Rabbi focuses on
the American. “May I have the information that has been
previously agreed upon?”
“The old man in the car, is that your expert?”
“He is.”
“Then I will give the information to him,” the Christian
replies, immediately disliking the Jew.
The Rabbi escorts the old scientist, who must use a cane to
walk,to the American. Harlan hands him the replica of the
bomb in the Spalding bowling ball case along with the red
capsule he kept after memorizing the lasers firing
sequences at Kennedy Airport. Believing he would need to
counter an Israeli deception, he disobeyed the general’s
order to flush it down a toilet and subsequently inserted a
scroll listing a bogus equation of the beryllium-deuterium
spacer, depleted uranium tamper, tritium booster and the
helix designed pit--all ingredients pertaining to the bomb’s
physical design. He did not include any information
pertaining to the fly-eye lasers. “This is what your people
failed to steal, he comments to the Rabbi, handing the red
capsule to his authenticator. “I will give you the final
ingredient, the trigger, after Doctor Smith gives me
verification of the holy nail.”

92
The Rabbi waits until the Israeli nuclear scientist and the
American archeologist enter the security hut, and then
politely suggests, attempting to distract the American:
“while we wait, let us walk through this ancient, but
magnificent garden.”
The American fundamentalist is reluctant to stroll in this
holy place with a Jew, but needs time to formulate his plan,
so accompanies him along the dirt path toward the grove of
olive trees a hundred feet into the garden. The unlikely pair
stop before a large, knurled olive tree. Harlan stands, head
bowed in reverence to the ancient place where his Lord
prayed before His arrest, His disciples sleeping nearby.
“Many think this tree stood here when. . . .” The Rabbi
pauses, unable to say your god, so says, “Jesus of Nazareth
walked these grounds. But history tells us all the olive
trees of that time were cut down in 60 A.D. when the
Romans led by Augustus’sadopted son, Tiberius destroyed
Jerusalem. These venerable trees were planted some time
after that terrible time.”
Harlan steps onto the grass and touches the tree’s bark,
feeling light headed by historic events that passed near this
tree, for he believes the tree is from the time of Jesus,
knowing God would not allow the tree Jesus prayed under
to be destroyed. His attention goes to a large crowd
forming around an old stonewall, some fifteen feet high. A
procession of actors dressed in biblical soldiers’ Jewish
attire, and carrying short swords, march into the crowds’
midst.
The Rabbi feels repulsed by the soldiers portraying Jewish
villainy, as he volunteers to the American: “they are
soldiers of the Sanhedrin sent to arrest your savior.”
The fundamentalist feels the muscles knot across his
shoulders, as he stares fascinated at the twelve robed men
portraying Jesus’s disciples gatheraround a tall, blond
haired man dressed in a royal purple robe in an attempt to
protect him from the soldiers of the Sanhedrin.

93
At that moment, the two muscular men Harlan saw at the
security hut appear. The fit, full bearded aide, who first
delivered the nail to the old Jew, his shirt showing
perspiration from hurrying under the mid-day sun, speaks:
“Rabbi, both Dr. Mansel and Dr. Smith have made their
analysis and wish you to return with your guest.”
“My friend. . . .” the Rabbi feels the young man pull back,
repulsed, as he touches his arm. “The exchange can wait
for a moment if you desire to watch the reenactment.”
The Born Again Christian fights the fury overtaking him by
the portrayal of Jesus’s arrest scene playing out a short
distance away, but also by the knowledge that he must deal
with a Rabbi, a descendant of the ones who sent the
soldiers to this garden almost two millenniums ago. “No,”
he replies, knowing he must not allow himself to be
distracted by what he knows to be actors performing an
event that he knows by heart. He turns and walks back to
the security hut followed by the Israelis.
Harlan waits while the old Rabbi confers with the nuclear
scientist, his two beefy bodyguards observing from the
hut’s doorway. The American notes that the Michigan
archeologist does not hold the wood box with the nail as he
moves closer and gives the archeologist an inquisitive look.
The erudite man says, “by the way the object has been
forged, especially the size of the hammer marks and the
crudeness of the force that shaped it, it looks to be from the
time of the early Roman occupation of Palestine. My
dating of the soil stuck to the object puts it at the year 1
B.C., plus or minus a hundred years.”
The religious fundamentalist feels as if his chest will
explode with delight, not only at being in the presence of
something as Godly as the crucifixion nail, but also to
obtain it for the great man and his church in Virginia. He
keeps his face expressionless, his survival skills screaming
to him to remain stoic.

94
The Rabbi breaks off his conversation with the Israeli
scientist, and crosses to Harlan, politely saying, “Doctor
Mansel advises me that the atomic makeup of the bomb’s
design is not only incomplete, but also incorrect. I would
like the complete and correct formula of that design along
with the missing trigger mechanism not duplicated in the
facsimile. Be so kind as to give it to the esteemed man
now, or there will be no exchange, and my two aides will
escort you to the Tel Aviv Airport where you can go home
empty handed.”
“I will do as you say, but first I would like to view the
crucifixion nail one more time,” the preacher’s courier
requests, wanting to buy some time.
“Of course,” the Rabbi replies, gesturing to his bodyguard
to give the box to Harlan.
The fundamentalist opens the box, gently fingering the
precious object. He knew before coming to this holy place
that he could not give a Jew, one of the murderers of his
Savior, the means to make Israel the most powerful nation
on earth, equal to United States. The old Israeli politely
watches him, nervous over the precarious way this
transaction is progressing. With all the force Harlan can
muster, he kicks the Rabbi in the stomach, driving him into
his two bodyguards, and then darts pass the Chevrolet
sedan toward the exit, the box containing the nail in his
hand. With the agility of an athlete, the American
archeologist jumps on Harlan’s back; his alliance with the
Israelis completely catches the American by surprise. The
fundamentalist and the archeologist tumble onto the dirt
path. Harlan, holding the box protectively, tries to kick the
betrayer off of him, only his effort is for naught as the two
bodyguards pounce on him, furiously driving their fists into
his body. The American absorbs the blows, desiring to
protect the box more than his own well being. The two
physically superior men beat Harlan about his face and
torso until he hangs limply between their holds.

95
Feeling bruised and battered, he can see the old Israeli
stumbling toward him, anger scorching his face. “You are
a fool to try such a thing. Now give up the information or I
will have you subjected to the most horrible interrogation
you can imagine,” the old Rabbi labors to talk, still shaken
by Harlan’s vicious kick.
“Knowing my identity should tell you such an interrogation
is a venture that you cannot win. Death for me is a first
class ticket to Paradise,” Harlan replies, the smile his lips
form twisting into a snarl.
“We have an agreement. Will you or will you not honor
it?”
Harlanrealizes that his attempt to steal the nail has failed,
now the only chance to obtain it lies in giving the Jews the
weapon they demand. “I will. . . .” Before, he can say,
honor it, he hears a heart piercing wail coming from the
spectators watching the reenactment of the Jesus’s arrest.
For the moment, the attention of all six men is distracted by
the crowd’s simultaneous cries of: “NO, DON’T ARREST HIM.
DON’T TAKE OUR LORD. PLEASE DON’T TREAT HIM SO ROUGHLY.”
Harlan watches as the actors costumed as Sanhadrin
soldiers, drag the tall, blond man by ropes strung to his
hands and neck, followed by religious observers who have
whipped themselves into despair over viewing the realistic
reenactment. The biblical actors, surrounded by a throng of
at least two hundred Christian pilgrims, press toward
Harlan, many screaming in agony, pulling their hair,
digging fingernails into their arms, creating pandemonium
in the garden. The grief stricken procession exiting the
garden forces him, his two captors and the Rabbi against
the Chevrolet sedan. They barely escape being trampled.
The battered American still holdsthe wood box, his arms
locked in the vice like grips of the two bodyguards. When
the thick of the crowd is upon them, Harlanscreams with all
the ferocity he can muster: “The Jews did this to our Lord.
The Jews are responsible for his terrible crucifixion.

96
Remember their confession before Pilate: ‘His blood be on
us and our children.’ Punish the Jews. Punish the Jews.”
Harlan has caught the attention of those participants closest
to the Rabbi’s two aides holding him. A man and woman
close to the struggling American cry out: “The Jews are
responsible. The Jews are responsible.” Other participants
in crowd are distracted from the procession when they hear
the captive yell, “these two men wearing their skull caps
are Jews. Look at my battered face. See how they have
beaten me for being a Christian. Make them release me,
and then punish them for what they have done. Punish
them for what their ancestors have done to our Lord.”
Men and women break away from the procession and press
upon the two men holding Harlan, searching for an
explanation to what the captive has charged. The two
Israeli bodyguards, as burley as they appear, are
intimidated by the thirty or so people surrounding them,but
do not release their captive. A middle-aged woman
demands of the men in skull caps, “free this man, Christ
killers.”
One of the bodyguards pushes her away with his beefy
hand. His aggression is all it takesfor a male college
student, a physical match for the Israeli, to slap the skull
cap off of the offender’s head. The Israeli releases Harlan’s
arm to defend himself; his move is an invitation to the
college studentto forcibly knock him back against the
sedan. A woman scratches the other bodyguard’s face with
her fingernails, drawing blood. Then a fist strikes the same
face, knocking the Rabbi’s aide free of Harlan. The
fundamentalist, still clutching the box, profusely thanksthe
crowd around him for his rescue. He pushes into the midst
of the crowd, separating himself from the Israelis and
blends in with the grief-stricken throng following the actors
who are proceeding to the next stop of the reenactment.

* *

97
Harlan knows as any good Born Again Christian worth his
salt would know that the observation of Christ’s final hours
on earth indicates the procession into whose midst he had
secured himself will find its way to the Praetorian where
Pilate condemned his Lord. Then it will move to where He
received his cross, to where He falls unable to continue
after his horrific scourging, to where He falls again, and
His mother comfortshim. So far, he sees no Jews among
the wailing, grief stricken, Christians inwhose midst he
now walks. Even as desperate as he is to escape with the
holy nail and knowing the Israeli high official, once
notified of his escape, will have more people searching for
him, he abruptly stops. He cannot help but be awe stricken
by the narrow, ancient stone street with its archways
depicting Roman architecture; in some areas looking
untouched since the time of Christ. He takes the holy nail
from the polished wood box and drops it inside the breast
pocket of his sports jacket, discretely allowing the box to
fall to the stone-paved street.
He runs until he nears the tall blond actor staggering under
the weight of the cross he carries, doing a wonderful job to
emulate the Lord’s suffering. The Christ figurefalls, the
heavy-beamed cross tumbling into the crowd. Forgetting
his predicament, Harlan forces his way though the
mesmerized crowd, closer to the fallen actor. He grabs one
edge of the crossbeam, as other men grab any portion that
they can grip. For the participants carrying the cross, it will
be the foremost honor of a lifetime. To Harlan’s irritation,
an older man places his hands on the same portion of the
cross as he has gripped. He puts his irritation aside, seeing
how anxious the man is to carry the cross, how frightful he
is at being pushed away by a younger and stronger man as
Harlanappears to him. Even as aged as the man’s body
looks to be, his face is remarkably smooth and unlined.
The younger Christian sees benevolence in the man’s

98
uncertain manner. An escape plan formulates in the
fugitive’s mind as he studies the man’s well groomed
countenance, his neatly pressed slacks, polo shirt and
sandals over white socks.
“Brother, please take my place carryingthis holy cross.
With your permission, I will walk beside you, holding onto
your shoulder, and we will be Simon of Cyrene, merciful
unto our Lord,” Harlan says, seeing tears of joy well up in
the man’s clear blue eyes. He adds, “my name is Earl
Thompson from Louisville. You also look to be
American.”
“Steve Singleton from Jacksonville in Florida. I don’t
know how I canever repay you for such an unselfish act. I
would shake your hand, only I fear to remove mine from
this precious wood.” He omits a nervous laugh, which
Harlanjoins. The crowd parts as the actor portraying Christ
staggers toward old Jerusalem’s outside gate. The fifteen
or more men gripping the eight foot long crossbeam follow
him, surrounded to and fro by spectators that the
fundamentalist estimates to be close to five hundred. The
procession squeezes though the narrow passages of Via
Dolorosa, stepping on old, hand cut stones, exiting through
the Damascus gate to a small hill where two upright crosses
are visible. The blond haired actor falls for the third time,
provoking sounds of anguish from the surrounding men and
women. Once the procession reaches the top of the small
hill where the two crucifixion crosses holding the thieves
are fixed, actors portraying Roman soldiers strip the Christ
portrayer to his loin cloth.
For the next hour, absolute silence falls on the huge
procession as they stand in the shadow of a portrayal of
Christ dying on the cross, desiring to absorb the suffering
of the actor, until the heart rendering utterance, ‘My God,
My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me’ is voiced. The man
from Jacksonville weeps openly next to Harlan. The

99
fugitive, wiping tears from his eyes, gazes back at the old
walled city of Jerusalem, knowing what he must do.
“Brother Steve, I keep my passport on me at all times, in a
money belt. One cannot be too careful in a crowd pressing
together like this one. There are thieves everywhere.”
The clean cut man glances at the younger American as if he
cannot believe such small concern could so distract his
fellow Christian from the tumultuous event taking place
before their eyes, although his straightforward nature
prompts him to reply, “my passport and wallet are safely
placed in the front pockets of my slacks. Thank you for
your concernfriend.”
Harlansqueezes the older American’s shoulder in a gesture
of comradely, and then nods his head to where the Roman
actors are removing the limp body of the Christ actor from
the cross. He places his other hand on the older, smaller
man’s shoulder and turns him back toward Jerusalem,
volunteering, “my friend, see the Muslim dome dominating
the old city, walled in as it is. Underneath that dome of
Muslim sacrilege, are the remains of the Jewish temple
where two millenniums ago Christ threw out the money
changers, the peddlers of sacrificial animals and scattered
the corrupt Pharisees. When He returns to earth on
Judgment Day, that mosque will shatter to a million tiny
pieces, and the Muslims praying there, descendants of the
desecraters will burst into pillars of fire before the
Faithfull’s eyes.”
“Do you think a loving God would do that friend Earl.”
“He is also an angry God. Vengeance is mine, sayth the
Lord.”
Both men, squeezed by the large crowd, follow the
procession back though the gate to the Church of the Holy
Sepulcher, earlier destroyed by marauding Muslims and
rebuilt over Christ’s supposed tomb by the Crusaders while
Jerusalem was in Christian hands, to where the crucifixion
reenactment will end.

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Neither man can find entry into the venerable Catholic
Church for the final sermon, as all the seats have been
previously taken, so they stand respectfully before the old,
golden in the evening sunlit, stone structure. It appears to
Harlan to be a combination of French and Arabic design,
two stories high with a three story dome. The two
Americans bide their time in respect to the service taking
place inside the church until it ends, and a flow of faithful
observers exit the church, hypnotically chanting, “He is not
there, for He is risen,” prompting the outside crowd to join
the chant.
Head bowed in respect, confused as to what to do when the
crowd begins to disperse, Steve, in a rare moment of
speaking first, volunteers: “this holiest of holy places, the
spot where our Lord ascended to Heaven, was first built by
Emperor Constantine’s mother, Helen, in 324 A.D., after
she and her son embraced Christianity.”
“It is truly a magnificent church, my friend.” the fugitive
comments, knowing he must act fast, believing the Israelis
have somehow infiltrated the procession and wait for the
chance to apprehend him. The man from Jacksonville
extends his hand in a farewell gesture. Harlan takes it,
saying: “it seems you and I are two souls alone, still shaken
by today’s events. Please join me for dinner?”
“Thank you friend Earl, but I intend to spend the evening
praying to my Lord Jesus.”
“Yes how stupid of me. That is what I should do. I will
pray with you, and perhaps you will eat with me at the end
of our devotions. Let us pray and find peace together. I
feel lost in this strange land without a friend.”
“It would be my pleasure to spend the evening in prayer
with you, my friend.”
Harlan and the holy pilgrim, the Christian from
Jacksonville, leave the front of the Church of the Holy
Sepulcher and retrace their steps on the Via Delarosa. At
the place where Jesus is said to have fallen for the third

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time, the men kneel in the dwindling light and recite the
Lord’s Prayer. The Christians who earlier followed the
crucifixion procession have scattered in various directions,
although enough of them remain on the street to prevent the
fundamentalist from executinghis hastily made plan.
Instead of rushing to the place where the Lord fell for the
second time, he begins to describe the palace of Herod
Antipas, who was the Jewish tetrarch of Galilee during
Jesus’s last days in Jerusalem. He relates that the Roman
Empire supported this cruel heir of Herod the Great,
because much of the ruler’s education had been gained in
Rome, and he turned out more Roman than Jewish.
Stalling for time, Harlan’s eyes watch the street traffic,
looking for an opportunity to execute his plan.
“Two thousand years have not erased the sorrow that
lingers over this city because of our Lord’s crucifixion. As
you well know Steve before Christ entered Jerusalem, this
Herod Antipas beheaded John the Baptist, the man who led
the way for the Lord. That is why Jesus loathed him, why
he refused to answer his questions, even though he knew he
would be brutally flogged if he refused. Antipas wanted
Jesus dead, because He was a direct descendent of King
David and the rightful heir to the throne of Israel, gathering
supporters in the tens of thousands who cried for Antipas’
removal.”
“Those were terrible times,” is all the older Christian can
utter.
Harlan’s left hand goes into his jacket pocket, fingering the
garrote he fashioned from a cord torn from the Venetian
Blinds in his hotel room.
The two Christians meander to where the Lord fell for the
second time,where they plan to pray. The younger
American learns that Steve has five more years before he
retires with a nice pension, having worked for thirty-five
years selling plumbing components for a major
manufacturer in the deep South. He has two grown sons,

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both college graduates and both gainfully employed as
engineers for a housing developer in Atlanta, Georgia.
With the exception of using a phony name, Harlan sees no
reason to lie, so tells the man that he worked in the coal
fields of Eastern Kentucky, drank whiskey and chased
women until his wife and daughter were burned alive in a
freak gas explosion, after which he found the Lord. The
accounting of his past causes Harlan’s eyes to tear up and
emotionally moves the older Christian to the extent that he
embraces Harlan, saying, “I wish I could absorb your
grief.”
By the time the two worshipers of Jesus Christ kneel and
pray for the second time, reciting the Bible’s One Hundred
Psalm, it grows dark and the foot traffic on Via
Dolorosahas all but disappeared. Even though his
opportunity to strike is at hand, Harlan grows uneasy,
because alone on the street with only his companion, the
Israeli ministers’ agents will surely find him. He hurries
the older man to the next spot of prayer.
At the spot where Jesus’s mother long ago wept over her
fallen Son, the older Christian sobsas he thanks the Lord
for dying for his sins. Harlan who has knelt beside him
under the cover of a dark passageway between two
connecting buildings, slowly stands behind the unaware
man and wraps the garrote around both hands for maximum
tension. He waits until his fellow American lowers his
praying hands to his chest, reciting his Lord’s words before
Caiaphas, the Pharisees high priest, “. . .you will see the
Son of Man seated at the right hand of God.” He wraps the
thin cord around the man’s neck, crossing his hands and
pushing them in opposite directions, tightening the cord.
“The Lord has called upon you to sacrifice your life in His
service, friend Steve. He has need for the identification
you possess. Go peacefully, do not resist.”
Up until now the older man was too shocked by the attempt
upon his life to react. Now, he rolls to his side, thrashing

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his body about, kicking his legs wildly, his hands trying to
pull away the cord cutting into his neck.
“Be patient, Steve. It will take two minutes, no more,
before you are at your Savior’s side. I envy you your
journey.”
The older American’s movements slow, his purple face
looks as if it will explode. Then, he goes limp.
“Just a few more seconds and you will be in eternity.
Goodbye my friend until we meet in the Great Beyond.”
Harlan loosens the cord from where it cutsinto his hands
and pulls the dead man back to the stone wall where he
places him in a sitting position. He takes the man’s
passport and wallet. Remembering the direction where the
sun dropped in the west, he walks, hands clasped in prayer,
in the opposite direction.

* DOVID *

“Dovid, forgive me for failing you,” Rabbi Shimshon

pleads to his religious adherent.
The heavyset minister looks to his old acquaintance, still
distracted by his recent meeting with the Prime Minister,
who did not ask for his resignation over the disastrous
outcome at Aide, probably because of sympathy for the loss
of his son there. Although, the head of the Israeli
government gave the impression that his tenure as Defense
Minister could not stand another such setback. Dovid
knows all too well that the American running loose in
Jerusalem with the phony nail and bomb formula could
very well be that setback.
“Nonsense, I should have gone myself,” he replies to quash
the Rabbi’s guilt over his mishandling of the exchange.
“You are a man of God, and I am a man of war, therefore it
was a mistake to ask you to take my place.”

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“I don’t think the American knew the nail was a phony. He
held it so reverently. Then, he just kicked me. The
Christian procession crowded the garden, and before we
could subdue him, pandemonium broke out all around us,
allowing him to escape.”
“Rebbe, you did your best, and that is all a person can ask
of a man. This American is a psychotic, therefore
unpredictable.” He wraps his arm around the old Rabbi’s
shoulders and leads him to the door.
“We must get the formula, Dovid. Israel cannot survive
without it.”
“Old friend, I ask myself does Israel really need this pure
fusion bomb. Our tiny nation can survive without it. In its
arsenal, it has implosion devices ranging from five to
twenty-five megatons. Five kilotons will desolatean area of
one mile. This fusion one reportedly is two hundred
megatons. `. . . How much death must be inflicted in
order for Israel to survive?”
“Dovid, we as a civilized nation cannot use the bombs you
refer to; they are just deterrents to keep our enemies at bay.
With the one the Americans sent, we have the means to
destroy the terrorist cities, Baghdad, Damascus and Tehran,
without the massive radiation fallout that normally would
reach Israel. I have people in my control willing to goto
those cities. For these faithful men and women, it would be
as easy as sitting down to watch a soccer match, holding
what looks to be a soccer ball, detonating it, eliminating
those who support terror. No one could trace such
destruction to you or Israel.”
“Not to worry, old friend, we have the facsimile of the
bomb’s shell and the brain power to discover the atomic
ingredients pertaining to that design. I have no choice but
to find this American and get the trigger mechanism that he
failed to turn over, because who knows what hands it could
fall into. He has my attention, for he is the most dangerous

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man in the Middle East. Now, my aide will drive you to
wherever you wish to go.”
“Keep me informed.”
“I will.” He signals his junior assistant waiting in the outer
room to attend to the Rabbi. When the two men have left
his offices, he beckons to the trim, middle aged man sitting
on the couch to accompany him back into his office.
“Please sit down, Major.” When the ex-boxer, an Olympic
bronze metal winner in 1984, seats himself before the
minister’s desk, the senior official pours two cups of coffee
from a container and extends one to the Mossad operative.
“We must capture theAmerican loose cannon, before the
felonious nail gets out of Jerusalem. If my American
contact discovers the nail is not authentic, then we may as
well toss out all chances of getting the necessary
information for the weapon’s completion from him. I
repeat, this American must be apprehended.”
“Minister, as soon as you notified me, I ordered all gates to
the Old City to be watched. I have placed agents at our
soldiers’ checkpoints outside the city, and as we speak,
more agents are patrolling the streets inside and outside the
walls. No one need know what his crime is, only that
Mossad wants him in custody.”
“He has eluded the FBI for five years in his country, so
might be able to get past your people. What are his options
when he tries to escape?”
“Few. If he tries to fly out of Israel with the Christian
tourists, we will have him. If he tries to drive out with the
same Christians, we will get him at a checkpoint, as the
Rabbi gave us a good description. If he is as devious as
you say, then he would most likely try to make it to
Lebanon, Jordan, maybe even Syria.”
“God forbid that should happen.”
“I will find him, Minister. I promise.”

* HARLAN *

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Harlan wakes on Easter morning, believing if the police
found Steve’s bodythey would be unable to identify it for
many days. His first move is to touch the holy nail in his
jacket pocket, assuring himselfit is still there. He
reverently takes the object in both hands, noting the dawn
breaking over the eastern wall of the old city. After he sent
Steve to meet his Maker, he left the Via Dolorosa and
wandered north into the Arab section of the old city,
thinking Israeli agents would not venture into thatsection
after dark. Knowing beforehand that Friday was the
Muslim’s main day of observation to their god, Allah, the
same day as the Jews devoted to their god, Adonai, he
assumed all the Arab shops would be open late on Saturday
for expectant patrons, so lingered over a meal of falafel,
roasted lamb and too-sweet tea in the darkest corner of a
backstreet eatery. Later he slept undisturbed in the
doorway of the same falafel shop after the proprietorclosed
for the day.
The fugitive awoke to Easter, the holist of all Sundays for
him. He consoles himself that he is a man on a mission or
else he would not miss paying his respect to the greatest
event in world history, his Lord’s assent to Heaven. He
cannot undo the foolish move he made against the
minister’s representative in the Garden of Gethsemane, so
sets his mind to escaping from Jerusalem, which the Israelis
control, and then leave the Palestinian territories. He does
not speak Hebrew or Arabic, so staying in Jerusalem
another day after the Easter celebration is over when most
English speaking visitors depart the city, would be
disastrous for him. Therefore,he figures to make his escape
today. If the minister, who was to trade for the fusion
bomb, is the powerful Minister of Defense, then he will
have agents scouring the old city, tracing all phone calls to
America in order to apprehend him. The fundamentalist
thinks to go to Amman, Jordan to call the preacher’s

107
secretary and receive instructionsabout how to send the nail
to the great man. He has been told that the Jordanians have
a strong treaty with the Israelis, so figures little likelihood
exists that Israeli agents will try to kidnap him there. But
how to get to Amman, he wonders.
The answer comes to him when he hears the striking, high
pitched Muslim muezzin’s first morning callto prayer
emanating from both nearby al Aqsa and Dome of the Rock
mosques. He tries to smooth out his rumpledsports jacket
and slacks, as he finds the main street heading to Herod’s
Gate, the northern exit from the old city. Rubbing the one
day’s stumble on his face and hoping it will make him
resemble a Muslim, he spots an Arab in the street by a taxi
cab prostrating himself in the direction of Mecca. The man
is young, Harlan’s age and size, wearing a short beard and
mustache, dressed in fashionable jeans and polo shirt. A
New York Mets ball cap is pulled down over long black
hair. Reports of how the Israelis have sealed the city off
from the territories, preventing non-Jewish workers from
leaving to find work, have indicated to him that
employment would be hard to find in this Arab part of the
city. This knowledge leads him to believe that earnings are
probably very thin here, and a bribe to this Palestinian he
approaches will prove successful. He waits until the Arab
has finished his devotions and speaks to him in English:
“I will pay you much money to drive me to Amman.”
The Arab looks at him like he cannot believe what
he heard and thensmiles broadly. “American, are you lost.
You should be in the Christian part of the city. There,
crowds are filling the streets, heading toward the many
Christian Churches. Do you not hear the church bells
ringing for your holist day, Easter? Why are you not
joining them?”
“I would be there if I could. My name is Steve, and I must
leave Jerusalem immediately. I have a passport.” Harlan
walks closer so that the taxi driver can see the picture of

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him that he put in place on the dead man’s passport. He
hesitates, saying a silent prayer that this man is not an
Israeli agent or part of the PLO police, then volunteers:
“I cannot use my passport to leave Jerusalem, for I
had a scuffle with some Israelis and fear they have reported
me to the police. I will pay you handsomely to drive me to
Amman.” Again, he counts on the Arabs’ hatred for the
Jews and their need for money.
“What is it that you have done that is so bad you fear the
Israeli police?”
“I kicked an old Rabbi in the stomach for showing
his distaste for a Christian pageantry, subsequently causing
two of his bodyguards to be thrashed by fellow Christians,”
he answers, mixing a lie with truth.”
“Two bodyguards? The Rabbi must be a very important
one. Tell me his name.”
“I think he said it was Shinshon.”
“You kicked that bastard Shinshon. I will carry you to
Amman on my back.” The Arab claps his hands together in
adoration. “But not for free.”
“I will pay you cash, and no need to carry me. The cab will
do. Tell me, who is this Rabbi Shinshon?”
“He is the spiritual leader of the settlers who surround
Jerusalem in their new, big houses with air conditioning
and swimming pools, around which the Israeli government
builds high walls to protect. He is an advisor to Minister
Dovid Mattath, devilof all devils. May Allah, blessed be
His name, roast him in Hell for all eternity.”
“Can we leave now? It will be unsafe for me once the
Christians attend the Easter Services and the streets are
empty of Americans.”
“Steve, my name is Marshaal HaniOdeh, and it will be my
honor to drive you to Amman. But first, if agents are
searching for you, we must get you the proper clothing.
My Kaffiyyah and Jibab are in the trunk of my cab. The
Israeli Army checkpoints are outside of Jerusalem, and the

109
soldiers will not be looking for an Arab leaving by the
Damascus Gate. Once they see you in the backseat of my
cab, they will say, another lousy Arab going to Jordan,
good riddance!” He hands his headscarf and robe to the
American. After Harlan slips into the Jibab, the Palestinian
adjusts the Kaffiyyah on his head, stating, “at least you
don’t have blond hair and blue eyes.”
It is as Marshaal, the taxi driver said: no one gave two
Arabs in a cab a second look as the cab slowly drove past
two plainclothes men carrying Israeli rifles at the Old
Jerusalem gate. The taxi cab negotiates the street toward
the King Hussein Bridge that crosses the river into Jordan,
only, after progressing for a few street crossings, the driver
stops abruptly. “Ahead is the first Israeli checkpoint where
this road intersects the roads to the settlements, Givat Ze’er
to the north and Ma’ale Adumin to the east. Always I must
get out of my cab and show identification. You will be all
right with an American passport. Israeli soldiers love
Americans, so we will not have to wait an eternity to pass
through. Please take off my garments.”
The American fugitive does not removethe Arabs robe and
headdress. “Maybe they won’t love this American so
much, especially if the Rabbi reported me to the military,”
Harlan says facetiously, but still making his point to
Marshaal. “I cannot chance they are not watching for me.
There must be some way around the checkpoint.”
“There is another way, only it is very dangerous. Little
airplanes without pilots patrol the land and inform soldiers
of all movement, and then theyrace across the desert in
troop carriers to overtake the intruders. They rarely take
prisoners. My expected fee to drive over the Hussein
Bridge was one hundred American dollars, if you want to
risk a more dangerous route, it must be two hundred fifty
American dollars to try it.”
“Keep the change.” Harlan hands the driver three hundred
American dollars, grateful that the preacher spends lavishly

110
for God’s work. Avoiding the Israeli checkpoint, the cab
cuts south through a maze of neglected streets where
stagnate water collects in muddy pools in the Arab section
on the outskirts of Jerusalem. The streets resemble
neglected dirt alleys to the American. The cab progresses
to where the streets become so narrow, the two men must
fold in the cab’s outside mirrors to pass through. An hour
later, they leave the squalor of the Arab section of
Jerusalem and head directly into the desert. The sun sets
high above the scattered clouds. Harlan notes the desolate,
windswept sandy bluffs and gullies filled with small, green
trees and shrubbery dotting the landscape ahead of him.
“We will follow the protection of this wadi south for three
miles, avoid Jericho, then make a dash for the Jordan River
and Bethany,” the drivers informs Harlanas he cuts into a
ravine that looks more like a desert dry river. The vehicle
bounces, skids, slides over the rough floor of the wadi, as
Marshaal is hesitant to slow down for fear of Israeli spy
planes. When they exit the wadi, the American can see the
outline of Jericho, no more than a village and beyond that
the sliver of water called the Jordan River, where so much
Old Testament bloodshed took place. Harlanguesses the
distance to the river to be five miles. The Arab floors the
accelerator and the cab races across the desert floor,
bouncing wildly, barely a mile or two north of the Dead
Sea.
After the cab slides to a halt above the river in a fierce
cloud of dust, Marshaal extends some Jordanian dinars to
Harlan. “There are two hundred dinars here, equal to one
hundredtwenty American dollars. Wade across the river,
walk north of Bethany and you will come onto tour buses
from Amman,at the place where the Jewish prophet, John
baptized his fellow Jews. Because it is your great holy day,
the buses will not be full. Give thebus driver one hundred
dinars to take you back to Amman. He will not ask
questions, as the money is more than he will make in a

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month’s time.” Harlan exchanges his currency for the
Arab’s and scans the far side of the river for activity.
Seeing none, he exits the cab.
“My American friend, one more thing. Amman is a modern
city with many tall buildings, with a downtown much like
your Phoenix in America. Much intrigue exists there. Go
to the section of the city called Medinaeh Ar Riadiya, find
the Jabbals Café where the smells of roasting kebabs and
rich coffee will greet you. That will be the Palestinian
neighborhood. The café is owned by my cousin, Mustafa,
who escaped Jerusalem during the war of ‘67. He will help
you find a place to stay where you will be safe from the
Israelis. Tell him I am well and will visit him and his
family during Eid Al-Fiter, after Ramadan.”
“Thank you, you have been most helpful. How will you
get back?” Harlan inquires, genuinely liking the Arab.
“I will drive to Jericho, have a good meal and drive back to
Jerusalemlike a free man, which I am not. Go now, before
the little Israeli devil planes find you.”
A little Israeli drone flew over the river as Harlan waded
across; he simply knelt in the river, the water coming to his
chest, and held his hands forth in prayer. Ahead of him he
could see the scattering of tour buses parked by the river
and the village of Bethany sitting as an archaic mud hut
enclave on a bluff to his far right. The sun sends columns
of rays, as if sent by God, through the sparse clouds,
reverently touching the river made holy by the Lord Jesus
and his beloved John. Whoever was monitoring the drone’s
television camera would see him as just one more devout
worshiper on a tour from Amman, silly enough to drench
himself in the water of the Jordan River.
He makes his way into the group of tourists surrounding a
dry pool formed by slabs of stone where a Jordanian guide,
standing midway onthe descending steps, explains this was
the place where John baptized Jesus, setting him upon the
greatest venture in the history of the world. The fugitive

112
stands reverently among fellow Americans and others he
judges to be Europeans, feeling the power of the ancient
place. He walks down the worn stone slabs past the guide
and kneels on the floor of the baptismal pool, his hand finds
a few pebbles that he clasps in his praying hands, and he
thanks God for allowing him to experience the same joy as
the prophet John’s followers must have felt when baptized
here.

*HAIFA*

The Palestinian woman, dressed in a smart, yet modest gray

business suit scans the grounds of Amman Universityfrom
the fifth floor window of the impressive Life Science
building. Thinking about her own under graduate days at
the grander Cairo University, she studies the students,
mostly in modern dress, although many women still wear
the modified head covering, as she once did, moving from
class to class along the tree lined path. Her eyes settle upon
the center square where a four sided clock perched upon a
huge stone pedestal dominates the view. A large picture of
the young King Hussein is prominently displayednext to
the fifty foot high pedestal. Upon arriving in Amman from
Damascus, her first act was to determine the value of the
ancient-looking nail that she took off the dead Mattath at
Aide, recently scarred by some unknown force. She has
been in the old city for a week now, staying at a modest
hotel in the Jubeiha district of the city, waiting for the nail’s
testing results from Dr. Saadi ZahiZelet, who holds a Ph.D.
in both archeology and anthropology. He promised to give
the object a thorough testing. She trusts the man will not
betray her to the authorities, as he was run out of Palestine
by the Israelis for criticizing their occupation of the West
Bank. Like so many Palestinians, he shares her hatred of
the invaders, even after making a new life for himself in

113
Jordan where the government, uncharacteristic for an Arab
one, offered citizenship to all Palestinians in Diaspora. She
reads a Damascus newspaper accounting that the agent she
killed died naturally, sleeping in his own bed. This bogus
report tells her that the Syrian authorities are not anxious to
make the man’s murder public. She watched the al
Jazzeera network television and learned that her uncle’s
house in the Palestinian section of Jerusalem, along with
fifteen others, had been destroyed by Israeli bulldozers
because of the Aide attack. The reports indicate that her
uncle, a Hamas leader, escaped arrest before the troops
surrounded his house.
Dr. Zahi Zelet taps her on the shoulder, interrupting her
thoughts. She turns to the elegant professor, tall for a
Palestinian. He wears the neatly trimmed beard and
mustache that academics are so fond of, a rumpled tweed
suit and striped tie.
“Haifa, how very good to see you. Normally I would not
keep you waiting so many days, only I felt the need to run
additional tests after the initial one put the nail’s origin at
somewhere around 1 B.C. plus or minus one hundred
years.” He hands the nail, wrapped in padded paper to her.
“Why would an Israeli soldier carry this nail into battle?”
she inquires of the scientist.
“As you well know, Haifa, he was an archeologist from a
very prominent Jewish family.”
“I did not disclose from whomI got the object. How do you
know that particular soldier had it?”
“My very intelligent, but secretive, young woman, I
put two and two together. One of the dead officers at Aide,
the leader of the raid, was an archeologist; in this case the
Defense Minister’s son. You, a rebellious woman with
much talent, possess an object that you do not know the
history of. Your uncle’s house has been razed in Palestine
indicating to me that you are the architect of the victory at
Aide. Do not worry, as your history is safe with me. You

114
are a true mujahedeen to me and the other Palestinians in
Jordan.”
“Doctor, be good enough to answer my question.”
“The dead soldier carried it on his person, because he
thought it too valuable to leave behind.”
“How so?”
“Historical value. As you know the Roman council,
Pompey, first conquered Judea in the first century B.C. The
object I returned to you could be a crucifixion nail from
that period, possibly one that was commonly used to nail a
forearm to the crossbeam. Then again, it could be one from
around the period of the prophet, Jesus. The Romans
executed scores of eccentrics back then for claiming to be
the Davidic heir, the prophesized messiah who would lead
the Jews from bondage and to everlasting power over all
nations. It could also be from the time when the Romans
sacked Jerusalem and crucified over ten thousand Jews in
70 A.D. If the latter proves true, it would be valuable to
the Jews, but not priceless.”
“If that is the case, what is its value to me?”
“Please let me continue.” The tall attractive visitornods her
assent and follows the professor into his office, filled with
books, scattered papers and pieces of bones catalogued on a
long table. To her the roomappears stuffy and messy.
He hands her a picture of a crude, stone vault, the size of a
breadbox, with Hebrew characters chiseled into the side.
“The inscription on the ossuary reads, James, Brother of
Jesus. If the bones belong to James, the almost certain
brother of the crucified Jesus, then they are from the time
when Annas II ordered him stoned to death. Historically,
what makes all this so fascinating is that Annas II was the
son of Annas, the Sanhedrin most responsible for the death
of Jesus the prophet. This stoning of James happened
thirty-two years after the better known death of his brother,
Jesus.
“Doctor, do you possess this ossuary?”

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“No, the Jews have it.”
“Then, it is a bird in the bush, therefore of no value to me.”
“Haifa, just suppose this ossuary held the remains of the
true brother of the Christians’ god and DNA off of this nail
can be found and traced to Jesus, and his DNA can be
traced to James, certain Jews would pay a lot to get even
for two thousand years of persecution. The persecution
they claim they suffered from the hands of Christians for
executing their god.”
“Are you suggesting I deal with Jews.”
“No, I will. I would negotiate with the devil
himself to prove that this Jesus was a lesser prophet than
Muhammad. Peace be to Him.”
“The Jews, if not the devil reincarnated, are the
devil’s henchmen, and I will spare you such dark theocracy
negotiations.” She hands the ossuary picture to him. “You
have been most accommodating to give me such a thorough
accounting. The shiny mark where the object is bent, what
do you make of that?” Haifa studies the mark made by the
settler’s bullet.
The professor takes the ossuary picture from Haifa and files
it under a stack of papers. “Judging by the force that made
it, I would venture that some idiot used the nail for target
practice. Haifa, the object you are holding in you hand
could be an earth shaking find.” Haifa places the nail into
her shoulder bag. “Please reconsider. I would like to
thoroughly check the nail for some trace of human DNA for
a future match against James’s bones.”
“What you find so fascinatingis only a distraction for me.
Goodbye, Doctor,” the professional appearing woman
curtly remarks, cutting off any more conversation.

* HARLAN *

The first thing the fugitive fleeingIsraeli agents did was to

find the Jabbals Café in the part of Amman know as

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Medinaeh Ar Riadiya. There he found Marshaal’s cousin,
the proprietor, a serious looking man, full bearded, who he
guesses to be in his late twenties. Once he mentions the
taxi cab driver’s name, the cousin, Mustafa smiles and
reveals a cell phone, indicating that he knows about the
American’s wild ride to the Jordan River and the reason he
made such a risky entranceinto Jordan. Mustafa also
knows all about Rabbi Shimshon and vehemently expresses
his hatred for his Zionist policies and especially for his
outspoken support forincreasing the Jewish settlements
throughout the West Bank. None of the animosity between
the Jews and Palestinians in Jordan means much to the
American, except that kicking the Rabbi may have gained
him an ally, someone who can guide him undetected
through the maze of unintelligible Amman streets to an
English speaking section of the city.
Outside a British bank, he placed a collect call to the
preacher’s secretary from a pay phone and received
instructions to deliver the holy nail to Patty Novak, the
head of the Embassy’s Immigration Department in Jordan,
a Born Again Christian who is to be trusted. According to
the elated secretary, she will see that the sought-after object
gets to the preacher. Probably in a diplomatic pouch,
Harlan guesses. The preacher’s polished secretary seemed
unable to contain his excitement over the acquisition
continuously congratulating the courier, so overjoyed was
he with the successful venture. Obviously, Harlan thought,
he has not been in contact with the Israeli Defense
Minister.
Mustafa temporarily leaves Harlanand exits through the
kitchen into his living quarters and returns a few minutes
later. “Please, you will join me and my family for tea and
some biscuits. My mother would like to meet you. She
said that you are the only American she knows about who
does not love Israelis. Please, you follow me.”

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Harlan wanted to reply, oh, there are many more, you just
don’t know about them, but refrained from doing so. He
feels uncomfortable following the displaced Palestinian: he
has escaped detection in the past by not expanding his
circle of acquaintances, especially with members of a
culture he knows next to nothing about. The café he earlier
entered was Spartan, a few tables with plastic covers, metal
folding chairs and old, turn-of-the-century black and white
photos of what must have been better days in Palestine
before the Jews ran them out of their ancient land. The
apartment behind the café, separated by a long hallway, is
tastefully decorated as any upscale Arab one would be: a
long couch and two easy chairs covered in an expensive
cloth of a Mediterranean pattern dominate the room. A
thick green rug covers the floor; a spinet piano occupies the
corner of the room, indicating to the visitor that the family
pursues music, a sign they have gained a certain amount of
culture. On the coffee table there is a tea service and
pastries. Harlan notices framed quotes in embellished
Arabic handwriting from what he guesses to be from the
Qu’ran, giving tribute to their god, Allah, covering the
walls. Unlike in his religion where pictures glorify Jesus,
there are no pictures of Allah or his messenger,
Muhammad. The visitor stands in the middle of the room
next to Mustafa, realizing he is waiting for the mother to
appear. He focuses on an emblem on one wall that hangs
over pictures of masked, armed men, holding AK47s
diagonally across their chests, posing in various threatening
positions. Mustafa, encouraged by the American’s interest
in the emblem, explains its design:
“The emblem of Hamas. That is the al Aqsa Mosque in
Jerusalem that the infidel Mattath desecrated by setting foot
on the holy site and creating a second intifada for us
Palestinians. To wipe out such irreverence, Hamas came
into being,” he adds with a sense of pride. The two crossed
swords are emblematic of our jihad against the Israelis,

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which will not rest until the invaders are pushed into the
sea. As you can see our two Palestinian flags flank the
swords.”
“Harlangoes out of his way to show interest in the emblem,
hoping to garner favor with the Palestinian man. “Will
you translate the Arabic written underneath the emblem?”
“There is no God, but Allah, and Muhammad is the
messenger of Allah,” Mustafa speaks, his hand clasped
before his chest in reverence.
On his last word, a door opens and a heavy woman
followed by two younger women, at least the American
guesses them to be so by their lively step, for all three
women are dressed in black robes, head covers and veiled
so that only their dark eyes are visible.
“Please, my American friend, give me your name so I can
say it to my mother.”
Harlan uses the name of the plumbing salesman from
Florida, who he believes is in Heaven. “Steve Singleton.”
The fugitive listens while the Arab male speaks in length to
his mother in Arabic, and then hears his name pronounced.
The mother and her two daughters bow their heads
respectfully, and the older woman speaks in Arabic to her
son. He notes she has a soft, demur voice.
“My mother is honored to meet you and wishes me to tell
you that the daughter on her immediate left, my oldest
sister, is Najma. The younger one is named Sherma.
“I am honored to meet you Mrs. Jabbals and your two
daughters.”
The veiled woman asks her son to translate, and when he
does, the two younger women begin to giggle.
“Please, Steve, do not be offended by my sisters’ rude
manners. They are laughing because Jabbals is the name
for the seven hills surrounding Amman and not our name.
Our surname is Subah.”

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Harlan blushes over his mistake, although he sees that his
error endears him to the mother who relaxes her stiff
posture and speaks to her son.
“Please, you will now join us for tea and knafe--a cheese
and wheat and rose water delight, and then I shall take you
to your hotel. It is nearby.”
None of the three women will speak directly to the
foreigner, as they will not to any man outside of the family.
They only speak to him though Mustafa, who is very
respectful to his mother, but not so respectful to his sisters.
The younger women hidden behind their robes and veils
address their questions to their brother who most times is
short with them for asking question he thinks to be silly.
Through the brother, Harlan relates what he thinks would
be the life of the dead Floridian. He describes life on the
road in the Southern United States, selling plumbing
supplies to hardware and home improvement stores,
sending his sons to college in Gainesville and his imaginary
life in the rich colorful landscape of verdant Florida. He,
for reasons that escape him, includes the story of his wife’s
and daughter’s fiery deaths, moving the location to
Jacksonville. The women listen with fascination,
emotionally moved over the deaths of his loved ones; the
younger girls press their brother to get more details, which
Harlandoes not provide. In the exchange, Harlanlearns that
the brother is a member of the al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, the
armed wing of Hamas. He infers by the man’s vehement
dislike for the Israelis that the brigade is an outlaw force
opposing the Israelis, similar to the IRA opposing the
British in Ireland. The similarity ends there for the
American, for in his mind the British and the Irish are
Anglos like him; these people, Israelis and Arabs are
Semites. He also infers that the family is extremely
religious, by their constant references to Allah and their
prayer to Him framed on the wall, which is sort of like the
fundamentalist’s Lord’s Prayer. He informs them that he

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also believes deeply in his God, Jesus Christ. To his
surprise, the family knows as much about Jesus as he does,
at least the historical part; although, they refrain from any
suggestion that He is a deity. He says his goodbyes,
thinking these Palestinians in exile are gracious, at least
more gracious than the Rabbi and his cohorts were in
Jerusalem.

* *

The man known as Steve Singleton from Florida in the

United States has been, ever since delivering the holy nail
to the Embassy located southeast of his hotel in the Der
Ghbar section of the city, playing the role of a Christian
tourist extending his stay in the Middle East after the Easter
observance. He has visited the ruins of the Roman
amphitheater in the old part of town, floated in the Dead
Sea on the Jordanian side. He went into the desert to visit
the ancient city of Pella an hour’s bus drive north of
Amman and sawmore Roman ruins, built over Greek ruins,
a place that traces its history back to 1900 B.C. He has
tipped generously, although not lavishly, at the hotel
restaurant and to the tour guides, as he does not want to
draw too much attention to himself. He has given dinars to
the Jordanian needy on the streets, and, although ignorant
of the seven pillars of the Qur ‘an, has unintentionally filled
an important responsibility of the Muslim faith called Zelet,
which has not gone unappreciated in his small Arab circle.
The preacher’s secretary instructed him to bide his time in
Amman until arrangements could be made to send him to
Ireland where he will fit in with the culture, becoming just
another American returning to his roots; at such time
arrangements will be made for him to quietly live there for
five years, until the FBI hunt for him in the states fades.
He and the embassy contact have set up weekly meetings at

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the Roman amphitheater until the time for him to depart
Jordan arrives.
The American appears for their second meeting, expecting
the middle-aged, although attractive Immigration
Department woman to be all smiles in his presence as she
did the first time they met. At that time, impressed by the
magnitude of the nail he turned over to her, she had invited
him to dinner in her apartment, and he was tempted to
accept, for her boldness sexually stirred him. For the same
security reasons that have kept him out of harm’s way, he
refused her invitation.
Standing on the periphery of a group of ten tourists
standing between the Roman columns supporting the
entrance to the amphitheater, he spots Patty’s curvaceous
form, clothed in a smart business suit, showing a lot of leg
exiting a taxi, and then making her way toward him.
Whereas the brunette’s face had been relaxed and engaging
at their first meeting, this time it is tense, almost hostile.
She does not greet him, abruptly taking his arm and leading
him into the vastness of the amphitheater. Her abrupt
manner puts him on alert.
She punches out a number on a cell phone and hands it to
him, informing him: “the preacher’s secretary is waiting for
this call.” Harlan, who is fully expecting to be reprimanded
for not giving the bomb’s formula to the Israeli contact, sits
on the first stone bench, the first of many forming a semi
circle facing the amphitheater. Instead, he hears the
secretary’s voice say very slowly. “The Jews have screwed
us. The nail is a phony.” For a moment, the American can
do no more than stare at the embassy woman, who returns
his gaze with one of pending doom, her eyes tearing up as
she fights sobbing. He grasps the devout woman’s hand to
comfort her, and then to reassure her he says,
“circumstances are not as bad as they seem.” Tears have
smeared her mascara, and lines that he had not seen before
appear around her mouth as she forces a smile.

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“He speaks into the cell phone, responding to the secretary:
“I could never trust a race of people who crucified Our
Lord, so I did not give them the complete atomic make up
or the trigger design. Their trickery failed, consequently
they do not have the bomb.”
He can almost hear the secretary sigh his relief. The
fugitive waits for a response a full moment,until the man
says, “so we are back to square one. For this negative
result, you have risked capture, and we in America
haverisked exposure. God will punish those deviants.”
The woman standing before him is noticeably trembling,
still overwrought about the phony nail. Harlanstands and
puts his arm around her shoulders in an attempt to comfort
her. He feels her body melt into him as he relates to the
secretary what he has just now pieced together: He gives
the newspapers’ account of the Palestinian attack on the
Defense Minister’s son, who when not a soldier is an
archeologist. The fugitive tells the secretary that he
strongly suspects that the Palestinians who killed Jonathan
Mattathtook the holy nail from his dead body. That he
believes the Israelis, desperate to get the fusion bomb,
decided to deceive him with a phony nail. He then relates
how he stole the nail from the minister’s representative
without turning over the sequences for the fish eye lasershe
memorized.
He feels the heat of the distraught woman’s body pressed
against his; his free hand instinctively rubs the small of her
back, and feels her tenseness relax under his touch. He
cannot believe what the secretary next orders him to do and
asks him to repeat his instructions.
“You are to trade what you have memorized with whoever
has the nail, be it Israeli or Palestinian.”
Harlan has forgotten that he still rubs the woman’s back as
his eyes search the amphitheater for anyone who might be
watching him. Seeing only a few Anglos milling about the
amphitheater’s tiers of stone benches, taking photos of each

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other, his mind returns to what the secretary ordered him to
do and he replies:
“Palestinians are Arabs, and Arabs are Muslims who are
sworn by their religion to destroy the United States. I
cannot give the weapon to such people.”
“We must have the nail. You are to do as instructed,” the
secretary commands Harlan.
“If that is what the preacher wants, then I must hear the
words from his own lips.”
“Very well, call back in thirty minutes.”
The American disconnects the call, and feels the woman’s
lips press against his neck. She has aroused him by
pressing her pelvic area against his thigh.
“I love Jesus as I know you do. Come home with me,” she
whispers, her voice turning husky. He calms his lust for
her by silently telling himself that God’s duty has a higher
priority than pursuing the weakness of the flesh. He gently
pushes her away.
“Patty, will you lend me your cell phone. I must call the
states in a half hour.”
“Of course, I have time, I will wait with you.”
“No. I need to make the call in private.” He sees the hurt
flood across her face. The mascara has runs down her
cheeks, making her appear old, almostwicked. “Give me
the address of your apartment, and I will meet you there
after my call is completed.”
He can see that his words have reawaken her spirit, and she
kisses him fully on the mouth. He allows her lips to linger
on his and then pushes her away, joining a group of tourists
who now have entered the amphitheater.

* *

Exactly one half hour later, Patty’s cell phone playsthe Star
Spangle Banner, tinny like a harpsichord would. Harlan,

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says, “I am here,” into it and hears the secretary say, “I am
handing the phone to the preacher.”
He listens as the great man speaks:“my son, you
have acted as if God’s own hand is guiding you. After my
secretary informed me how you out-tricked the tricksters, I
knew you I chose the right man for God‘s mission.”
“Thank you sir,” is all the fundamentalist can think
to reply.
“He also informed me that you believe the
Palestinians have the precious nail.”
“All indicators seem to point to them.”
“Then Harlan, you must deal with them.”
“But Reverent, they are heathens sworn to destroy
America.”
“Some are so sworn, some just want their land back.
Once the nail is in our possession, then no doubt can exist
that our Lord Jesus walked, preached and died on the cross
for us. Harlan, here in America, many enemies of the
church exist, enemies who plot each day to lure our fellow
Christians away from us, and they have found much
success pursuing their evil intent. Our wayward followers
lured from us will return to the church like lost sheep
hungry for nourishment when the sacred nail is in our
possession. We will finally have formed the mighty army
of the Lord, awaiting his return onjudgment day. Born
Again Christianity will be at the head of His waiting army.
My son, give the Palestinians the weapon for the holy nail.”
The confused American does not readily agree to the order.
He paces across the open area of the amphitheater. For a
moment in his mind’s eye, the stands fill with fiendish
people dressed in togas and robes, standing and
enthusiastically cheering as he and other Christians are tied
to stakes. To him, the spectators are the enemies of the
church the preacher referred to, laughing, applauding as the
wild animals--tigers, wolves and hyenas tear at his flesh--
the screams of nearby Christians consuming his senses.

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“Harlan, are you still there? Answer me, son,” The
preacher’s voice sounds over the cell phone.
Harlan shakes his head furiously, and the evil spectators
disappear from the stone benches. “I am here.”
“You and I will be dead by the time those Muslim
primitives develop the technology to build such a
sophisticated weapon. God has told me to tell you to trade
what you have in your head for His Son’s nail of suffering.”
“I will do the Lord’s bidding.”
“And He will reward you with eternal life. Keep my
secretary informed of your progress.”
The fundamentalists disconnects the phone and sits on the
stone bench where the Romans once ruled supreme,
remindful of how the early Christians suffered under their
occupation. He thinks, the word of our Lord Jesus
converted the Romans, and they were bornagain. Now
with the nail, we Born Agains will convert all humanity.

* HAIFA *

The Palestinian woman has yet to determine the bargaining

power of the ancient nail, wondering if she could trade it to
the Saudi Wahabbis, or possibly Christian radicals, for
weapons to aid the Palestinian cause; if so, where to hide
the weapons from the Israelis and to whom to give them,
Arafat’s Fatah or her uncle’s Hamas? Even though Arafat
had returned from Tunisia after his disastrous defeat by the
Israelis in Lebanon, Fatah is demoralized and disorganized.
Hamas, the organization her uncle and a few others direct,
is too small, too undeveloped, to launch a substantial attack
against the Israelis. Israel has set up a police state in Gaza
and the West Bank, watching the Palestinians like a colony
of ants in a glass box, so where could she hide artillery,
missile launchers or even a cache of small weapons. So,
until she can determine the nail’s true value and how best to
use it to drive the Israelis from Palestine, she placed it in a

126
safety deposit box at the Bank of Jordan in the heart of
Amman’s modern business district. Given her
sophistication and the phony identification declaring her a
British citizen, there had been no trouble getting a security
box.
She secured the nail after she contacted a Hamas man she
knew from the West Bank, one Mustafa Hani Odeh living
in Medinaeh Ar Riadiya, inquiring about her uncle’s
whereabouts after the destruction of his house. Mustafa
told her that he did not know her uncle’s exact
whereabouts, but suspected he had escaped through Gaza
across the Sinai to Egypt. When she turned to leave his
café, the young, bearded man volunteered information
about a tall generous American with lots of money who had
attacked a Rabbi in Jerusalem. The man had been pressed
him for a contact in Hamas, Fatah or with any Arab who
might know what happened at Aide.
Her first instinct is to believe the American is a CIA agent
working in Amman to assist the Israelis in their search for
the attackers at Aide, but when she expressed her suspicion
to Mustafa, he said the man did not fit a CIA agent’s
profile. This American did not seem educated or
sophisticated, he expressed himself like a laborer, and a
very devout one at that, so ignorant that he did not know
that Hamas and Fatah were not allied in the cause to stop
Israeli aggression, the latter recognizing and the other
group sworn to destroy Israel.
She put aside her suspicions, her curiosity about the Aide
connection getting the best of her, requesting the Hamas
man introduce her as the person who could give an
accounting of the incident at Aide. The man, knowing that
she, although not committed to Hamas, had orchestrated
and pulled off one of the largest injuries the Palestinians
had inflicted upon the Israelis, agreed to arrange a meeting.
It had been one week since her contact with Mustafa, and
she had not heard from him. When she phoned his café, he

127
was unavailable; when she visited the café, his employees
said he was away on business. She suspected something
was in the making, maybe the planning of a shahid
bombings in Israel distracted Mustafa from introducing her
to the American.
She puts her concern aside for a greater concern, because
one of Arafat’s personal aides finds her at the modest hotel
where she has taken a room and gives her a note from the
Chairman, inviting her aboard his plane when it
touchesdown at al Aila Airport tomorrow morning. The
note indicates the Chairman wantsto congratulate her for
her tremendous victory over the Israelis.
Keeping her poise until Arafat’s messenger departs, her
breath catches in her throat, as she fights the panic
threatening to overwhelm her. She immediately collects
her few articles of clothing and personal belongings and
vacates the hotel room, bribing the proprietor to allow her
to leave by the kitchen exit. If Arafat’s organization can
find her, so can the Israelis. In the street her pace slows as
she suddenly solves the reason for Mustafa’s absence:
Chairman Arafat is on a fund raising tour, meetingthe heads
of state in the Arab nations. Jordan being the closest in
distance to Gaza, although not the closest ally because of
Arafat’s past intrigues in that nation, would be the first
country he visited. The meeting between Arafat and King
Hussein would be short and on the Chairman’s plane, a
DC7. Haifa suspects the meeting will be more for show
than result, or else Arafat would have been invited to the
king’s palace.
Although living in Amman, Mustafa had joined al Aqsa
Martyrs Brigade, Hamas’ radical militants pledged to
destroy Israelis in Palestine. She knows the leadership of
Hamas has despised Arafat after he announced his intention
to recognize Israel in exchange for Palestinian control over
what was left of their land. Like King Hussein, Arafat was
known to be secular and her uncle, the primary head of

128
Hamas was a fundamentalist devoted to the violent
interpretations of the Qur’an—their philosophical beliefs
opposed. She doubts that men in positions like her uncle
would plan an assassination on Arafat in front of King
Hussein in spite of their differences with the PLO head,
because KingHussein had befriended the exiled
Palestinians in Jordan. In addition to that, Hussein had lost
Jerusalem to Israel when championing the Palestinian cause
by joining the Egyptians, Syrians and other Arab countries
in their crushing 1967 defeat by the Israelis; in a later
action against Israel, joining Egypt and Syria, the king
almost lost his country to the victorious Jews and would
have lost it if not for American intervention with the
Israelis. Killing the Chairman of the PLO under Hussein’s
nose would be a huge embarrassment for him, subsequently
devastating for Jordanian Palestinians, as the king would
harshly reprimand them. So given all that she can piece
together she guesses the assassination attempt to be an
outlaw one, planned by fanatics like Mustafa, acting
independentlyof Hamas leadership. Whether or not Arafat
will be alive to call upon, she does not know, but decides to
risk discovery by going to the airport to watch what will
unfold there. Whether or not she returns safely, the nail
would be safe in the deposit box.

* *

The next morning, after a restless night in a different hotel,

Haifa steps from the cab in the front of the Queen al Aila
International Airport after an hour’s ride from central
Amman. The traffic had been heavy for the late morning
hour, probably because of the large Palestinian population
in Amman wanting to see Arafat for the brief time he would
spend with the king. In spite of aging leader’s military
setbacks, he still remains a popular leader for these exiles.
A generation ago, as a recent graduate of Cairo University,

129
and protégée of the Muslim Brotherhood, a militant
fundamentalist organization ensconced in Egypt, Arafat had
been the first Palestinian to take up arms against the Israeli
military, launching attacks from across the Jordan border at
Israeli outposts; not gaining much of a military result, but
the first Palestinian sign of resistance to the Israeli/Yankee
military machine. He had by sheer will and wit formed the
Palestinian Liberation Organization and Fatah, their
military wing, by soliciting huge monies from Arab
countries such as Saudi Arabia, Libya and even Shi’te Iran,
developing the PLO into a world recognized political force
opposing the Israelis.
The Palestinian woman, in spite of the Chairman’s personal
invitation, has no intention of warning him about the
possible attempt on his life, although as Arab leaders go,
she calculates, he is one of the most secular, tolerant of
women‘s rights, unlike the subjugating dinosaurs ruling
most Arab countries. But the organization he put together
is corrupt and inefficient, his coalition of cronies are too
rooted in the venerable Arab tradition of lining their
pockets, too complacent in their positions to stop lower
level pilfering of needed services to their people. The PLO
corruption and Arafat’s capitulation to the Israeli
government, disregarding Palestinian repatriation, indicates
to her that her grandparent’s land lost in the 1948 Israeli
takeover is lost forever. All of which brings her to think a
new Palestinian leader might be a good thing.
There are two terminals serving the airport, and she goes to
the far and smallest one where the Chairman’s DC7 willtaxi
to after touchdown. She knows from recently flying into
Queen al Aila Airport, the runways are positioned in a
gigantic H configuration; two incoming on one side and
two outgoing runways on the other side of the terminals.
The terminals run parallel inside the runways and
perpendicular to the bar in the H, which is a pathway for

130
freight and baggage carriers to access the incoming and
outgoing flights.
As she makes her way through the first terminal, displaying
restaurants, wireless connection bars, American Starbucks
and Pizza Hut outlets, she spots through the plate glass
windows the planes of Royal Jordanian, Air Arabia, Iraqi
Airlines and other Arab Airlines on the right side; Arkia
Israel Airlines and the American Royal Blue on the other
side. All this commerce leads her to believe this King
Mohammed Hussein is trying to do the best for his country
by opening it up to international commerce. If only her
uncle and men of his ilk would think the same way, perhaps
Palestine would find the revenues to better resist the
Israelis. The king’s grandfather, Abdullah ibn Al-Hussein,
tracing his Hashimitge heritage to 510 C.E. and to Haskin
ibn Abd al Manaf, the great grandfather of Mohammed, had
been assassinated before the grandson’s eyes. His father
Talal bin Abdulla, ruled briefly, but was declared
incompetent due to frequent bouts with schizophrenia.
Educated in England, where Haifa obtained a post graduate
degree, Prince Mohammed as he was then known, replaced
his father as supreme rulerat seventeen years of age. The
country he rules is small and impoverished, but unlike other
Arab leaders, he does not pilfer the resources, using what
revenue he has to improve Jordanian life.
The tall, young woman fully cloaked in an obscuring black
robe, a headdress called a jalabiyyah covering her head and
a veil hiding all but her eyes, thinks unanimity is the only
advantage this heavy black disguise offers, as she sees
other women cloaked as she is. When she reaches the
second terminal, not as crowded with international travelers
as the first, she sees a field of red and white checkered
Kaffiyyahs on the ground below; the male spectators
wearing them are restrained from the tarmac by a waist-
high, wire fence. On the far side of the fence, ceremonial
Jordanian soldiers, with their red and white Kaffiyyahs,

131
black trousers and white pistol belts, stand six feet apart as
a second barrier to the spectators, but do not carry rifles.
Dressed as a devout Muslim, Haifa has no problem getting
to the plate glass window for a better view of the tarmac
where three other figures cloaked in black as she is stand,
because men respectful of a devoted woman clear a path
before her. There are, she estimates, another fifty or more
spectators pressing from behind her to get a view of the
anticipated meeting. Almost all the Arab men and women
standing behind her are dressed in European styled attire.
There are a few curious Anglos politely standing toward the
rear, travelers curious about what is going to take place.
The eyes of the heavily cloaked woman scan the spectators
below on the tarmac, almost all participants are waving the
green red and white Palestinian flag in one hand, the
distinct green, yellow and brown Jordanian flag in the
other. The mass of red and white Kaffiyyahs adorned by
men milling about before the tarmac is like viewing a field
of poppies on the plains of Afghanistan with a few black
jalabiyyahs and a half dozen uncovered heads interspersed.
It is the uncovered heads that her attention focuses on; one
tall, brown haired individual with a freshbeard stands out
from the black haired men. He carries what she believes to
be a small translation book by its appearance, probably
English to Arabic, as he constantly refers to it when he
speaks to the male spectators. From what she can see, the
men turn away from him upon hearing whatever it is he
says to them.
Her attention intensifies when the tall Anglo recognizes
someone in the crowd. Waving his arm above his head, he
shouts a name she cannot hear, but as soon as she spots the
object of his attention, Mustafa pushing his way toward the
fence with four others, all of them wearing Kaffiyyahs and
ankle length robes,she knows this is the American she
hoped to meet. Mustafa ignores the Anglo trying to get his
attention, until the man starts to follow him, and then what

132
must be two Hamas men from his group confront the tall
man, reprimanding him about something. When the
American desists from his pursuit, the pair rejoin Mustafa
and their group at the fence.
Her eyes follow the Anglo as he falls back to the rear of the
spectators, and then her attention goes to where Chairman
Arafat’s DC7 taxis off the runway onto thenearby tarmac.
Immediately, five black limousines displaying Jordanian
flags, followed by four troop carrying vehicles, speed
toward the tarmac, abruptly stopping, boxing in the
airplane. Thirty soldiers wearing green fatigues, carrying
American M16s form a phalanx between the spectators and
the airplane; another thirty soldiers form a second phalanx
between the aircraft and the runways. Government aides
exit one limousine, take a rolled red carpet from the trunk
and unroll it between the DC7 and the middle limousine,
which Haifa guesses carries the king. As she can see from
her elevated view, nine vehicles surround the DC7. All the
Jordanian dignitaries have exited their vehicles, waiting at
the carpet’s end opposite the airplane. Lastly, the short,
trim form of King Hussein appears from a limousine, and
he takes his position at the head of the delegation. A
commander’s gold leafing, under the morning sun, flashes
off his military barracks hat. Next, Arafat appears at the
aircraft’s open door to cheering that is even audible to
Haifa through the thick plate glass window. He waves,
flashing his seductive smile to the exiled Palestinians who
are chanting, “a free Palestine homeland,” as he descends
the ramp placed against the aircraft. The king meets him
halfway on the red carpet. They are almost identical in
height; the king well groomed and dapper in his beige
military uniform; the Chairman looking somewhat rumpled
with his scraggly beard and un-pressed green military
fatigues. The two dignitaries embrace, exchange kisses on
the cheeks, niceties per the Arab custom.

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For the moment, Haifa has lost the American in the crowd
of spectators, although she has no trouble locating Mustafa
and his four cohorts. In front of them, four of the
ceremonially dressed King’s guards fall away from the
fence, draw their side arms as Mustafa and the Hamas four
discard their robes and jump the fence. All nine men dash
across the forty meters of open space separating them from
the phalanx of soldiers toward Arafat and the king, firing
what seems to be Israeli Uzi machine guns.
Haifa first thought the attack a fool’s mission, now she can
see it is a deranged endeavor. The soldiers, probably the
king’s elite guard, knell upon command and fire upon the
attackers. Mustafa and the other eight assassins barely
make fifteen meters, beforethey are reduced to a bloody
mess of felled bodies pulsating on the tarmac. Aides
collapse around the king and push him to the ground.
Arafat, has broken through the soldiers’ rank protecting
him and is rushing toward the felled attackers, firing his
Magnum pistol at any one of the attackers who stirs.
The Palestinian leader’s bravado does not stop the panicked
spectators from overrunning each other, struggling to get
inside the terminal out of harm’s way. In the ensuing
pandemonium, Haifa sees that some of the soldiers’ rifle
fire, having missed the attackers, has wounded or killed a
dozen or more spectators. On the far side of the dead
attackers, security agents usher the king behind his
limousine. The disguised observer, deciding it is not wise
to linger in the terminal as every law enforcement officer
within five kilometers will be converging on the airport,
moves to join the flood of escaping spectators now
stampeding past her. In the stampede, she notices the tall
American ahead of her making his exit to the second
terminal and subsequent escape via the airport entrance
road. Compelled by her curiosity, the robed woman
follows him. She is maybe eight meters behind--fifteen or
twenty fleeing people separating them--in the passageway

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to the other terminal. A muscular man who resembles a
boxer more than a policeman suddenly appears and grabs
the American by the arm, placing a Berretta to the back of
his head. The fit man in a loose shirt and slacks pulls the
bigger man from the fleeing mass of humanity. Haifa
pushes herself against the wall, free of the human rush,
eyes trained on the pugnacious man with the pistol, who
guides the American into the men’s toilet room.
Realizing that every moment she lingers here, puts her in
peril of being picked up in a police swept of the airport and
subsequently turned over to the Israelis, she puts her
concern aside and cracks open the door to get a view of the
inner room. A solitary man dressed in a jibab and
Kaffiyyah is washing his hands. Haifa opens the door
wider, shocking the man by her appearance, but not seeing
the American or the man with the pistol. The Arab is about
to reprimand her for her blatant disrespect of his privacy,
only before he can do so, the woman pulls an American
made snub-nosed revolver from under her robe. She puts
the finger of her other hand to her mouth, indicating he
should be silent. The woman’s lust for revenge has
molded her into a cold, calculating instrument of death,
enabling her to take her time searching the area for the two
men she pursues. Noting all the toilet stalls with half doors
are empty, her eyes lock on the only stall with a full door,
housing an open hole in the floor for those usersoffended
by western-styled conveniences.
Because of the noise, she cannot shoot the Arab who looks
as if he will faint, so indicates to him to lie on the floor.
She next stuffs his mouth with paper towels, straddles him,
securing the gag with the cord from his Kaffiyyah and
slams her pistol into the base of his skull. The injured man
struggles to escape, until she inflicts a second blow to the
same spot, knocking him unconscious. She stands, noting
the full door to the open pit toilet remains closed.

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Haifa places her ear to the door, hearing questions in
English pertaining to the captured man’s identity, accusing
him of possessing a dead man’s identification, wanting to
know what he is doing at this airport without an airline
ticket. The questioner speaks perfect English, the same as
an American would, so she doubts he is Jordanian, maybe
CIA, maybe Mossad. One or the other makes little
difference to her. Then the questioner identifies himself as
an Israeli, when he states, “you are going back to Israel and
divulge what it is you have memorized.”
“The accosted man replies, “not until your minister of
defense turns over what he first promised us.”
Her hand carefully grasps the door handle, every so softly
turning it until the door pulls out. The smaller pugnacious
man has pressed his Berrettainto the taller man’s cheek, his
other hand holding an American passport. The two men are
almost comical, positioned as they are against one wall in
the tiled room with the open hole for human waste, the
attacker‘s body pressed against his victim--they could be
homosexuals exposed in an amorous act. She notes, before
she aims her pistol at the questioner’s head that the
American is unafraid, experiencing a sort of elation. The
tall Anglo notices her, and his attacker turns to see what has
distracted his prisoner.
Haifa shoots the armed man in the forehead, his blood
splattering on the walls. Her action momentarily stuns the
American, rendering him motionless. She removes her
veil, so he can see her face and then says: “I am the person
you seek. Go back to your hotel, and I will contact you.”
He nods, unfazed by the dead body as he steps over it, but
not before taking Steve‘s passport from the dead Israeli’s
hand. Haifa waits a few minutes until the American can
melt into the chaos in the terminal and then shoots the
unconscious Arab in the temple with the Israeli’s Beretta,
using the dead man’s Kaffiyyah to wipe the weapon clean
of fingerprints, and then tossing it back into the open pit

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stall next to the dead man. She subsequently flees the
airport.

*HARLAN*

As he has done for the last three days, the tall American,
wearing a traditional Muslim beard waits by an alley’s
entrance across from the drab, three story Palestinian hotel
where he had rented a room before the failed assassination
on YasserArafat at the Queen al Alia Airport. A silent
prayer spins in his head that the mysterious woman in the
black robe will find him as she stated she would, and this
hotel he vacated is the most likely place. He is desperate to
make contact with the woman who rescued him from the
Israeli agent at the airport, thinking she can helphim find
the holy nail. He has been searching for an interpreter to
make contact with the militant group that killed the
minister’s son at Aide with little success, until the woman
dressed in the blackrobe found him. He could not leave his
new address for the female with the proprietor of the hotel,
because the man might be questioned by Jordanian
authorities, so saw no choice but to return to the hotel
vicinity and wait for the woman to appear. Was she the one
with the nail or did she know who had it, he wondered.
Why did she murder the Israeli in the men’s toilet, instead
of rendering him helpless?
Three days ago, he grabbed his few possessions and
immediately left the firetrap hotelupon his return from the
airport. The owners were friends of Mustafa, the failed al
Aqsa Martyrs Brigade assassin, so he surmised it would be
a matter of hours before the Jordanian security police made
the connection and raided the hotel. Uncomfortable at
being on the streets in an Arab city he knew absolutely
nothing about, his first thought was to go to a mainstream
hotel in the downtown area, but discarded the impulse, as

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the Israelis would be looking for him in upscale
accommodations. He thought to call his contact at the
American Embassy to stay with her, but because she would
want sex in return shunned the idea.
After vacating the Arab hotel Mustafa found for him, he
pursued his only option, taking a taxi to the Roman
amphitheater where he remembered a nearby European
coffee shop, tucked among five and six story apartment
buildingsaccommodating foreign embassy personnel. At
the coffee shop, he picked up a copy of the American Stars
and Stripes newspaper and found an advertisement to rent a
room in a private house offeredby a Canadian couple living
in the Abdoun district south of the foreign embassies.
When the American approached the couple, the wife turned
him down his application, wanting to rent to aEuropean
embassy employee. He lied, saying he had enrolled in a
Christian school and presented six months rent in cash,
which convinced the womanto rent to him. He had only
slept in his room for two nights but it was enough time to
realize that the Canadian female from the Saskatchewan
farm belt, unlike her outgoing spouse, was a stickler for
privacy, ordering him to only use his room and no other
part of the house; this was fine with the American who
preferred the privacy of the back door stairway to his attic
room.
So obsessed with finding the holy nail that he put aside his
concern for what was happening in the world, until he
picked up the Stars and Stripes newspaper at the coffee
shop. He read where the preacher announced his intention
to run for the presidency of the United States and would be
campaigning in the Republican party’s primary runoffs.
The news made him feel even more honored to serve the
great man and more determined to get the holy object that
he had been dispatched to obtain. If by divine intervention
the preacher should became president, he would have the
power to bring prayer and morality back to public schools,

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make homosexuality a crime, restore family values to the
country; maybe even some day make Sunday church
mandatory, puttingall citizens back on the path to
righteousness. Once president, who could stop the preacher
from fulfilling God’s work to the fullest potential? The
other news which received bigger headlines was the
intention of the current American president to attack Iraq,
because that country’s army had invaded neighboring
Kuwait. The Stars and Stripes made no mention of it, but
Mustafa had told him that the Palestinians favored the Iraqi
president‘s attack, because oil rich Kuwait had once
belonged to Iraq before the British occupiers split it apart.
Harlan would be only too glad to leave this volatile region
where everyone hated someone and killed without restraint.
He notes that the same taxi cab has passed the hotel three
times in the last half hour and now stops in front of him by
the hotel entrance. He pushes himself against the side of a
building in an alley and watches the stately woman who
rescued him at the airport exit the taxi.

*DOVID*

The heavy man kneels, his knees sinking in fresh earth, his
eyes affectionately fixed on his elegant wife, Hannah, who
has removed the last of the colorful petunias from the tray
and placed them in the ground between their two dead sons
Jesuda and Jonathan. Even though he experienced one of
his recent breathing attacks, a shortness of breath followed
by dizziness, he refuses to sit in the shade. Still struggling
for breath, the grieved father leans forward and places his
hands atop his wife’s, and together they pat the soil around
the newly planted flowers. His faithful wife of almost fifty
years kisses him on the mouth, before standing. Even
though as commanding officer, he sent both of their sons to
early deaths, Hannah has only reproached him for the loss
of both boys that one time at Jonathan’s funeral. He bushes

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the dirt from her shapely knees, hishands lingering on her
still girlish legs. She takes his hands, gently assists him to
his feet and leads him to the stone bench they placed under
a solitary orange tree overlooking the gravesites, because as
pubescent boys their sons enjoyed picking oranges fresh
from the branches, eating the fruit until their stomachs
looked to burst.
His wife still holds his hands, waiting for him to catch his
breath. “I must see to our evening meal,” she whispers to
him, her concern for his health reflected in her gray eyes.
“Go ahead, my love. I will sit here with our boys for a few
more minutes,” he responds to his wife, his eyes fixed on
the purple, pink and white petunias neatly arranged
between the boys’ gravesites.
The slim woman kisses his forehead, releasing his hands.
He watches her stride downhill to their house, marveling,
as he always does, at how well she ages. For himself, he
feels his mortality coming to an end. The Minister of
Defense believes he has so much more to do for his country
before his ending. He thinks life has fled so quickly for
him, consumed by defending Israel against her many
enemies--the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Jordanians and the
Iraqis--the ones in close proximity to Israel; politically
stalemating the Saudis, the Liberians and the Iranians who
supply his nation’s enemies with money and weapons. All
of Israel’s past enemies materialized because of the
Palestinians crying for Israel’s land, instigating the many
wars and confrontations that took his comrades in arms, his
sons. All of this death and destruction came into being,
because Arabpeople refuse to accept the reality of his
country’s sovereignty. And now this woman, who, he
knows killed Jonathan, is still at large somewhere in some
Arab country, perhaps Jordan where the Mossad agent he
dispatched was recently murdered. The old man believes
she is capable of shooting the major, thesame one he sent to
hunt the American down. But how could she have

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discovered the movements of such a seasoned veteran. No,
the American had to be the killer, and he still carriesthe
dreadful bomb’s formula in his head. Dovid knows he
underestimated the man’s capability,not taking into
consideration that he has murdered consistently and
successfully in his country. He desperately wants the
Palestinian woman dead and the loose cannon American
caught, only events keep him from taking an active role in
the undertaking, starting with his expected attendance at the
Olympian medal winner’sfuneral whose body was returned
to Tel Aviv from Amman two days ago. Also, he has yet to
explain the agent’s death to the Prime Minister, let along
members of the Knesset, so cannot risk dispatching another
agent to find the American, and he cannot concentrate his
energy on the woman, because his old enemy, his nemesis,
the Palestinian terrorist, Yasser Arafat, is up to his old
treachery.
Arafat had not returned from exile in Tunis for more than a
few months, when a rash of terrorist bombings hit Israeli
cities: children were shot in their school in Hefa, soldiers
were blown to bits while riding the public bus in Tel Aviv,
old men celebrating an old friend’s birthday were murdered
by a suicide bomber in Acre and the never to be overlooked
Passover bombing in Jerusalem that has set off the
clamorous chain of events. The minister believes Arafat, if
he did not personally order the attacks, then he at least
sanctioned them, while all the time denying involvement to
the Americans and to the world. Resurrecting memories of
his old enemy invigorates Dovid, his breath returns to
normal, and he uprights himself on the stone bench,
thinking Arafat is a snake capable of growing a new head
every time one is chopped off.
The minister directed the battle at Karama when Israeli
troops soundly beat the army of the so called founder of the
PLO, the creator of Fatah’s murderous band, Black
September, only to see the reptile escape to Jordan as a

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hero to his misguided people. The Jordanians drove the
reptile from their country after he tried to overthrow the
Hashemite government. In Lebanon, Dovid, commanding
an Israeli strike force, invaded the country, driving the
Palestinian Liberation Army into the sea at Beirut only to
see the reptile fly to Tunis as a hero without a country. So
many times the old warrior has seen the reptile lose its
scraggly head, only to reemerge with a new one, more
venomous than the last one.
In Lebanon, Dovid could have killed Arafat and wiped out
his pitiful army, but succumbed to international pressure to
let them go to Tunis. At this very moment, the Minister of
Defense’s tanks have the man thoroughly surrounded in his
headquarters at Rammalah, pressuring him to stop the
terrorist bombings in Israel. That was the reason given to
the international press; the other reason is that the reptile is
protecting the murders of Israel’s Cabinet Minister Zeeve,
shot in the street, and he wants them handed over and
punished. He prays daily that Arafat will make a mistake
and give him the opportunity to forever sever his head from
his evil body. Weary of dark thoughts, he stands and walks
to the colorful petunias between his sons’ graves--Joshua’s,
the namesake of the biblical second son of Mattathias,
better known as the first Maccabean, is covered in grass,
Jonathan’s fresh grave has yet to spout grass. The old
warrior falls to his knees and prays to God to give him the
strength of Mattathias, of David, give him the wisdom of
Abraham and Moses. “Please, Lord return me to the man
that I was in the Egyptian War, embolden me to once again
be the Lion of Sinai. Let me roar as I did that day when I
drove the enemy back across the Sinai and turned my tanks
away from the defenseless gates of Cairo.” The old man
places one hand on each of his sons’ graves, assuming the
posture of a lion, and roars until his throat turns raw,
assuring himself that he is still the man he once was.

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“Dovi, your lioness has provided you with a meal. Come,
eat.” Hannah strokes his white mane, and he wonders if
she views him as he once was.

* HAIFA *

Dressed conservatively in a black, loose fitting dress and

head scarf covering her hair, the Palestinian woman hands
the taxi driver twenty dinars to make a third drive past the
rundown hotel in the Medinaeh Ar Riadiya section of
Amman. The scruffy old man swallows his impatience at
what he believes to be her nervousness over meeting her
lover; the woman, acting coyly, had requested the old taxi
driver to place her upscale shopping bag containing a
visible bottle of expensive wine and a flimsy nightdress
into the cab, setting up his suspicion of her amorous intent.
He directs the cab through the crowded streets of the
suburban commercial district, inundated with smells of
spicy cooked foods and packed with small shops selling
western and Arab women’s apparel, men’s clothing and
toys for children. Countless venders sell fresh produce
from their carts making the asphalt covered street next to
impassable. The foot traffic patronizing the venders is so
heavy and so hectic that no one pays much attention to the
taxi creeping around the block, but Haifa pays close
attention to the street fronting the dilapidated, mud-brick
hotel where the American stays. As far as she can
determine, from her second pass by the old hotel, no one
seems to be watching the entrance from the street or from
the few parked autos. Three old men dressed in traditional
headdresses and robes, too old to be Jordanian police, sit on
the steps. Smoke columns float upward from cigarettes
dangling from their mouths, as they watch the pedestrian
traffic and quietly converse with each other. A wheel falls
off a cart, spilling blankets in the taxi’s path, prompting the
driver to throw his hand despairingly into the air, glancing

143
back at Haifa. She smiles affectionately like a patient
daughter at him, while giving him another twenty dinars.
The recent executioner of three men gives the appearance
of having no concern other than meeting her lover, but she
is anything but calm, risking herself by appearing at a place
that could be connected to Mustafa and the failed Hamas
attack on Chairman Arafat. Even though she now carries a
British passport, she is still of Palestinian nationality,
subject to questioning by the king’s investigators. Any
arrest by Jordanians would certainly draw the attention of
Israeli authorities, most certainly Mossad, as the Israeli she
executed appeared to be connected to that deadly efficient
agency. Then it would be only a matter of time before they
connectedher to the death of the Defense Minister‘s son.
The vender with the dislodged wheel has drawn a crowd of
well wishers, heatedly discussing how best to repair the
wheel and get him on his way.
Ever since Professor Zahi Zelet informed her of the value
of the ancient nail, her curiosity has been uncontrollable:
somehow the American she seeks is tied to the object; why
else would theforeigner search for an interpreter to make
contact with the victors at Aide. And why would the same
person attack an Israeli rabbi known to be a close associate
of the powerful father, whose son she eliminated.
Knowing that eventually the local police will arrive to clear
the street of the vender’s disabled cart, she beckons to an
old woman, a tattered and soiled robe hanging from her
frail frame. Haifa guesses the poor creature for some
reason, probably a manmade one, has been morally thrown
onto the street, selling Amman daily newspapers to survive.
She buys one and buries herself behind the front page,
assuming the air of a calm sophisticated woman, reading
where the American and their allies have build up massive
troop numbersagainst the Iraqi army that invaded Kuwait in
preparation for a massive counter attack. In the interim,
Israeli Defense Forces have all but destroyed Arafat’s

144
headquarter, known as al-Muqata, and now surround him.
The Palestinian Chairman is sequestered in a windowless
bunker. Outside his fortification, armored bulldozers level
nearby buildings. The behemoth machines are clearing the
way for a 160 brutal Israeli tanks and 2500 soldiers
pursuing the under-armed PLO forces taking up defensive
positions in the bombed out rumble. To his credit, the
Chairman, perhaps the best leader her hapless people could
have during this dreadful era, has not buckled, giving
countless interviews to the international press, holding a
Kalashnikov rifle, stating he is prepared to die a martyr and
stand at his god’s side. His histrionics have won back the
hearts of most Palestinians angered by his recognition of
Israel’s right to exist.
Normally, Haifa would smile at Arafat’s manipulation of
the press, but the awesome Israeli power surrounding him,
once again inflicting harsh punishment on the Palestinians,
reinforces her commitment to neutralize the occupiers of
her homeland. At the same time, Israeli bulldozers have
leveled the refugee village atAcre, their tanks and soldiers
killing scores of innocent residents, while they professed to
be rooting out the terrorists that allegedly shot four settlers
occupying land in the heart of the Palestinian West Bank.
The Israelis have built special roads cutting through the
West Bank that only the settlers can use, setting up
checkpoints where those roads cross Palestinian ones,
reducing her people to prisoners on patches of their own
land. Now, the occupiers are building a wall through the
heart of Palestinian territory, separating families from each
other, destroying the paths of ancient commerce, all to
protect Israelis from facing retribution for squatting on
another’s land. She believes these actions by the Israelis to
be apartheid ones, on the same level that the world,
especially the Americans, earlier condemned in South
Africa; now, the world mutes its criticism. The woman
grits her teeth in frustration, because Nakba, the catastrophe

145
of 1948 where her grandparents lost their land and were
subsequently murdered by the Israelis and similar
violations inflicted upon hundreds of thousands of
displaced Palestinians isbeing pushed further and further
from public view by the escalation of Israeli aggression and
Palestinian reaction. The world might forget that the
cunning Jews stole Palestinianland over a half century ago,
blessed by a United Nations mandate, but she will not
forget. Somehow, she suspects the American possesses the
means to stop the Israelis.
The taxi begins to creep along the crowded street, and
Haifa lowers the newspaper, seeing the grateful vender
once again pushing his repaired cart laden with blankets,
happily thanking all in his path. She thinks, he is probably
as grateful as she is that no police arrived. On the third
pass by the old hotel, she instructs the cab to stop a few car
lengths past the entrance and departs after tipping the driver
modestly, not wanting to draw more attention to herself.
The three old men have meandered to the next door coffee
shop serving sweet brew out of a space that looks to be
converted from a hallway. She moves to the open doorway
of a shop selling silken items and examines a woven scarf,
trimmed in a Jordanian colored brocade, her eyes averting
the hotel. The scarf’s merchant is immediately at her side.
She purchases the item, allowing her eyes to scan the street
while the rotund man packages the scarf. As any affluent
woman passing an idle afternoon would do, she drops the
package into her shopping bag while meandering to the
hotel. Haifa fights to control the surprise taking hold, when
she sees the tall, fully bearded American watching her from
across the street. Allowing her eyes to linger on his, she
sends him a silent signal to follow her and strolls away
from the hotel, examining the street vendors’merchandise.
She feels his presence at her side and casually comments in
English: “Have you found what you are searching for?”

146
“Why did you shoot that man at the airport?”
“I asked you a question first.” Her eyes focus on
some very attractive, very revealing French dresses hanging
on a rack.
“No I have not found what I am looking for.” He steps
between her and the dresses so as to get her full attention.
She examines his bearded face, noting his well formed
features and how clear his dark brown eyes are. “What is it
you desire?” she asks.
“I answered your question, now it is your turn to answer
mine.”
She continues her walk along the pedestrian crowded street,
eyes focusing ahead. “He was an Israeli agent. I am a
Palestinian. No more explanation is necessary. But for
your sake, I will elaborate: you needed an interpreter. I
needed income. The Israeli stood in our way.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“What choice does a foreigner in strange land have?”
Haifa slows her pace when the American grips her arm.
“Interpreters don’t murder Israelis. There is more to you
than being bi-lingual. You were at Aide when the Israelis
were destroyed.”
“Is that a question or an accusation?” She notes the
determination in his unsmiling face. “Why did you meet
and subsequently accost an Israeli rabbi?” Haifa suspects
some sort of treachery took place at that meeting ending in
a physical allocation. “High placed, radical rabbis
normally don’t give the time of day to ordinary Americans
unless there is something to gain. What did you have to
give them? Or more importantly, what did they have that
you wanted? Was it an ancient object that could be traced
to your Christian god?”
For the first time, she sees his stoic face reveal emotion, as
his mouth parts to take a deep breath, noting that he realizes
his expression has given her an affirmative answer. Haifa
takes his hand. “Comewalk with me as if we are lovers.

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We must leave this city. The Israelis are searching for both
of us. The Jordanians are rounding up all Palestinians,
high placed or not, for questioning. We are both connected
to Mustafa, so it is a matter of time before his family
reveals our connection to the interrogators.”
“Where to?”
“The place where your precious holy object is kept.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can trust the picture of it that I will show you. It is in
my hotel room.” The Palestinian woman guides the
hesitant man to a line of taxis at the end of the street where
it meets a wide boulevard.

* *

Even since her mutilation contrived by her uncle, sex with

a man has only become a means to an end; in the case of
the Damascus policeman, a distraction before death.
Realizing that she cannot revenge the damage inflicted
upon her by killing all men she happens upon, especially if
they have done her no harm, she hopes to persuade the
American to reveal the valuable thing he possesses, the
same one she guesses he used to bargain with the Jews.
Once he reveals what he knows, she will expose him to
Jordanian authorities rather than killing him.
At the moment, he sits on her bed, examining the picture of
the damaged ancient nail she concealed at the Bank of
Amman. Naked, all except for flimsy panties, she studies
the transparent red lace barely covering her genitals in the
bathroom mirror’s reflection, no more than a paint brush
stokeacross her rounded hips. Pinching the nipples of her
small breasts to harden them, she then rubs her vulva until
it noticeablyswells. Satisfied that she is totally beguiling,
she leaves the bathroom and stands before the American,
hoping to get what he knows without killing him.

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“We have time to enjoy each other before our transport
arrives.” The tempest observes that her nakedness first
shocks him, and then as he takes in her long, shapely body,
passion appears in his cold eyes. She takes the photo of the
nail and places it on the side table, allowing his eyes to
devour her body. His hands grip her calves, sliding up the
back of her legs, over her buttocks, until his fingers pull the
lace panties to her knees.
“Take me,” she whispers, pulling his face up to hers,
thinking to conquer his body, finding a passageway to his
inner thoughts. His lips press against hers, and for a second
she forgets that he conducted business with her enemy.
Noting that her quarry is aroused, she removes his stiff
penis from his trousers, gently pushing him back on the
bed. Blowing hotly on his penis, the seductress pulls his
trousers down to his shoes. Next, she removes her panties
and straddles him, feeling his stiffness against her genitals.
The man’s forceful hands fondle her breasts while she
unbuttons his shirt, licking his nipples. Confident that she
is wet, she manipulates his engorged penis until it probes
the mouth of her vagina, watching the American heavily
panting, his eyelids shut in anticipation. She lowers her
body, engulfing him, fully expecting him to respond.
Instead, Haifa feels his body tense, as if seized by extreme
pain. The man whose name she has not even spoken
pushes her off of him, bolting upright from the bed.
“I cannot fornicate. It would be a sin against my loved
ones in Heaven, and the Lord my God.” Still panting
heavily, his words are choppy.
Amazed, Haifa stares at the inhibited man in disbelief,
unable to remember when she last lost control of a situation
she had so carefully orchestrated.
He pulls up his trousers, looking down at her, saying, “you
are so beautiful, so desirable. But, I cannot break my vow.”
Haifa stands and slips into a conservative Arab dress,
knowing she must fall back on her contingency plan. Her

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determination to know what he knows pushes aside any
regret that her plan to seduce the American failed.
“Your commitment to your dead family is to be admired. I
respect your devotion to your god.” Her comment
pertaining to his dead family sounded true to her, as she is
equally committed to her dead family. Her second
comment pertaining to his god rang false in her head, for
she learned from experience that devotion to a deity is only
a means to control, to subjugate the masses. Her
experience leads her to believe that nowhere in the history
of the human race has proof for or against a god
materialized. In her mind, what passes for proof is wishful
thinking, derived from ancient babble.
The cunning woman moves to the window and observes a
Toyota SUV parked outside. She then puts the photo in her
suitcase. “We must leave the city now. What possessions
do you need from your lodgings?”
“My bible.”

*HARLAN*

The American fundamentalist sits in the backseat of the

Toyota Forerunner, an older model with a banged up dusty
body. The Palestinian woman sits in the front with the
driver, a teenager who barely looks to be eighteen. He has
bad teeth, doesn’t smile or say much. Fuzz and few black
hairs cover his cheeks, telling Harlan that the boy is trying
to grow a beard, probably a new recruit to some militant
group. They are north of Amman, just passing through the
city of Irbid and entering a low mountain, desert terrain
near the Syria border. The landscape is hot and dry; the
driver verifies its aridness by volunteering that they travel
east of the costal range, where little moisture is known.
They have been driving during the day, so as to blend with
traffic and not attract attention from the Jordanian
authorities. The sun drops below the low hills in the west,

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and the driver slows the SUV until darkness overtakes the
region, at which time the vehicle leaves the paved road,
bouncing over the rough upper desert terrain, sand dunes
laden with clusters of sage brush. He turns off the
headlights, and the vehicle creepstoward the Syrian border.
Harlan is past being uneasy about going to an unknown
destination with a woman who so coldly murdered the
Mossad agent. He has convinced himself that he is under
the Lord’s protection since he is doing the Lord’s work. At
a non-descript section of high desert, the young driver
states they are at the Syrian border. Within a mile of the
crossing, they are met by a lightless passenger car with four
bearded men, who the woman, whose name he learns is
Haifa, states, “are members of Hezbollah.”
“What is going on? I was informed that Hamas is Sunni,
Hezbollah is Shi’a. Why would you entrust the valuable
object to your historical enemies?” Harlanasks, more out
of doubt than fear. Although, he cannot see her face, he
feels the irony in her voice as she answers:
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
He knows she means the enemy is Israel, but is still
distrustful of her intent. “Your friendship extends all the
way to the Iranians who bankroll these killers?”
“It is a small world. Now, we must not converse, for we
parallel the Israeli occupied Golen Heights to the west.
This area is heavily patrolled by a nervous Syrian Army, so
silence must prevail.”
The SUV follows the slow moving passenger vehicle.
Since there is nothing the American can say or do, he shuts
his eyes and leans back into the seat. At the dawn’s first
tinge, the woman nudges his arm and indicates a mountain
top touched by the morning’s precursor light.
“Mount Hermon, over 2800 meters high. To the north of it,
we will take an ancient pass into Lebanon. The route is
censored by Syrian police, although we will travel
unmolested as local Shi‘as.”

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Once in southern Lebanon, west of the Latoni River, an
area well known as a Hezbollah stronghold, the two vehicle
party travelsto their destination, a hilltop village by the
name of Bent Jrebail.
In the waning evening light Harlancan barely
discern the small, flat roof dwellings on a hillside, so
tightly pressed together as to resemble shingles on a roof.
The auto ahead skids to a stop, and the trailing dust from
the dirt street causes him to sneeze. He hears the Hezbollah
boy snicker, but keeps his attention focused on a mud brick
house the four Hezbollah men approach.
“Accompany me,” the woman who offered herself
to him commands.
The oldest of the four bearded men, one arm
crippled, knocks on the door, and Harlan waits with the
woman in the murky dusk of the approaching night until
the door opens, spreading light across the narrow, dirt
street. A powerful man in his prime wearing modish
sunglasses, dressed in a black tee shirt and slacks, hair
shaved to a shadow, appears in the opening and embraces
each of the four men, greeting them like brothers. The
friendly exchange over, the dark clad man watches his four
bearded cohorts depart in the sedan and then beckonto
Haifa to follow him through a hallway as long as the house
is deep. At the end of the hallway, the American follows
the woman who passes through a rear door onto a high
wood fenced yard and stands before doors built into the
ground; to Harlan, the doors resemble the ones his
grandmother put over her fruit cellar dug out of the cool
earth. The fit man in black opens the heavy doors and
shouts down the steps in Arabic, “they are here.” Once he
descends the steps, the American notices the cellar like
room has a cement floor, and the dirt walls are covered in
plaster board painted black, giving the space the feel of a
dungeon. A solitary spot light illuminates a poster size flag
bearing the Hizballah emblem: a gold Kalashnikovrifle

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atop an obelisk on a red background. The American can
make out two more well-built men standing at each end of
the emblem, arms folded across their chests; at the same
time he senses the one who met them at the outside door
closing in behind him.
A door opens off to his left, and immediately a light floods
the dreary room. A fourth well-built man, dressed in black
attire and wearing identical sunglasses to the other three,
places a chair before the Hezbollah emblem. Contrasting
the black painted room and the four men in identical black
attire, a large, stately, old man dressed in a white Arab robe
touching the floor appears. Obviously a man of
importance, he walks to the chair and sits.
“Allahu Akbar,” he says in a voice too high pitched for his
burly size.
The woman at Harlan’s side repeats the greeting,
addressing him as Sheikh.
“My followers and myself are at your service,
daughter. We are pleased to assist a jahadist in Allah’s
service, praise be His name.” The elderly man speaks in
heavily accented English. Even though Harlanis uneasy
about the woman who rescued him at the Amman airport
and certain she is connected to the killing of the Israeli
minister’s son, he remains fascinated by the white clad
figure sitting before him. There is something holy about
the elderly man with his pure white beard and equally white
hijab, an Iranian turban, covering white hair.
“I see you have brought the unbeliever you spoke
of.” For the first time, the dignified man, his dark eyes
clashing with his pure white beard and hair, looks directly
at Harlan. “You will give this daughter of Islam the
information you possess and then you can return to your
Satanist country.
“I will give her the information when she gives me
the holy object I seek.”
The thin, hard line forming the old man’s

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lips bends into a smile. “The value of the object will serve
Allah, not any infidel purpose.”
Harlancontrols his apprehension, even though he
realizes the Palestinian woman has deceived him. “You
will get nothing until I have the holy object in my hands.”
“I have no patience for fools.” The white bearded
man looks to Haifa who moves away from Harlan. Two of
the black attiredguards force the American to his knees.
Another guard thrusts a long pole behind the kneeling
man’s knees, then forces his arms behind the pole and binds
his wrists in front of his torso. Afterward, he ties the
captive’s ankles together, and then loops the same rope
around his neck, applying pressure to the bound man’s
windpipe, preventing him from making the slightest
movement without pain.
Harlan immediately feels his knees growing numb
under his weight, his body cramping throughout, as he
cannot relieve the pressure put on him by the restraints.
“Give us what you had planned to give to the Jews,”
the white clad sheikh commands in his high pitched voice.
The captive does not respond, defying the old man
with his eyes.
“Allah’s will be done then. Daughter avert you
eyes.” Haifa turns away as she is instructed, hearing the
American’s clothing being cut off. The contorted
fundamentalist feels a hood drop over his head and tied off
under his chin. Next, he feels water saturating the hood.
As his breathing sucks the heavy wet cloth against his
mouth and nostrils, restricting air from reaching his lungs,
he callsupon his God to keep him from panicking, thus
enabling him to fight the urge to struggle, to roll about,
shake the hood from his head. He convinces himself that if
he stays calm he can get enough oxygen to live; telling
himself that he might pass out, but he won’t die.
The water torment continues for the next ten
minutes, causing the American, unable to properly breathe,

154
to go into choking convulsions. He pitches to one side,
only to be up-righted by one of his captors. Someone pulls
the wet cloth away from his mouth, creating a pocket that
enables him to gulp air, and then more water is poured over
his head.
“You will drown if you do not tell us what you
know.”
“Go to your heathen hell,” the American manages to
sputter before a heavy blow to his temple knocks him
unconscious.
When the Born Again Christian regains
consciousness, the hood has been removed from his head,
making him aware of his naked body. Two captors jerk
him upright, this time forcing him to squat on rubbery legs.
The captors each place a hand on his shoulders, so that the
constrained man cannot pitch sideward, forward or
backward. He senses a lull in the water torture will take
place, for the sheikh and the woman who betrayed him
have left the room. It once again turns to semi-darkness,
barely illuminated by the spotlight shinning on the
Hezbollah emblem.
Ten minutes later, acaptor drapes a blanket over
Harlan’s naked body and moves the sheikh’s chair before
him. The door to the adjacent room opens, and the
Palestinian woman sits on the chair, studying the
fundamentalist.
“You are a murdering whore,” he states between
gritted teeth.
She smiles. “Call me what you want. Excepting the
sheikh’s poor understanding of English, these young Party
of God soldiers do not speak or understand it, but they do
know how to inflict pain in the most primitive ways.
Compare where they are now with your faith at 1300 years
of age. That is the age of Islam at this time. Picture your
Christian inquisition with its stretching racks, hot tongs and
burning deaths, punishing non-believers in the name of

155
your Christ. Islam’s inquisition is called a jihad featuring
mutilated bodies and beheadings perpetrated on non-
believers. Their faith is a hysteria that emboldens the
believers to inflict insufferable pain in the name of Allah.”
“Their god is your god, you treacherous harlot.”
“Harlots do not have gods, and if they do, they soon
learn to abandon them. Religion is a manmade industry.
Imams, priests, ministers, rabbis are the captains of that
industry, pursuing their god’s righteous ways with a
cornucopia of misdeeds. Men with great hatreds function
under the banner of love.”
“And you, how do you function?”
“I tolerate the misled while they serve my purpose.
Like now. Tell me what you know, and I will see that you
live.”
“The nail?”
“That is lost to you. But you can return to the
United States with your life.”
“My faith in God is my home. I carry it with me.
You will never get the information you seek without giving
me what I came to this hellish place for.”
“The sheikh in the white robe is not only an Shi’a
imam, he is a medical doctor.”
“So?’
“Certain persuasive procedures will take place if
you continue to be obstinate.”
Harlanlaughs, confident he is prepared to meet his
maker. The woman nods to a guard and disappears into the
darkness of the room.
The white haired sheikh, this time with a green
surgeon’s gown over his white robe, takes her place on the
chair. The American watches as a twenty-four square inch
block of wood is placed in front of him and what looks to
be a medical kit placed beside it.
“Infidel, I will ask you one last time. Give us the
information we want,” the Shi’a imam commands the

156
fundamentalist. The bound man remains silent. “Daughter,
avert your eyes,” he says to the woman standing behind
him. Harlan’s head is jerked back and the blanket pulled
away. A curved sword, a scimitar, flashes before the
captive‘s face. The holy man takes the weapon by its
handle.
“Take off my head, I am prepared to meet my
Maker.” The fundamentalist closes his eyes, awaiting the
death blow.
“Notas simple as that. Allah has a blind eye for non-
believers,” the sheikh comments in his heavily accented
English. The American feels the long pole being removed
from behind his knees. His torso is next up righted by the
captors, and three men hold him fixed in akneeling
position. He feels his penis being pulled across the wood
block by the fourth man, at the same time hearing the
words: “in the name of Allah the Merciful and
Compassionate.”
Before he can protest, the old man stands and brings the
curved blade down with one swift stroke, severing the
American’s penis from his body. At first disbelief floods
Harlan, and then shock similar to an electrical jolt
consumes him. He forces himself to look down at the
mutilated spot where blood gushes over the wood block.
His severed penis is held before his horrified eyes by a
black clad captor, then it is thrown into the darkness. He
feels queasy, dizzy but cannot pass out to escape his horror.
The imam, doubling as a doctor,hands the scimitar to his
guard, indicates to the other men to lay the injured man in a
supine position.
Something wet that burns is poured over the
American’s wound; antiseptic spins in his tormented reality.
He muffles a scream as he feels the loose skin being
stretched over his bloody stump, as the imam deftly sutures
the wound without anesthesia and then says: “we will wait

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until the blood reduces its flow, and then you will give us
what we want to know.”
“Sleep does not come to the tormented in hell,”
constantly sounds from the fundamentalist, as he slips in
and out of delusion. Every time reality returns to him, so
does the thought that his captors have castrated him,
sending him back into an unreal world where the demons of
hell dance in raging fires before his eyes. The damp
cement of the cellar-like room chills him as he lies on his
side, his wrists tied to his ankles behind him. After a time
in which has no duration, he can feel the white robed
sheikh change his bandage and a hypodermic needle stuck
into his buttock. The throbbing continues in his groin,
telling him the shot is not for pain, probably to ward off
infection. The relentless pain eventually brings the
mutilated man back from his delusion, and he begins to
take control of his thought process. The knowledge that he
will never copulate with a woman strikes him, but, he tells
himself, if he survives this hell driven torment, that is the
worst outcome. And that outcome is not a factor, because
when the fire consumed his wife and daughter, he pledged
to the Lord that he would giveup fornication.
The old sheikh finishes bandaging the American
captive, and then indicates for his guards to bind the man to
the solitary chair. Once again, a blanket is draped over
Harlan’s body. The holy man exits the room, leaving his
four guards and the overhead light on. The tall woman who
deceived him now stands before him, studying his face to
determine if he is still delusional. In turn, the captive
studies her, noting her regal face is void of any emotion, let
alone sympathy for him.
“Will you reveal what you know,” she asks in
perfect English with a touch of a British accent.
“No.”
“Steve, these. . . .”

158
 “The identification I carried belongs to someone
else.” The fundamentalist believing he is about to die,
wants his executioners to know his true identity. “My
name is Harlan Stegel. I am a soldier of the Christian God,
the true God, not your misconceived god.”
Haifa laughs. “I was about to say, these devout men
turn into the worst of brutish monsters when they believe
the wrath of their god is bestowed upon them. To me, it is
all so much horseshit. Nevertheless, they are not through
mutilating you. The medically educated imam will keep
you alive to suffer your punishment no matter how long it
goes on.” She pulls her chair closer and whispers in the
bound man’s ear: “I will share a confidence with you, then
you will tell me what important information you possess
for which the Jews were going to exchange such a valuable
object as the ancient nail. Once the information is revealed,
the imam need not appear again.”
“Unless it pertains to the holy nail, I could care less
about and such promise.”
“You and I have both been defiled in the name of
god.” God, as interrupted by man, has castrated you, as he
castrated me.”
“So that is why you are possessed by the devil?”
The woman, her head touching his, laughs. “Revenge
possesses me, the devil is for those who delude themselves.
It is dangerous for me to linger here in Lebanon, therefore I
have no more time to waste on you. What is it that the
Jews expected to get?”
“Although I walk through the valley. . . .”
“Silence him, she orders the guards in Arabic. The
woman exits, soon to return with the old, white clad imam.
“Hold him still,” the holy man commands his
guards in Arabic and then to the captive he speaks in his
heavily accented English with an edge of morbid
anticipation. Haifa repeats his threat in her better diction so
the intransigent man will have no misunderstanding:

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“First I will remove you lips, then your eyelids and ears.
Both of your feetand hands will be removed. You will not
sit beside your god as a whole man as you had thought.
Before that day arrives, if ever, you will crawl on your
belly over an alien land, unable to find peaceful sleep or
prayer--unable to express your suffering or end it. You will
not die of neglect, because Islam commands its followers to
be almsgivers. They will feed a pathetic creature like you,
keeping you alive until you wither away in old age. That
will be your fate.”
The imam removes a scalpel from his case and
stretches the captive’s upper lip away from his face. “In
Allah’s name, I will start here.” The fundamentalist is
prepared to die in the Lord’s service, but not exist in a hell
on earth. A visualization flashes in his mind’s eye: he is a
freak, hands and feet amputated, slumping against a mud
brick hovel in the worst of Arab slums, making
unintelligible sounds as he begs for food, never to hear the
true Christian word of God, never to say Jesus Christ my
Lord, unable to take his own life. The scalpel barely
pierceshis upper lip, as if the old man toys with him. Never
did he imagine his fate would be this. He panics.
“I have the formulafor the most explosive nuclear
weapon known to mankind.” His words in English are
distorted due to his stretched lip, but the sounds are enough
for Haifa to stop the imam from slicing off his lip.
Suspecting the imam did not fully understand the
American’s English words, she speaks to him in Arabic,
“may Allah’s blessing be upon you for the great service you
have provided the Palestinian peopletoday. Once I verify
what he is about to reveal, Hezbollah and especially you
will share the result of that information. Now I must speak
in private to the infidel using his tongue.”
When the pious, old man releases his lip, Harlan realizes
what he had done, and shame floods his psyche, but even
then he is relieved that he escaped the horrific existence

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described by the imam. He knows he will reveal everything
he memorized and vowed to reveal only in exchanged for
the nail to the woman. In his thoughts, the ramifications of
revealing such information are bursts from a rapid-fire gun
assaulting his sanity: the Muslims will possess the deadly
bomb, the means to destroy Christianity. By capitulating,
he not only betrays himself, he betrays God and His
favorite one, the preacher. And worst of all, he
overestimated his courage when facing the creatures of
Hell. The realization that he may not be granted
everlasting life because of his weakness chills him. While
he waits for the woman to record what he knows, he hears
the Muslim call to prayer in the distance.

*DOVID*

The old Lion of the Sinai, the victorious fighter

from forty years confrontations with the Arabs, realizes his
high position in government becomes more precarious, as
he had to postpone a defense briefing before the Knesset.
He cited a stomach disorder, when in reality it was the
same shortness of breath that attacked him at his sons’
resting place. His personal physician, sworn to secrecy, has
just left his ministry office, leaving behind the same advise
—“slow down or your body will shut down.” He did not
tell the doctor that his response to such advise would be:
events have taken me beyond such an option. At the
moment, he wants to fight, strike back, stop the missile
attacks on Israel by the Iraqis, only the American president
has personally asked the Prime Minister to restrain Israeli
forces from attacking the Iraqis for launching Skud
Missiles into the heart of Tel Aviv, where they have
terrified the residents, although by Adonai’s will, inflicting
small casualties. He argued with the Prime Minister and
the others in his cabinet that they should send fighter jets to
destroy the mobile missile sites in Iraq, but was told to bide

161
his time, for the Americans planes would destroy the
attackers as they had done to the Iraqi arm forces fleeing
Kuwait.
Dovid has ordered his generals to call up the
reserves in order to distribute gas masks to all Israeli
citizens, because the other snake, the other menace in his
life, Saddam Hussein, is capable of lobbing deadly
chemicals onto the streets of Tel Aviv or any Israeli city.
His aides informed him that the families of Israel, after
being issued these gas masks, are terrified for their children
should such a dastardly attack take place.
The Americans had put together the largest coalition
of allied troops since the invasion of Europe taking place
fifty years ago. Some 500,000 combatants, aided by tanks
and aircraft carriers’ big guns, counter attacked the Iraqi
forces, driving them from Kuwait. Now American
supersonic aircraft have completely destroyed the retreating
columns of Iraqi troops, leaving dead bodies, burned out
tanks and motor vehicles strewn along the highway to
Baghdad for a hundred miles, and are in the process of
bombing Iraq back into the stone age. The Iraqi soldiers,
not incinerated by five hundred pound bombs hittingtheir
bunkers, are surrendering by the tens of thousands.
As Defense Minister, he has deployed Israeli troops
along the borders with the Palestinian territories, Lebanon
and Syria, not knowing what next to expect. His enemy,
Yasser Arafat, has openly voiced support for the Iraqi
attack on Kuwait, citing it as that country’s right to take
back the land that originally belonged to Iraq under
Ottoman rule, namely the entire country of Kuwait and
especially the rich oil stores that the British, at the end of
their short occupation, gave to the Kuwaitis. The
Americans, their population addicted to oil and its
byproducts, are not about to allow such a large supply of
itto fall into the hands of a maverick government headed by
Saddam Hussein. In the interim, the American Secretary

162
of State has asked him to lift the siege on Arafat’s
headquarters in Ramallah to prevent the war from spilling
over into the Palestinian territories; this he reluctantly
recommended to the Prime Minister who ordered the
withdrawal. The American president has done a masterful
job of putting together such a large allied force as the one
currently destroying the Iraqi army, even incorporating
Egyptians, Saudis and other Arabforces into the counter
attack. Only he made a major blunder by ordering the
withdrawal of the American army at the gates of Baghdad,
subsequently not overthrowing the evil Baath government
that Saddam Hussein heads.
Dovid realizes that the downside of destroying the
Iraqi forces is that Iran, emboldened by their arch enemy
being so thoroughly defeated, have encouraged Hezbollah
terrorists in Lebanon to launch Iranian Katyusha missiles
onto Hazur and Meron, northern Israeli towns. The Prime
Minister immediately gave him the go ahead to send troops
into Lebanon and destroy the batteries and drive the
Hezbollah murderers from the country. Israeli Defense
Forces overran the town of Bent Jubay in a surprise attack,
where batteries of Katyusha missiles were being launched
at Israel. There to Dovid’s amazement, the elite corps of
IDF, Golani Infantry, in a house to house reconnaissance,
killed a militant imam and his small army, finding the
maverick American he has been searching for, bound and
blindfolded in the house’s cellar. The hostage was being
held for ransom by the Hezbollah Shi’as. The Christian
fundamentalist had been castrated, subsequently in great
pain, although refusing to talk to the Israeli strike force
leader. According to the Golani major in charge of the
attack, he seemed suicidal, refusing treatment for his
wound. Treating the American as he would any
uncooperative, wounded Israeli soldier, the officer had the
man held down, sedating him with a shot of morphine in
order to hospitalize him.

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 Dovid, upon learning of his rescue, had kept him
incommunicado in a prisoner’s hospital room until he
hadphysically recovered. What mental condition the
American is in, he is soon to learn, for the unpredictable
man with the deadly information to destroy a nation
currently waits under guard in his private quarters. Dovid,
upon entering the private room adjacent to his offices, sees
the tall, rangy American fugitive sitting hunched forward in
a reading chair, his handcuffed hands clasped between his
knees. He can feel the tremendous energy, an agonizing
one, radiating from the American. “Is he violent?” he asks
the senior, military police officer attending him.
“No Minister, but he is not talkative.”
“Thank you, Captain. Please wait outside the door
with your men.” He seats himself in the other stuffed chair
opposite the American. “I regret that I did not originally
meet with you when you first entered Israel and explain
that the object you sought was stolen from the body of my
murdered son. Trying to deceive you was a mistake, and I
apologize for it. I also wish to extend my deepest
sympathy for what the Arabs have done to you.” He
notices that the reticent man flinches at the mention of the
atrocity inflicted upon him, but has yet to even glance in his
direction. “The formula for the pure fusion bomb, you
must give it to me.”
“Only in exchange for the holy nail.” The
American looks up from his manacled hands to the
minister. His face reflects the same death wish Dovid has
seen on battlefield soldiers whose limbs had been blown
off.
“The nail is too valuable not to turn up somewhere,
in some university, in some scholar’s hands. Then, we will
seize it for you,” he tries to assure the man.
“You will get nothing until I have the nail
authenticated and in my hands.”

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 Dovid searches the man’s face for resolution,
surprised to see such fury residing in the castrated man’s
eyes. “I could have you interrogated. We have ways,
unknown to the outside world, to make you talk.” The
man’s maniacal laughter shocks the older man, but also
puts him on alert that some unknown danger exists in him.
“But I won’t do that, because you and I share the same
God. We are ordered by God’s commandment to treat our
fellow man as we would have ourselves treated.” The
fundamentalist’s laughter transitions to anguish, as he
volunteers: “my God has turned His eye from me. Maybe,
if I gain the holy nail, He will once again stand beside me.”
“Harlan, I know aboutyour background and what
you have done in the service of your Lord.” The minister
pauses, swallowing the contempt he feels for such a cold
blooded killer. “Give me the formula, and I will assist you
in obtaining the object you seek.”
“The woman, who took the nail off your son after
she killed him, has it.”
“You saw her then?” Dovid hides his anxiety to
know the identity of his son’s murderer, realizing that in
addition to possessing the bomb’s formula, this distressed
man sitting before him can also recognize the woman he
desperately wants to hold accountable for his son’s death.
“Her name is Haifa, and she is Palestinian. I gave her the
formula, because she broke me like she would a
cringingdog. I did not have the courage to trust in the
Lord’s protection and told everything I knew to the
woman.” The American does not cry, although remorse
from breaking under torture warps his face.
Dovid, as much as his aging frame allows, bolts
from the chair to the window overlooking the Knesset
building. He is unable to control his fear after the grim
realization that finding this woman, he now knows to be
George Hamad’s niece, is exacerbated by the fact that she
has an avenue to devastate Israel.

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 “Torture me, mutilate me, turn me into be the most
wretched man on earth, and I will not reveal what I know
until you place the nail in my hands.”
The minister believes this man who once broke under
torture will not break again, no matter what horrendous
tortures within his power to inflict. The realization that he,
the high ranking Minister of Defense, set the wheels in
motion for a bigger threat to his nation than any Skud
missile or Katyusya rocket hitting Israeli towns chills him.
In his thinking, getting the fusion formula for Israel is
secondary to stopping the woman who now possesses it.
Finding her will be difficult, now that he is compromised
by the Mossad agent’s death and his time dominated by
Israel’s proximity to the current Iraqi-American faceoff.
He is convinced that only this disturbed American can
prevent a nuclear catastrophe in the Middle East by
stopping the Palestinian woman before she gives the
information to a hostile power capable of building such a
bomb. If the man sitting handcuffed before him is not
successful, the veteran warrior’s involvement and
mishandling of the stolen formula will leak out to the
media. The scandal will bring down the current Likud
government and force his resignation, finishing his role as
Israel’s staunchest defender and sending him into a
retirement fouled by shame. Given that knowledge, he has
no choice but to put Israel’s, along with his own fate, in this
killer’s hands, a man he would prefer to execute.
“I believe you will not reveal what you know until you
have your holy object, so I will assist you in finding the
woman. I will do this, if you will swear to me that once
you have taken the object from her, you will eliminate her.”
“I will dispose of her, after I get the nail. But, at
this moment, she is a needle in a haystack,” the
maimedkiller replies.
“Perhaps not. Islamic nations are backward, at least as far
as scientific achievement goes. She will take the formula

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to the only two experts who advocate nuclear power for all
Islamic countries, the two Islamic militants who can verify
its potential, and they live in Pakistan. If the bomb can be
built by extreme Muslims who have no fear of death, then
this small nation of Israel will be a cinder and once again
Jewish people will be thrown into Diaspora.” The uneasy
minister notes that the Christian fundamentalist is
indifferent to such a horrendous outcome. “Events have
left neither of us with choice in this matter, therefore it is
imperative you stop her before that scenario becomes a
reality. You are the only person who can identify her. So
go get your precious nail, and then eliminate her.”

*HAIFA*

The Palestinian woman, bolstered by her success with the

American fundamentalist, flew from Beirut to Istanbul, the
once capital city of the Roman Empire, subsequently
becoming a Christian city under Byzantine rule, now
conquered and controlled by Muslims; a city representative
of the irreparable conflict between Christianity and Islam.
Haifa has little interest in the city’s religious
transformations, for her purpose in flying to the ancient
port was to take a flight to New Delhi and cross the Indian
border into Pakistan, traveling though a region swirling in
Hindu and Muslim turmoil. She knew, as a woman
traveling alone, she could not enter Islamabad through the
Islamic fundamentalist countries of Iran and Afghanistan as
she had done in secular Jordan, Lebanon and Syria, for she
would be apprehended for travelling alone before
boardingand punished on the spot by a harsh male society.
After reducing the American to jelly, acquiring the design
and atomic makeup for a nuclear holocaust, she drove to
the Beirut Airport, fortunate to get a flight out of there
before the Israelis attacked Lebanon south of the Litani
River, because Hezbollah militants, agitated by the

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crusaders’ attack on Iraq, fired rockets onto Israeli occupied
towns. At first, she did not think the man who displayed
the obstinacyof a religious militant would reveal what he
knew; later, she was stunned by the importance of the
information he gave her. Haifa had wanted to kill the
American, but the Hezbollah imam and his thugs thought to
keep him for ransomafter the man had revealed his
background, that of religious assassin. The Hezbollah
group could gain a substantial ransom by putting pressure
on the American Born Again Christians who would be
politically and morally compromised if word got out they
sent a notorious killer to Islamic land. The fundamentalist
is dead now, she believes, as are the Muslim fanatics who
probably killed the American before the Israeli Army
overran their center of operations. Prior to leaving their
underground enclave, she wrote down the nuclear formula,
then committed it to memory. With the Hezbollah and his
fanatical followers captured or most probably dead, there is
no need to the share the weapon as she implied she would.
She departed the airport of Hindu India’s capital city, New
Delhi, without incident, after showing her British passport
to authorities, breathing a sigh of relief after realizing the
Israelis are not involving westernized countries like India in
apprehending her, most probably because the Israelis
somehow discovered that she possessesthe American
fundamentalist’s thermonuclear formula. Losing such a
deadly weapon to a Palestinian, she deducts,would bring
international condemnation upon Israel and their protector,
the United States. At the airport, she quickly changed from
a business suit befitting a traveling professional woman
into the burqa of a devout Muslim; in her case a grieving
widow returning to her parents in Islamabad after her
husband‘s death, which she purposefully expressed to
passengers queuing in a bus debarkation line with her. She
had found the Islamic district in New Delhi and caught a
bus packed with Muslims traveling toward or entering

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Pakistan, where as a grieving Muslim widow she could
travel undetected.
Unprepared for the insufferable heat of the Indian summer,
Haifa perspires profusely under the heavy, black burqa with
only a slit across her eyes for ventilation. She has boarded
an overcrowded bus weaving its way through the northwest
rural villages of India en route to ancient Jullundur, named
for a water demon, now known as Jalandar, a thriving city
of a million. Subsequently, she plans to cross the border
farther west at Lahore, Pakistan. At every farm village
supporting a Muslim population, passengers disembark, the
cramped vacancies filled by embarking ones; the women,
children and elderly, beneficiaries of the males’ sense of
propriety, fill space inside the bus with the men riding on
top. So far her disguise has worked, as a middle aged, gray
bearded Muslim man gave her his seat, and climbed atop
the bus with the fifty or so male riders, most of them,
except for the very young, bearded.
Haifa lost count of how many Punjab villages the slow
moving, rickety bus has stopped at. She found them hot,
humid, flat and poor settlements, barely worth more than a
glance, but with a Muslim population still remaining there,
even after a mass exodus to Pakistan a half century ago
when the British partitioned greater India into two religious
states, Islam and Hindu. She knows she has been traveling
over twelve hours as the crowded vehicle crawls, weaving
its way through dirt streets and endless farm fields to the
Pakistani border. Under the rising morning sun’s first blast
of heat, her bus eventually queues behind a line of vehicles
attempting to cross into Lahore,Pakistan. She is relieved to
see two more overcrowded buses behind her public
transport, thinking to find obscurity in the number of
passengers crossing the border.
The disguised woman watches two green clad Hindu
soldiers take a position front and rear of the bus, ordering
the men riding on top to climb down and state their

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nationality and destination, barking orders in a mixture of
Hindi and Arabic. Those men with proper identification
walk across the border and undergo the same procedure
with black-clad Pakistani soldiers. Another, Indian soldier,
displaying the stripes of an NCO on his sleeve,enters the
bus walking down the aisle, scrutinizing the passengers.
Haifa is one of the thirty or more burqa-clad Muslim
women, many with children, crossing into Pakistan. In
spite of being drenched by perspiration under the heavy
black burqa, she is grateful that obscured as they all are by
tent-like robes, little distinction exists between her and the
other women. Sitting next to an elderly man in a white
beard and black turban, she passes unnoticed as the other
women do, for this soldier only speaks to the men, not
wanting to create an incident by speaking directly to a
Muslim woman. The Indian soldiers allow the bus Haifa
rides in to cross the border. On the other side, the male
passengers climb back on the top, after showing their
papers. No one is searched. The women and children
inside the bus get a perfunctory scrutiny from a Pakistani
soldier who peers at them from the bus step well.
Islamabad only lies four hundred kilometers to the north of
Lahore, but it takes the rickety bus all day to get there, due
to stops at every town and village along the way. Haifa
knows that in the Muslim world there are only two eminent
nuclear physicists, both living in Pakistan. These two
mencan validate or negate the captured formula for her,
both having pioneered the Pakistani Nuclear Bomb
Program. She must determine if the weapon is fact or
fantasy before she sets her plan into action; if factual, then
she must know if it can be built by a Muslim. The elder
Pakistani scientist, Abdul Qadeer Kahn, stole a nuclear
induction formula from a Dutch nuclear facility while
employed there and then, along with the second scientist,
spent the next ten years designing centrifuges to extract
weapon’s grade uranium, subsequently producing enough

170
ninety percent enriched uranium to arm the thermonuclear
bomb that they built in the interim. After a successful
completion of the bomb, Kahn is currently under house
arrest by the Pakistani government for offering the design
and uranium to rogue countries such as Iran and North
Korea for a price. Surmising Kahn is probably watched by
the Pakistani Security Police, she will not approach him.
The second scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, a
staunch fundamentalist, is more accessible. He too was
arrested for allegedly offering the Taliban in Afghanistan,
and militant Muslim groups the nuclear bomb’s know how,
wanting to neutralize the infidel world’s military might.
But, due to his popularity within the country for the
charitable institution he founded in Islamabad, known as
the Reconstruction of the Islamic Community, along with a
respected fundamental madrassas he originated and
currently funds in the city, he was spared the fate of his
nuclear peer. The government allowed him to resign from
the nuclear program and gave their permission for him to
move about Islamabad. Within the Muslim world,
Meghwar is recognized as a scholar, having written
numerous books on science’s relation to Islam, one in
particular stands prominent in the Islamic world, the one
that advocates a nuclear holocaust, bringing the devoted
ones’ their much awaited apocalypse, a world’s end when
the faithful gains eternal life in the bliss of Heaven, the
unfaithful receiveseternal damnation in the fires of Hell.
Haifa knows as a woman, even obscured as she is in the
burqa, she cannot directly approach the pious scientist, for
he would shun her, finding it inappropriate to be alone with
a woman, so she must somehow corner him. But how, she
wonders as the lights of Islamabad appear in the distance,
illuminating a mid-size city’s triangular layout.
Heavy rain, brought on by the monsoon season, strikes the
bus’s windows as it nears the modern capital of Pakistan,
the tall downtown buildings are a hazy glow in the

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downpour. The bus pulls over to the road’s side, before it
enters a six lane divided highway dissecting the capital city.
Through the pounding rainstorm, Haifa sees a tall, lean
man wearing a black, western business suit exit from a
Nissan sedan, and then ordering the bus driver to open the
door; he then enters the bus. None of the rain-drenched
men riding on top, put on alert by the suited man’s
presence, take the opportunity to enter the dry confines
inside the bus. The suited man wipes his wet forehead on
his suit sleeve and orders the driver to proceed onto the
expressway. He stands at the head of the bus, one hand
griping a vertical metal pole, his eyes crawling over the
burqa covered women, making everyone, including
Haifa,uneasy. The disguised Palestinian woman, very
much aware of the new arrival, tries to focus through her
window on the wide clean streets and tall buildings of the
city zipping by outside. The city was built in the 1960s in
order to move the capital to a more secure spot, farther
inland than Karachi, the previous capitalon the Arabian
Sea. In the business section of the city, the bus pulls into a
modern station, although not allowed to park in a covered
parking stall, it is forced to disengage its passengers onto a
sidewalk into the heavy rain. The dark Nissan sedan
following the bus pulls in front of it, and a second shorter,
stocky man in an identical blacksuit emerges, moving into a
doorway directly in front of the bus’s open door. Haifa
remains seated as the first of the women and children begin
to disembark, her eyes fixed on the thin man standing in the
aisle scrutinizing each person as they step into the rain; she
guesses him to be some sort of policeman. When the
elderly man, seated next to her, rises, she closely follows
him to exit as she would accompanying a male relative, her
head lowered, displaying submissiveness. What she could
not see until standing is that the thin man blocks each
woman’s path, gazing into their eyes to determine their age,
maybe even their attractiveness. She has heard too many

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accounts of rape and extortion inflicted upon women
traveling alone in extreme Muslim societies not to be
forewarned by the man’s action.
The suited man allows the old traveler to pass into the wet
night, but blocks Haifa’s path, forcing her to turn toward
the bus station’s neon illumination to get a better look at
her. Her eyes break away from his scrutiny, as she hopes to
discourage whatever action he has in mind, but at the same
time her hand moves beneath the heavy burqa and touches
the 25 millimeter semi-automatic pistol she has taped for
such an occasion to the inner thigh of her left leg.
“Not so fast, my pretty eyed one,” he orders in Arabic. His
hand grips her left arm. “Haleem,” he calls to the suited
man in the doorway, “this one will do.” His voice is deep
and rough, and for the first time she notices a dark, short,
neatly trimmed beard covers his face. “I am with the
Pakistani Inter Service Intelligence. You will please come
with me.” He guides her down the bus’s stairwell into the
rain. She feels her other arm being taken by his partner,
who leads her to the Japanese made sedan. Her spirit
plummets when she recalls intelligence agents are federal
government police given carte blanche to act in any way
they see fit without accountability. At first, she is angered
by this interruption blocking her search for the nuclear
scientist, but now senses an opportunity to not only find
Meghwar, but approach him.
Haifa has faced death too many times to be unstrung by her
sudden abduction by the two Pakistanis. “Please my
husband has just died. I am a widow returning home to my
parents in Islamabad,” the Palestinian woman entreats,
knowing her plea will fall on deft ears, attempting to
distract the men from suspecting her hasty formed plan.
“You are a whore. Only whores travel without a man’s
protection.” The thin man, his lips twisted into a confident
sneer, pushes her into the backseat and jams his body next
to her. The stocky one, wearing a thicker beard than his

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partner, gets behind the steering wheel, turns and allows his
eyes to consume the captured prize, and then guides the
sedan into the thin evening traffic. After getting a glimpse
of his pock-marked, puffy face, the hyena cunning in the
eyes leering at her, she suspects what fate awaits her at the
hands of the man and his partner.
“It was obvious the old man was not escorting you, so I
was not fooled by your attempt to deceive me. Only, an
Islamic woman who has turned from Allah travelsalone.
Flaunting your sex to entrap innocent men will not go
unpunished,” the policeman wedged next to her states.
Haifa hears the driver’s thin laughter in front of her. Before
she can react the hood of the burqa is yanked from her
head. Her abductor strokes her short cropped hair. “What a
pleasant surprise you are.” The seized woman bides her
time, as she takes in her captor’s suggestive smile under a
nose pushed to one side by an old blow. He pulls the
burqa’s heavy, black cloth away, revealing the shape of her
perspiring legstransparent under a silken undergarment
sticking to her body. “You can cooperate, or we can beat
you into submissiveness. Which would you prefer, my
pretty one?” His hand grasps her ankle under the thin silk,
sliding it slowly up her bare leg, the dampness enhancing
his lust.
Her hand finds his before it reaches her thigh. “Not this
way, not in the car,” Haifa pleads with the man, stalling for
the right moment.
“It will be more pleasurable for the three of us, if you
cooperate.” She feels his short clipped beard pressing
against her neck as he runs his tongue under her chin.
“You will not hurt me if I give you want you seek?”
“If you satisfy both of us in the manner we want, then we
will drive you back to the bus station, and you can continue
your journey to your parents.”

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“I will do what you say, if you promise not to hurt me.”
Haifa puts as much fear into her voice as she can, at the
same time suggesting she will cooperate.
“You must perform in the exact way we require, no matter
how immoral it may seem to you.”
“I will.” The trapped woman holds his hand against her
inner knee in an encouraging way.
“Haleem, drive to Section Seven, to our little hideaway.”
The sedan’s increased speed causes Haifa to sink into the
backing of the rear seat. For the moment, the man is
content to kiss her lips and neck, his hand doing no more
than squeezing her calf. The vehicle leaves the well lit
expressway, disappearing into a dark industrial area, a
tangle of mud brick huts and haphazardly built streets
where human activity has ceased for the day. Haleem has
negotiated so many turns on the narrow, dirt streets that the
abducted woman has lost her sense of direction. The sedan
stops in front of a corrugated tin shanty, the pounding rain
audible on its metal roof, the runoff creating a muddy pond
in front of the metal hut. The Nissan’s headlights
illuminate the padlock on the door as the driver exits the
vehicle, unlocks the door and steps inside. Haifa sees a
naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling by its cord throw
lighton a bare metal table displaying a large car battery.
Haleem, the stocky driver returns and turns off the car’s
ignition, while cheerfully volunteering, “our interrogation
room. For tonight it will serve as our pleasure room.”
Laughing to himself, he opens the door on the woman’s
side and pulls her into the room; his thinner partner
following.
Haifa has freed the automatic pistol from the tape binding it
to her inner thigh and conceals it under the burqa. Inside
the hut, she examines the twelve by twelve meter room: it
has only one chair, caked with dried blood, with lengths of
rope hanging loose from the metal arms. The walls, what
she can see of them, are also caked in splattered blood, the

175
stench of decaying blood intimidating to anyviewer. The
shorter, thick bearded man removes the large truck battery
and electric probes attached to the terminals from the table,
his thick hands holds the items before Haifa’seyes, while
the other man flashes a stiletto before her. The thin
abductor, touching her breast with the knife’s blade,
volunteers: “sometimes it is more fun to do it while our sex
partnerjerks and screams. We attach these wires to her toes
after we enter her. What an electrifying sensation it can
be.” Both men laugh in a threatening manner. The woman
cannot hide the horror filling her eyes. “If you fulfill our
every need, you will be spared such shocking fun,” Haleem
adds. Haifa nods her head in compliance. Suddenly, her
stomach feels as if it will collapse, as the tall man slams his
fist into her belly. She drops to her knees, gasping for air,
only to feel the man behind pull her head up by the hair.
He slams her in the back of her ribcage with his fist. The
thin man hits her a second time in the stomach, leaving her
moaning on the dirt floor. It is all she can do to hold onto
the pistol, as she struggles to stay conscious. The stocky
man lifts her up from the floor and holds her by her
underarms. She can barely hold her head erect, for the pain
in her abdomen is so intense. She feels herself retching,
her stomach heaving violently. The thin man holds his
handkerchief over her mouth, until he is sure she won’t
vomit.
“It is good you don’t cry, as it would do you no good. That
was only a taste of what will happen to you, if you do not
satisfy our every wish. Climb upon the table and position
yourself on your elbows and knees,” the thin man with the
stiletto commands. When she complies with his order,
careful to allow the pistol to lay loose in her burqa top, he
moves to where her head is, and drops his suit trousers and
underwear and pushes himself toward her face. “Lick my
balls.”

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The woman, feeling the presence of the observing stocky
man beside her, his hand on her back, cannot be certain she
can take them both by surprise, so swallows her disgust and
moves her tongue over his testicles and erected penis, his
pungent body order sickening to her nostrils. She arouses
him to a point where he lowers the knife to his side,
undulating his pelvis.
“Slow down, pretty one. Haleem do what we spoke about.”
the man forcing oral sex upon her says to his accomplish.
Haifa feels the skirt of her heavy burqa being pushed over
her hips, her sheer undergarment being town away. He
spreads her legs apart, ripping out the crotch of her panties.
“So wet and slippery you feel, so easy for me to slide back
and forth. What is this tape near your pussie for? The man
behind her asks, momentarily pulling back.
“Money I carry to give to my parents,” she lies, allowing
the humiliation flowing though her to drench her words,
previously taping ten English one hundred pound notes on
her outside leg opposite the pistol, an intended bribe for
someone to locate Meghwar.
“Not only do you pleasure us, you reward us.“ The man
behind her laughs, cutting the tape away with a knife and
pocketing the currency. Haifa winces as she feels two of
the man’s thick fingers stab repeatedly into her vaginauntil
she is wet, taking his time while he strips naked. His
partner watches, as she feels the man behind enter her, his
ponderous body thrusting back and forth. The force behind
her is so violent that she cannot help but grunt. The thin
man misreads her physical responsefor passion and pulls
her head toward him. “Now suck my cock off. I must see
you swallow my come.”
When she senses both men are close to the point of
ejaculation, she retrievesthe small automatic revolver from
inside her burqa and brings it toward the man pumping his
hips into her face, firing it into his left thigh. He pulls back
in agony, his face a mask of shock. The behind man

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plunging into her stiffens, but so controlled by an imminent
ejaculation cannot stop his thrusts. The woman rolls from
the rapist’s grip onto her back, kicking him free from her.
She jumps from the table, her eyes locked on the hairy, big-
bellied rapist whose crimson flushed face can do little more
than watch the sperm trickle from his penis. The thin rapist
leans against the dried blood on the wall, the hand holding
the thin stiletto dangling at his side, his eyes watching fresh
blood squirt from his thigh. She motions for the naked
rapist to join his cohort by the wall. The reality of the trap
they have fallen into grips both men, becoming aware of
their nakedness, subsequently their vulnerability to the
woman they have performed untoward acts upon.
“You with the pants around you ankles, give the stiletto to
your accomplish and lay on the table. Not believing what
he heard, the thin man does not move, prompting Haifa to
fire a bullet into the wall next to his head. The man
attempts to pull up his trousers, only to be stopped by the
woman’s command: “leave them down.” He limps to the
table, leaving a trail of blood, and lies upon it.
“You who forced yourself upon me from behind, like some
beast, take your knife and slice off your partner’s
genitalia,” she orders the naked man, who now holds his
hands over his own genitalia. When he too hesitates, she
adds: “from this distance, I can easily shoot your not-so
private parts off.”
She watches while the stocky man moves to the table and
staresdown at his terrified partner. “Take your left hand
and grab his penis and sack. One quick slice will do it.”
She puts the pistol against the back of his head to force him
to comply. The naked man reluctantly follows her
instructions, grabbing his accomplice’s penis and testicles,
bringing the stiletto’s blade to the wounded man’s flesh.
“In Allah’s name, have mercy.”
“Was it not in Allah’s name you raped me. If and when you
make it to the promiseland, your mutilation will serve as

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your everlasting shame.” The woman, who kept her
composure throughout the mortifying rape, moves toward
the policeman turned victim to fulfillmenther purpose.
“I am sorry. I beg your forgiveness. I have a wife and
children. How can I face them after you take my manhood
away?” the supine, half naked man implores.
“Your manhood? Do you refer to your cock and balls, the
ones you forced me to lick. Your family would be better
off without such misguided tools.” So fierce is her
repulsion to the man, she cannot even manage to smirk at
the ironic juxtaposition of the night.
The thought of all the injustices that Muslim women have
suffered, emboldens her need to castrate the monster
whimpering on the table. Giving him time to further
diminish his psyche, she takes a minute to rehash the many
tragedies inflicted on the women of Islam by so called
superior pious males. The most recent assault coming to her
mind: the Muslim deft-mute in a village she passed through
in the Punjab state, thrown into the dusty streets, her two
children taken from her by a husband who divorced her
after the next door neighbor raped her. And, the young,
vulnerable woman was stupid enough to point out her
rapist to the village leader, subsequently being charged
with being impure, napak, according to the village elder’s
version of Shariah. Haifa can still visualize in her
thoughts, the young impregnated mother, carrying the
rapist’s baby, unstrung by her fall from grace, sitting in the
decrepit public square, expressing unintelligible words as
she begsfor her next meal, while boys taunt her with the
word, whore. The woman’s life shattered and the rapist
never charged with a crime, still livingnext door to the
woman’s ex-husband who has remarried. Just one of the
many injuries inflicted upon Muslim women by so-called
superior males.
“Let me repeat what you said to me:cooperate. If you can
see your way to do so, maybe, I will spare your manhood.”

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“Yes, anything. Anything you want. Please tell me what it
is, and I will do it.”
“The scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar. I know your
security police have kept him under surveillance. Tell me
where he lives and what he is doing at this moment.”
The half naked man’s eyes fixing on the stiletto touching
his scrotum, shows his eagerness to cooperate, stammering:
“he lives where he works in nearby Section Seven, the poor
district down by the river. Please,tell Haleem to release my
privates.” The once superior face of her abductor has
paled in fear.
Haifa ignores his request, touching the standing man’s
temple as a reminder not to remove the blade from the
man’s genitalia. “Where is he at this moment? Speak
quickly or you will carry your manhoodin your pocket.”
“In his rooms. He is known for working late into the
night.”
Haifa’s pistolnudges the naked man gripping the other’s
genitalia. “Do you know how to find this place?”
“Yes. We can take you there,” the burly undercover
policeman replies.
“One person will do,” the Palestinian says to the naked
man. She shoots the thin rapist stretched across the table in
the head, his blood splattering over the man holding his
penis and testicles. Both she and the corpulent, hairy
rapist watch his accomplice’s blood flow off the table,
saturating the dirt floor.
Retrieving her money from the subdued policeman‘s
trousers she then tosses the garment into a corner, ordering
the naked man: “Get dressed.”

* *

The woman, obscured in the burqa and its hood, holds the
automatic pistol to the stocky policeman’s head. The man
she only knows as Haleem sees his superiority transmuted

180
to insecurity, as the Nissan sedan comes to a stop in front of
a two story office building. This time the rapist rides as the
captive, not the captor. Next to the office building is
another structure that is walled in, except for the iron door
securing the archway entrance where the name, Ummah
Tamee e Nau, is painted in Arabic. The two buildings are
dark, except for a solitary light shinning through a window
upstairs. Both Haleem and Haifa in the rear seat are
profusely perspiring; the failed rapist from being unnerved
by the pistol she has pressed to his head for the last fifteen
minutes while he drove through the downpour to
Meghwar’s residence. In spite of the intense heat and
humidity of the night, exacerbated by the heavy, non-
breathable garment she continues to wear that causes her to
copiously perspire, so much that the pistol in her hand drips
with her sweat, Haifa, unlike the policeman, is calm, in
control of the situation.
“That is Doctor Meghwar’s apartment. The great man
works late into the night. It is highly unlikely that he will
see you.”
“It will be up to you, as a law enforcer, to make it likely.”
The woman slaps the pistol against the driver’s head. “Get
out and knock on the door. I will follow like the
submission creature I am dressed to be.”
After five minutes of incessant pounding on the outside
door, a teenage boy wiping sleep from his eyes, Haifa
guesses to be a madrassas student working off his tuition,
opens the door. The boy is reluctant to disturb the scientist,
but after seeing Haleem’s badgeleads them up a stairway
and gently knocks on the door.
“What is it that you want, Maulana?”
“An officer of the law and a woman to see you, Doctor.”
“A woman at this hour? Tell them to go away as I am busy.
The police officer can return at a respectable hour.”
Haifa jams the pistol into the heavy policeman’s back. He
pushes the boy aside and opens the unlocked door. “Go

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back to sleep and do not disturb us,” he orders the teenager.
Looking uncertain, although unable to disobey an authority
figure, the boy descends the stairs to his room. Haifa
follows the policeman into the room where a white
bearded, old rotund man wearing a black turban and
dressed in a loose fitting kurta, the national shirt
preference, sits before a computer, his eyes locked upon the
screen, papers with handwritten notes scattered about his
desk.
“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Both arrivals
know his irate question is solely directed to Haleem,
demonstrating his distain for women. “Did you not hear
me when I saidI did not want to be disturbed? And this
woman. . . . How dare you foul my house with her
presence?” The scientist, showing his contempt for the
interruption, does not look up from his computer.
The disheveled policeman presents his badge and
credentials to the small, round man. “Forgive me
honorable one. She states that her purpose is urgent. I
have no choice in the matter or else I would not disturb
you.”
The scientist glances at the police agent. “You talk
nonsense. Unless you are here on official business, leave
here immediately and take this apostate with you, or I will
report you to your superiors. Old and retired as I may be, I
am not without teeth.” He once again directs his attention
to the computer screen.
“Enough of your pretentious protocol my esteemed Doctor.
Sit down Haleem. I will address the honorable one
directly,” Haifa commands, revealing the automatic pistol
and indicating the wood chair before Meghwar’s desk. The
irate old man pushes away from his work, surprised at the
turn of events, as he watches the humbledpoliceman seat
himself. As if viewing the devil, he slowly brings his focus
to Haifa, but quickly looks away.

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“I know who you are. I know your beliefs, and I know why
the Pakistani government forced you to retire. I am an
Arab woman, foremost a Palestinian, who wants the Jews
off her forbearers’ land. And I need your expertise to do
it.”
“You are an uninvited woman desecrating my home. Put
your little gun away and leave me.” Meghwar waves his
hand, dismissing her, and re-involves himself with the
computer.
Haifa controls the anger building within her over the man’s
superior attitude. She takes the dead, thin man’s stiletto in
her left hand and plunges it into the seated policeman’s
neck. Haleem screams, but it only comes out as a gurgle,
sounds of air rushing up through a red viscosity, his blood
squirtingacross the room. The fatally wounded man stands
to escape the room, but can only stagger a few steps toward
the scientist, flopping on his desk and twitching like a
headless chicken, blood pouring over the man’s notes.
“Are you insane?” Meghwarscreams, backing against the
wall, his white bearded face frozen in horror. “You just
murdered anIslamic man for no reason. Are you going to
murder me also?”
“This degenerate had to die sooner or later. Better sooner
to get your attention. Inferior creature that you believe I
am, you will not only talk to me, you will give me the
answers I seek.”
“I do not fear death, because I am an old man, whose
purpose has been taken away from him. I look forward to
being at Allah’s side. The One and only God. Blessed be
his name. Blessed be His Messenger’s name. Peace be
with him.”
“A death wish is easy to pronounce, so difficult to
experience. Let us see how it is with you, Doctor.” Haifa
moves behind the old man and places the sharp blade of the
stiletto against his neck. “What if I have a great nuclear
discovery to show you, and you die never knowing if you

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ignored the greatest atomic advancement during your
scientific life? Listen to what I say, and you will once
again find a purpose to live for, a greater one than your
earlier purpose, a means to restate yourself with the
Pakistani Nuclear Program.”
“Who are you, and what do you want with me.”
“I am a Palestinian standing against the Israelis, and that is
all you need to know.” Haifa removes the hood covering
her face, the cool air from the air conditioner touching her
drenched hair revives her, giving her the will to continue
her mission, to overcome the sharp pain from the beating
she took at the rapists’ hands.. “Sit down. I have a formula
to show you.”
“How can I sit while the man you murdered still moves.”
They both watch Haleem’s spasmodic twitching, until the
woman grabs him by the beard, pulling it until the body
falls to the side of the desk. She then flings the computer
and papers onto the body, clearing the desk. “Now sit
down, I will tell you a story of infidel transgressions and
how they lost the secret to a mighty bomb.”
Meghwar sits down, staring at Haleem in the last throes of
death, while Haifa relates the American fundamentalist’s
mission and subsequent interrogation under Hezbollah
hands in Lebanon. The subject of a thermonuclear bomb
pulls the eminent scientist from his dismay over the turn of
events.
“You talk nonsense. A pure fusion bomb of the type you
suggest cannot be made. I have spent my entire life in
nuclear physics, and such a thing can never be more than
theory. Do you even understand nuclear reaction?” The
elderly fundamentalist has yet to look upon the female’s
face, addressing his words to desk’s bloody surface.
He does not wait for a reply, continuing as if addressing a
madrassas teenager. “It is the collision of the atoms under a
great force moving at the speed of light, splitting apart,
releasing neutrons that split more atoms, creating chain

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reactions of tremendous force, powerful enough to level a
city. These chain reactions must have tremendous heat and
pressure to trigger them, similar to what takes place inside
the sun. To accomplish this result, creators use the
implosion method; they use a fissile explosion driving
neutrons upon a target, known as a pit, creating the extreme
temperature and pressure on super enriched uranium in
order to set off a fusion chain reaction as high as one
hundred generations. This is a very complex procedure as
the neutrons must be driven to the pit simultaneously and
uniformly to the microsecond to trigger the more powerful
fusion explosion. The devastation can be ten times that of
a simple fission one, such as the one the Americans
dropped on Hiroshima. The fissile implosion method is the
most devastating weapon known to mankind, not your
make believe pure fusion one.”
“The thermonuclear bomb you helped design to neutralize
your foe, a Hindu India, Doctor, was so huge in size, you
had to trade that design to North Korea for missile
technology so Pakistan would have the means to deliver
such a weapon upon its historical enemy.”
“We did what we had to do to protect our nation.”
“In turn, I am doing what I have to for my country’s
survival. I have a bomb that a youngster could roll down
hill into the center of Delhi. If you will not look at me,
look at this.” Haifa slams a sketch she made of the formula
she acquired from the American, along with the necessary
elements. It shows a cutaway sphere, the size of a bowling
ball; at dead center are intertwined helixes with two fish-
eye lasers spinning at both ends. Underneath, she has listed
the necessary ingredients--beryllium, polonium, deuterium
tritium and plutonium 239 (10 pounds) or uranium 249 (30
pounds). Weight: 25 to 70 pounds.
The white haired scientist studies the diagram, speaking
more to his thoughts than to the woman holding a pistol.
“Beryllium and polonium mixed would make up the

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reflector, creating a further neutron source. The tritium
mixed with deuterium--also known as heavy water, would
be injected prior to detonation as a booster. The plutonium
is preferable because it is lighter and obtainable from spent
nuclear fuel rods that are worldwide. The unproven
element here is the laser technology. It would have to
create the heat, some 11 million degrees Fahrenheit,
creating a pressure a billion times greater than the earth’s
atmosphere.”
“Can it be done? If so, can this weapon be made by a
Muslim?” Haifa asks, for the moment forgetting the pistol
in her hand.
“If these fish eye lasers can be developed, then the two 600
facet lasers you show here, pinpointing the pit, each fish
eye laser collectively creating charges up to a trillion volts,
approaching the speed of light, bombarding the plutonium,
it would on paper make a pure fusion bomb. The
temperature and pressure exerted would be incredible and
sufficient. Yes, on paper, it is possible.”
“Who can develop such a weapon?”
The old scientist ignores the woman holding the pistol, his
mind chasing the possibilities of his discovery. “I must
take this to my government. The weight is so light, the
simplest of missiles could deliver it. Anyone of my
students could carry it undetected to any city in India or
anywhere in the world, for that matter.”
“Who can develop such a weapon?” Haifa repeats her
question, realizing the old scientist is preoccupied with his
imminent resurrection from obscurity. She taps the
scientist on the shoulder with the pistol.
He looks directly at her for the first time. “Any nuclear
physicist working in the thermonuclear field could. The
laser technology is the key. I have heard that the
Americans, British, French and Russians have developed
cutting edge laser technology. Of course, the Israelis also
have. But none of these governments will share it with

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you, a Palestinian and a woman. Even if you handed them
the formula.”
“I have heard that everything is for sale in Russia.”
“Possibly.”
“Doctor, besides you, is there anyone who has the
necessary funds, connections and technology to build such
a weapon?”
“I will not serve you, a woman.”
“Who else?”
“It is possible the hero of the Russian resistance in
Afghanistan could satisfy all the requirements. After the
Americans forced him from Somalia, he trains armies of
mujahedeenin that wild country to destroy the infidels who
occupy Muslim lands. You have no doubt heard of him,
Sheikh Osama bin Laden. A great man.”
“Yes I have heard of this Saudi. Get your coat, Doctor.
The rain is heavy outside.”
“I am an old man. My health is too frail for this late hour,
let alone suffer this nasty night. I have given you what you
came for, now leave me alone.”
“You will drive me to the Indian border.”
“I am forbidden to leave Islamabad.”
“With the knowledge I have shared with you, you will once
again be a hero, powerful enough to be forgiven such a
small infraction as leaving this city. Let us leave now.”

* *

Haifa and yesterday’s nuclear luminary, the old Islamic, sit

in his Buick luxury car across the street from a bus station
in the small town of Wazzirabad at dawn’s approaching
hour, watching an old, dusty and hand painted purple bus
stopping in a market square that has yet to open for
commerce. She once again has put on the hood to her
burqa; remaining extremely sore from the beating the two

187
dead policemen gave her, but determined to prevail over
the challenges beforehand.
“Go now,” the old man commands, appearing overly
fatigued, as he indicates the gay colored bus. “I hope I
never look upon you again.”
“I will grant your wish.” The Palestinian raises the pistol
from her lap.
“What do you intend to do?” He stares at her image in the
rear view mirror.
“To rid the world of one more fundamentalist. I cannot
have you blowing up Hindus before I deal with the Jews.”
“No, not now. Now that I can return to my exalted place in
the nuclear program. Build my country a great weapon.”
“Your glory will be eternal. Beside your God.”
“Please dooo. . . . Through the back seat, Haifa fires
twice into his heart.”
Under the continuous heavy rain, she joins the other burqa-
clad women boarding the bus, head lowered in submission,
and sits next to an old woman, fully robed,returning to
India.

*HARLAN*

The obsessed man, more intent on obtaining the holy nail

than seeking revenge on the Palestinian woman who had
him castrated, has met every flight into Islamabad for the
last eight hours, and the woman who possesses the nail did
not appear. Upon his arrival at the airport outside of the
city in a place called Rawalpindi, he explained though his
interpreter to the immigration officer stamping his passport
that his purpose in Islamabad was to interview the two
scientists most responsible for developing Pakistan’s
nuclear program. He hopedthe official might give him the
addresses where he is certain the Palestinian woman will
appear at one or both to verify the bomb’s legitimacy. In
spite of the promise of a favorable Pakistan story to

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American readers, the official ignored his request.
Frustrated wasting his time meeting flights with no sight of
a tall woman traveling alone, Harlan offered the official a
hundred American dollars, gaining the location of
Meghwar’s madrassas after being told Kahn‘s location was
not known.
The Israelis had given him a false American passport
identifying him as Henry Brown, an independent journalist,
and provided him with the funds to hire an interpreter,
enabling him to move less suspiciously within
Pakistansociety. The fundamentalist has forced himself to
carry on in spite of his crude castration at the hands of the
Hezbollah imam. He rationalizes that the mutilation of his
body was due punishment because of his failure to carry
out the preacher’s order to bring the nail back to the church.
Feeling exhausted from his ordeal in Lebanon, but
committed to finding the nail that he hopes will bring him
redemption from his God, Who he believeshas turned from
him.
The interpreter, who is also his driver, somehow managed
to find the nuclear scientist’s madrassas during the late
evening downpour amidst mud brick huts, no more than
shanties haphazardly fixed together in a maze of dark,
muddy streets. He is uncertain as to whether or not the
diabolical woman has come to this place or is attempting to
contact the other scientist, Kahn. For the time being,
watching this location is his best option. Throughout the
last half hour, the two men have been watching the second
story light falling upon a Nissansedan parked beneath the
window. Now shadows have crossed the second story
window’s illumination just before the room goes dark.
Harlan’s interest perks when the building’soutside light
comes on, throwing light across the street. He and the
interpreter slip down in their seats so as not to be seen. He
feels his breath catch in his throat as he sees a short, round

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old man in Pakistani dress, followed by a tall figure
completely covered in a burqa appear in the illumination.
“I got you now, you monster.” Harlandid not mean to
speak the words, especially since the interpreter looks
bewildered by the utterance. “I mean the old man no
harm,” he adds to quite the man’s suspicion, but sees that
he not believed. He places the Israeli automatic pistol in
the man’s side. “Do as I say and you will live.” Both he
and a very nervous man watch the short and tall figures
make their way through the slashing rain over the muddy
street to the iron gate next door. Under an archway
entrance where the name, Ummah Tamee e Nau, is painted
in Arabic, the old man opensthe gate. Minutes after the
scientist and woman disappear through open,iron gates, a
Buick luxury sedan emerges and makes it way though the
rain drenched streets. Harlan places the pistol to the
interpreter’s temple and speaks one word: “follow.”
Once the Buick leaves Islamabad, traveling on secondary
roads, the interpreter volunteers they are heading forIndia’s
border. The miserably wet night discourages all traffic,
except for a few commercial trucks, so Harlaninstructs the
driver to fall back, maintain a distance so as not to appear
suspicious to the Buick’s passengers. The old man drives
the automobile so slow that it takes the woman and him the
entire night to reach their destination, a squalor-looking
border town of a five or more thousand residents. The
luxury vehicle stop in what looks to be the main market
square hosting a community water fountain in the center.
The fountain is surrounded by vacant stalls yet to be
opened for the day’s commerce. Before he can decide
exactly how to approach the woman in the Buick sedan, he
sees two flashes in the auto’s compartment and realizes she
has shot the old scientist. His driver opens the door and
tries to bolt free, only to be pulled back by the American
and pointblank shot in the chest. Harlan watches the burqa
clad figure cross the square to a colorfully painted, run

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down bus and queue behind other burqa covered women.
He pulls the bloody shirt, more like a robe, from the dead
man, slips it on and then buttons his suit jacket over the
long shirtto obscure the bloody bullet hole. Still bearded
and wearing the dead man’s loose fitting kurta, he
resembles an Arab racing across the square to catch a
departing bus with a few passengers getting soaked on its
roof. He manages to board it, before it pulls away from the
square. He spots the woman staring disbelievingly at him
as he bribes the bus driver with two American twenty dollar
bills to give him passage.
Harlan cannot take his eyes off the two dark pupils staring
back at him through the slit of a black hood, the eyes that
studied him in the Hezbollah cellar are burnt into his
memory, therefore easy to recognize as the Palestinian who
betrayed him. The castrated man thought he was beyond
taking revenge for what she ordered done to him, but once
in her presence realizes he is not.
The bus driver instructs him in Arabic to do something that
he does not understand, although the unintelligible words
interrupt his compulsion to shoot the woman where she sits.
The fundamentalist, believing the driver has ordered him to
take a seat, moves into the aisle; seeing no vacancies, he
kneels behind the woman. The formless figure stiffens, as
the woman realizes he has for the moment gained an
advantage on her.
He mutters the Lord‘s prayer, “Father, Who art in heaven,
hollowed be thy name. Thy kingdom. . . .” to get a grip on
the overwhelming urge to kill her. Leaning close enough to
the woman that he can smell her robe’s dampness, he
whispers:
“Seeing the back of your head blown away would give me
immense pleasure.”
“Do that and these Muslims around you will tear you to
pieces with their hands.”

191
“A price I wouldgladly pay to see you dead.” He places
the automatic pistol against the napeof her neck. “Give me
the holy nail,and I will let you live.” He hears her suppress
a laugh under the hood.
“Do you think I carry such a valuable object around like a
toothbrush?”
“Where is it?” In his haste to confront the woman, Harlan
fails to noticethat the bus has yet to move and that the
driver is not behind the wheel.
“At a place where it will be sold to the first buyer willing to
pay ten million English Pounds.”
“Don’t you think that is overly greedy, since you already
have the nuclear formula?”
“Not greed. Need is the word I would use. And no, the
formula is not enough. We all have our purposes, some are
born of reality. Some are not.”
As much as he abhors dealing with such a ruthless being as
the woman sitting before him, he wonders if the preacher
would be willing to pay such an outrageous amount for the
holy object he failed to obtain. He decides to escort the
woman off the bus, and then force her to take him to the
holy nail, only before he can act, he hears the bolt actions
of AK47s injecting rounds into the chambers. His heart
sinks as he look up to see two black uniformed Pakistani
soldiers training their weapons on him at point black range.
Seeing the driver standing behind the soldierstells him that
the man reported him to the border guards. He now
realizes the bus driver ordered him to take a seat atop the
bus rather than stay inside. The soldiers shout
incomprehensible words at him, although he understands
they want him to disembark from the bus.
“Where can I find you?’ His question leaves his mouth as a
desperate plea.
“Amman, if you live.”
The realization that he has once again failed to obtain the
nail hits him as he stands, both hands above his head; the

192
pistol in his right one, the bloody robe under his suit jacket,
knowing the dead interpreter’s and nuclear scientist’s
bodies are in the abandon sedans. The Palestinian woman,
surely a demon from Hell, has bested him again.

*HAIFA*

Haifa tosses the cellar phone she purchased at the Cairo

Airport out the window of the taxi speeding along the
expressway into Shubra, the poorer district of the city. She
used it for a solitary call to her long ago humanities teacher
at the venerable Cairo University. He was a long time
member of the Muslim Brotherhood, a firebrand who has
mellowed with old age, his voice quiveringas he answered
her question. She inquired of the elderly man about which
mosque her uncle, George Hamad, as a leader of the radical
Hamas, would worship at. The ex teacher paused
momentarily, and she felt the regret in his voice that he no
longer was able to pursue the battles of his youth, as he
spoke the name of the holy place where radical Sunnis
congregated--the Suleiman ibn Solun Mosque. She rolls up
the taxi’s passenger window, blocking the hot desert air
flooding the compartment, as the day has yet to cool.
Having successfully verified the bomb’s formula, the
confident woman informs the taxi driver of her destination.
He is a young man not much older than the boyish youth
she pretends to be, dressing herself in an Egyptian baggy
shirt hanging loose outside shapeless pantaloons, obscuring
her female shape; a round hat, Cairo men are fond of
wearing, covers her recently cut short hair.
The opportunity that she has hoped for, the means to
cripple an insurmountable foe, the Israelis, who had
murdered her grandparents, confiscating their property
during Nakba, the Great Catastrophe, and later orchestrated
the slaughter of her parents at Shatila has finally been
realized. She has the means and the method to bring the

193
occupiers of her homeland to their knees, by a future
selling of the ancient nail on the black market for the
bomb‘s funding and subsequent development. Although, to
design and build such a weapon, she will need more
funding than what the ancient artifact will garner, and that
is her purpose here in Cairo.
The hot evening sun puts a copper tinge on the Suleiman
ibn Solun Mosque’s dome and projecting minaret, as the
driver brings the taxi to a halt on the ramshackle street a
safe distance from the dusty worshiping place. She ordered
him to stop the taxi there, because the neighborhood is poor
and manymen not having the luxury of motorized
transportation walk toward the mosque. She intends to
blend in with them. The threadbare worshipers fill the
street before the mosque as the mudhdhin atop the minaret
calls for the evening prayer: “Allah is the greatest. I bear
witness that there is no deity but Allah. Come to prayers.
Come. . . .” The chanting the woman has known since
infancy has become no more than a senseless drone in her
ears.
Just the type of a rundown neighborhood the extreme
fraction of the Muslim Brotherhood prefersto dwell in, she
notes. Here, by giving the needy food and medicine, they
win recruits to join their cause of establishing Islamic states
throughout Arab countries; by offering free education to
their children, they are able to indoctrinate radical
fundamentalists for a future generation of their self
ordained jihad. The woman presenting herself as a Muslim
youth watches the wind agitating the dust over the rubble
outside the worn stone walls that are hot, dry and of the
same gritty hue as the land surrounding them. Scores of
devoted Muslims, presenting themselves for the Friday
evening prayers and subsequent sermon by the khatib,walk
devotedly up the wide stone steps through the small
entrance into the courtyard. To the atheist woman,
mosques, such as this aged onewith their formidable walls

194
and grand edifices resemble fortress where men can
resurrect their superiority over women. Haifa exits the cab
after giving the youthful driver a modest tip and trails
behind the men whose eyes are fixed on the Qur’ans they
hold. Pretending to read surasas any devout Muslim boy
would do, her attention is locked on the few veiled women
in their body-covering jibals walking behind the men.
Once through the doors into the courtyard, those women
not defiled by a menstrual cycle enter a separate door to a
separate section of the main prayer room. The disguised
boy grimaces over the segregation, but finds some
recompense for this man made assault on women as
menstrual blood flows from her. If only these pious men
knew that a menstruating female fouled their scared
sanctuary, they would repel, believing me to be a demon
from Hell, she tells herself.
Accepted as a teenage boy, Haifa follows the men to the
central fountain, a twenty meter oblong ablution pool with
stone benches, over which a dome roof supported by
marble columns fifteen meters in height emerges. Under
the covering, the men will observe ghusul, the ritual bath to
cleanse themselves prior to appearing before Allah. She
watched her father, before he was murdered by the
Phalangists,perform the ritual many times, so has no
problem performing the cleansing acts with those men not
having the time to previously wash themselves. As Haifa
washes her forearms and then her feet, she notes that, so
far, not one man, even though her features make her a
striking youth, has given her a second look; they are all
business in Allah’s house. Her ghusel completed, the
Palestinian woman lingers by the entrance to main prayer
room, reading her suras until her uncle emerges
unaccompanied in a throng of arriving worshipers. Dressed
in a jellab, a Bedouin robe, hefiles past her. She follows
him to the front of the high ceiling musallah, moving
among the marble columns to where he spreads his prayer

195
rug on a worshiper’s permanently outlined square inset in
marble in the front row. Having forgotten to bring a rug,
she stands barefooted on the cold, crimson marble beside
him, pointing herself, as he does, toward the mihrab that
indicatesthe direction of Mecca. Her uncle notes her
presence without recognizing herand resumes his prayers,
standing with his hands by his head. Following his lead,
she mumbles what he chants, as he next crosses his hands
over his midriff:
“Praise and glory be to you O Allah. Blessed be Your
Name. There is no God but You.”
Haifa mouths the words of praise, as she assumes the
numerous positions dictated by the Qur’an, bending at the
waist, standing, kneeling andprostrating herself until her
forehead touches the cold marble. There are seven various
positions assumed by the believer while reciting suras,
completing one rakat, all of which makethe woman feel as
a trained dog would, for she goes through the motions,
believing none of it. She assume the jaloos, a relaxed
position like the rest of the male worshipers, her legs
tucked under her, as a portly, middle aged, haatib, an imam
with coal black hair and beard, takes his place atop the
minabar and chants:
“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. . . .”
The woman ignores his prayer until he begins the sermon,
noting that the imam periodically directs his attention
toward her uncle:
“Our brothers and sisters in Palestine continue to suffer
each hour--high walls separate them from their families,
army checkpoints in their homeland degrade them on a
daily basis, economically strangling them, depriving them
of their livelihood and family. All this suffering is under
the apartheid of the disbelievers, the scum Jews and the
crusading Americans. The pigs’ heinous acts against the
helpless Palestinian women, and children, stealing their
lands, then their lives, affront Allah, His Messenger and

196
you believers. The pigs occupation of Arab land is a slap in
our God’s face, the Messenger‘s face, our faces. Now
infidel troops are defiling Jerusalem, SaudiArabia where
our most holy sites are. As I speak, the infidels attempt to
destroy Iraq and its Muslim warriors, because Saddam and
his countrymen dared to claim what was once Greater Iraq.
Because these decedents of pigs and apes have the
airplanes, the tanks, the missiles, they think they can
manipulate us. We know Allah will send them to Hell.
With His blessing, jihad is now the obligation of every
Muslim here tonight and every Muslim throughout our holy
lands. Jihad! Jihad! Jihad!” The imam’s voice rises to a
scream. “Be warned. Whoever does not strike a blow
against the war mongering Jews and theAmerican infidels
invading our lands will not know the sweet fragrance of
everlasting Paradise. With Allah’s blessing,his people will
prevail over the unbelievers. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
Allahu Akbar.”
The black bearded imam bows his head, his hands fixed at
his sides, signaling the sermon is concluded. The scores of
men stand, a good many in poor dress, and engage one
another in heated conversations pertaining to the Israelis
and Palestinians. Others, looking weary from a long
workday, exit the prayer room, having completed their
devotions.
Haifa’s uncle turns to greet her, perhaps, she thinks, he
means to recruit her to the Hamas cause. Before he can
speak, she asks, “How long are you going to hide out?
When will you follow the imam’s command and resume
your vacated plan to destroy the Israelis, Uncle George?”
She enjoys seeing shock freeze her uncle’s face.
“Are you insane, defiling Allah’s temple by praying with
men? For such blatant apostasy I should expose you. They
would take you to the street and beat you to death, tear you
to pieces for the jinn that you are.” His words are such a
low growl that she must move closer to hear them.

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“Close to Satin as I may be, I will tell you why you won’t
expose me.”
“Leave me. You are the worst of all curses upon me.”
“I am the curse that you created the day you ordered that
primitive imam to mutilate me.”
“That is in the past. I would not be in Egypt if you had not
killed the minister’s son.”
“As you say, Uncle George, that is in the past. I came here
to offer you the future, a future that will brighten the lives
of all Palestinians, and you will be the man to show them a
dayof total victory over the Israelis. You will be the man
who eclipsesChairman Arafat.”
“You talk nonsense.”
“I took an ancient, Christian holy object off the dead
Jewish tank commander at Aide. The Jew’s father, the
current Israeli Defense Minister, had made arrangements to
trade it to American religious radicals for a. . . . listen
closely. . . for the formula to make a pure fusion nuclear
bomb in a very small container. This bomb will unleash a
devastating blast, enough to level adjacent cities. These
American fanatics somehow stole this formula from their
armed forces, sending it with their trustworthy messenger
to trade the Jews for the nail they believe pierced the hand
of their lord. I intercepted that messenger. After revealing
the bomb‘s formula to me, he is soon to be dead in
primitive Pakistan. Now I am in possession of the formula,
the design and the ancient nail. You look as if you have
seen the devil, Uncle George. Let us leave this mosque,
before your friends inquire about the nature of your
contorted face.”
The Palestinian woman dressed as a boy and the older man
exit the prayer room through the courtyard onto the dust
blown street. They stand near the old wall shimmering
under the low lying sun, protected from the force of the
desert wind. “You and I will share this bomb, share the
means to neutralize the Israelis. But first you must leave

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the safety of this community and seek the financial means
from the man who will give it. He is your friend and has
funded Hamas in the past.”
“You speak of Sheikh bin Laden?”
“You must go there and solicit his aid.”
“If by some rare chance I can convince him that you are not
a raving maniac, he will want the bomb for himself.”
“You must bargain sharply: we get the first one, he can
have the rest.”
“Haifa, he is sworn to destroy the Americans. Such a
weapon could lead to a worldwide holocaust.”
“Do you fear such an event, Uncle? I do not. The sheikh is
a wise man, and as much as he wants to fill Hell with the
unbelievers, he will not be so capricious as to fill heaven
with all the believers by destroying an American city and
unleashing their retaliatory nuclear power.”
“I am not so sure, because those particular believers will be
where they want to be, in Heaven at Allah’s side. But you
are correct;it is time for me to resume the fight against the
Israeli dogs. I will go to Afghanistan and find the sheikh.
You must give me this formula so I can show it to him. As
you said he is a wise man who will not throw his money
away needlessly.”
“Tell him that Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar verified its
validity. Remind him that the Russians will supply the
ingredients for a price. If you are to lead the Palestinian
people to a life free of apartheid, then you must convince
him on the strength of what I have just revealed. When
your mission is concluded, we will meet in Palestine.” The
tall woman disguised as a boy turns her back on her uncle,
believing she has convinced him to do her bidding.

*GEORGE*

The Hamas leader leans back into the front seat of the small
Toyota truck, bouncing over the rough road from Kabul to

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Jalalabad, biding his time on the drivethrough the rock-
strewn, blistered mountain terrain of Afghanistan. Sheikh
bin Laden’s men had first wanted to blindfold him as a
security precaution, but a cell phone call to a higher-up
waived the procedure, allowing him to travel to the
mujahedeen training camp, al Farooq, as an ally in the war
against the infidels. Two armed mujahedeen soldiers ride
in the bed of the truck, their Ak47s at the ready should he
attempt an improper move. One Toyota truck in front
bounces over the road carrying in its bed four armed
mujahedeen dressed in long shirts flowing to the knees of
their pantaloons with sandals covering their dirty feet. All
armed escorts are fully bearded as demanded of observant
Muslims, who George suspects are guards on loan to the
sheikh from the Taliban. Another truck in back with more
armed men accompaniesthe truck transporting him. He
marvels at the road’s desolate, broken surface, the
surrounding bleak, treeless mountains, having never made
this trip before, although he did earlier endure the uncertain
routes of Sudan to seek funds from the great man. Coming
from the bountiful land of Palestine, this journey across the
desolate, dusty, snaking link between two major Afghan
cities only ventured by the compelled traveler, seems to
him like a trip across the moon’s surface. Busted stone
buildings along the road outside Kabullay deserted. When
he inquires about the abandoned dwellings, the guards
inform him that the inhabitants were driven out by
continual fights between the querulous war lords and their
tribal armies.
He had flown from Cairo to Kabul, and once on the ground
shocked to see the bombed out buildings and destroyed
neighborhoods from a decade of continuous wars. As a taxi
transported him from the airport to a contact house, he
viewed entire residential blocks destroyed by the Russian
invaders’ bombs, the destruction exacerbated by the current
Taliban government when they attacked the warlords who

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earlier drove the Sovietsfrom Afghanistan. The Taliban
bands of mullahs and religious devotees, originating in the
untamed Pakistani tribal area of fundamentalist Waziristan
near the border, took control of Afghanistan, except for
Mazir I Sharif in the north where the displaced war lords
and their small armies found refuge; the destruction that he
sees everywhere reminds him of Palestinian villages
destroyed and leveled by the Israelis during the Great
Catastrophe he witnessed as a boy. As he looks at the burnt
out remains of two Russian tanks pushed to the side of the
road, when, he wonders, will the infidels stop invading our
lands. He also wonders if he is on a fool’s mission, about
to lose his credibility with God’s chosen warrior, the man
many Muslims call the Caliphate, should he fail to
convince him of the bomb’s potential.
His unmanageable niece convinced him about the truth of
her declared discovery; she, a female, was of all the
Palestinian jihadists, the one that loosened Mattath’s iron
grip on the Palestinian people by her victory at Aide. Her
accomplishment there gave credibility to her claim, that of
possessing a deadly bomb’s formula. Haifa is more like his
father, her grandfather, then her father. His father and her
grandfather, Khahd, had resisted the Irgun terrorists’ attack
on his people and his village to the end, in what is now the
illegal Israeli state. Their forbearer saw his house burning
as he lay dying, shot in the stomach and spine, his wife
dead at his side. He held out against the Israelis while his
sons, George and his younger brother,escaped into the
darkness. Two decades later, as young men, he and Haifa’s
father, returned to Palestine from Jordan, only to be driven
from Jerusalem when the Israeli Army routed the Jordanian
Army in the 1967 war. Her father choose to flee to
Lebanon with his young family, living like rats in a refugee
camp named Shatila, until that fateful day when the
Christian Phalangists attacked the camp, encouraged by
Minister Mattath, then the commanding general of the

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Israeli Army that invaded Lebanon and drove Arafat‘s PLO
Army from the country. Haifa saw both her parents and
siblings murdered in that unprotected refugee camp,
although not before the Christians raped her mother and
older sisters. Being the tempestuous woman that she was,
she slit the throat of a murdering Lebanese Christian with a
concealed knife, as he attempted to rape her, took his
clothing and escaped with the murderers when they vacated
a devastated Shatila.
During the Israelis victory, the enemy refers to as the Six
Day War, over combined Arab forces, they seized Palestine
and the holy mosques;George had escaped behind the
fleeing Jordanian Army, finding refuge, like so many other
refugees, in the bleak desert villages across the Jordan
River. There, he elected to follow Yasser Arafat, recently
arrived from Egypt with a small band of freedom fighters,
who launched guerrilla raids on the Israeli settlements
springing up throughoutPalestine. Arafat was in the early
days of taking arms against the invaders, the first resistance
leader to openly fight them after a string of Arab defeats at
the enemy’s hands--standing as a hero to a downtrodden
people. Then he was a resolute leader, clearly seeing the
Palestinian purpose, one of driving the enemy from Muslim
land, not today’s vacillating politician he degenerated into.
George relives the night he participated in a night raid,
falling into an Israeli trap crossing the river into occupied
Palestine. He spent the first month beaten and water
logged by the Israeli Shabak at the notoriously brutal
Dahariya Prison in the West Bank, squatting naked, hands
bound to his ankles, in a bare cement cell, no bigger than a
closet. Withstanding the torture, he refused to give up
Arafat’s location in the Jordanian desert or the name of any
Palestinian refugees taking part in the raids upon Israeli
settlements. Beaten unconscious by Shabak interrogators,
suffering from a broken arm, the captured Fatah member
spent the next three months recovering under

202
unsympathetic prison medical care. Thought of as
unimportant to future intelligence, Shabak agents sent him
to an Israeli prison, named Ketzoit, but called Ansar by the
Palestinians, in the Sinai desert, somewhere near the Dead
Sea. He spent the next forty-four months surrounded by
barb wire, sharing a tent with twenty other prisoners that
became a insufferable sauna under the desert heat. His
sentence had no end, until Arafat’s Fatah soldiers captured
an Israeli soldier on the road to Hebron, stupid enough to
relieve himself while on sentry duty. The capture was a
godsend for George, for after four years, he and twenty-
four other Palestinian prisoners were exchanged for the
single Israeli soldier.
Having paid his dues to the struggle to drive the Jews from
Palestinian land, Arafat honored him with the command of
a Fatah platoon that he led against the Israeli and Jordanian
Armies in Jordan, later fighting the Israelis and their
Christian puppets in Lebanon; both times, he was
thoroughly routed, defeated along with the PLO Army.
Early on in the struggle for freedom, George was not fully
committed to Allah, not following Shariah, the perfect path
that the One and only God sent to earth through his
Messenger, His last and most important prophet. In the
Ketzoit prison, he met a Muslim Brotherhood imam, who
was a devout adherent to the Wahabbi secthe embraced
while studying Islam in Saudi Arabia. Alone and forgotten,
helpless at the hands of his captors, George was receptive
to the words of the fiery Wahabbiimam, who, time and
time again, said the reason Muslims were being subjugated
and daily humiliated by the infidels on their own land was
became they had not followed Shariah as Allah so saliently
spoke through his Messenger. Only when the Muslims
became devout again and obeyed the Qur’an to the absolute
word of Allah, could they drive the unbelievers from their
lands. Against enemies as powerful as the Israelis and their
guardian--the Americans--he saw no other course than to

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fully embrace the most powerful One, to win His support
by giving Him absolute obedience, if necessary give his life
to the fight against the unbelievers. Years later, after
suffering many setbacks by the Israeli Army, George was in
Jerusalem, meeting with the Wahabbi imam, when the
oppressor, Mattath entered the holy mosque, al Aqsa, a
transgression upon the holy place. Given their repression
under Israeli hands, the transgression became the proverbial
straw breaking the camel’s back, outraging Allah’s
followers. In response to Mattath’s irreverence, the
Wahabbi imam created Hamas, Islamic Resistance Group.
George, disgusted by Arafat’s continual compromises with
the hated Jews, left Fatah, becoming the imam’s acolyte,
dedicated to inflicting punishment upon the transgressors.
Ahead of him, he scrutinizes the hazy smog laying over
Jalalabad, until the convoy ofthree Toyota trucks leaves the
main highway, taking a dirt road toward the Hindu Kush;
the gray outline of the high Safed Koh Mountains visible in
the distance. Two hours later, the convoy comes upon a
stream flowing from the inhospitable foothills, where
George and an accompanying party of guards leave the
Toyotas and follow a donkey trail paralleling the cascading
water.
For the remainder of the day and the subsequent night, the
party follows the trail paralleling the stream into the
mountains. George, aware of the arduous trek before him,
knew to wear the same long, loose shirt and pantaloons as
his guards, although wearing boots instead of the sandals
they wear. But even though his feet are protected from the
harsh, uneven rocky path, moving in such a high altitude
physically drains him. His thoughts return to his niece, an
impetuous, uncontrollable girl when she, after escaping the
massacre at Shatila, first came to his house in Al
‘Ayzariyah, near Jerusalem. Honoring the memory of his
brother, he sent her to the best school in their patch of
Palestine, hemmed in by Israeli occupied territory with

204
themany military checkpoints. Having seen her parents and
sisters murdered, having murdered a man herself at Shatila,
the teenager refused to conduct herself as a proper Muslim
woman, flaunting her womanhood, smoking, dancing and
he suspected whoring like a decadent Westerner. The
teachings of the Wahabbi imam clearly told him what to do,
and that was to stone her to death as all harlots must expect.
But out of respect for his dead brother, he sent to Somalia
for a holy man,and when Haifa returned home late at night
from one of her debacles, she faced four women, whom he
had hidden in her bedroom. They forcibly undressed her
and held her down while the Somaliland imam castrated
her with a sharpened piece of obsidian. The holy man had
wanted to close the lips of her vagina with a suture, but
George thought the castration paymentenough. As he
labors along the foot path, he firmly believes he should
have killed her, now it is too late as the castration has
turned her from an unmanageable teenager into a ferocious
wrongdoer, a jinn, beyond his or any man’s control.
Just as the sun touches the tops of the Safed Koh Mountain
range, George and the armed men accompanying him,
begin their descent down a slope in the foothills. Before
him he sees al Farooq, the sheikh’s main training camp for
the mujahedeen, the strugglers, spread out by a river
flowing from the mountains. On the near side of the river,
sprawling over a kilometer on the high plateau, he sees
tents and yurds--the round straw and mud huts--too many
to count, guessing three to five hundred. The recruits, after
morning prayers, mill about waiting for the new day’s
campfires to heat their breakfast, perhaps as many as two
thousand displaying full beards, if they are old enough to
grow one, an impressive number. Those too young to grow
a beard he knows came from the many madrassas in
Peshawar across the Pakistani border. The religious
schools are favorite recruitment fields for the Taliban. He
surmises many of beardless Peshawar youths are sent on

205
loan to Osama bin Laden, a great friend of the Taliban holy
warriors. In the distance, he sees sheep herders tending
huge flocks of sheep on a slope where a few patches of
green exist. His eyes travel to the bluffs across the river,
perhaps forty meters from the water, where carved out
doorways lead to rooms within the granite rock; in front of
the openings, atleast fifty heavily armed men, the sheikh’s
guard, stand; here is where the devout warrior sleeps.
After his escort is challenged by two sentries on the trail,
and allowed to proceed, the party wadeknee deep across the
river to the large gathering of guards before the rocky bluff.
The oldest of his escorts speaks to a very large guard
blocking a doorway. The man’s beard shows streaks of
gray, a white battle scar cuts diagonally from a sun-
darkened cheekbone to his chin. The scarred man
disappears inside a room carved out of the bluffs, and
returns with two men who spread out a rug and construct a
gossamer sun shield above it.
The gray bearded guard approaches George, greets him by
saying, “God is great. There is no other God but God.
May His blessings be upon you.” The Palestinian visitor
greets the guard in a similar manner, and when the
formalities are over, the scarred-face man relates:
“Our prince extends his greeting and will join you shortly.
He wishes you to refresh yourself after your long journey.
Please seat yourself, and I will see that milk and bread are
served, so that you can replenish your body.” George
walks to the river unescorted, understanding the uneducated
guard uses the title, prince for Sheikh bin Laden, as the
ultimate honor he can pay to the man he serves--the only
well-bred Saudi who was willing to lead mujahedeen
volunteers against the Soviets. At the river, he washes his
hands, face and feet in the cool mountain runoff. Out of
respect for his host, he slips his clean jelab over his soiled
shirt and pantaloons and wraps a length of white cotton
around his hair and ties off the end, forming a turban.

206
After partaking of the milk and bread, he reclines on one
elbow, resting on large pillows, fighting the fatigue from
the night march that demands he close his eyes. Feeling
seduced by the warm day’s embrace he no longer can keep
his eyes open. Providence is on my side, he tells himself,
as the sheikh’s many guards stir about, metallic bolts of
their weapons clicking, jolting him from his slumber,
sparing him the embarrassment of falling asleep before his
audience with the great man. The sheikh’s bearded
guardsmen, their fitness apparent in their trim torsos and
bare muscular arms, point the muzzles of their rifles to the
heavens, demonstrating readiness to protect their leader.
Soon, the tall majestic form of the bearded sheikh
materializes from a dug out room, dressed in a white robe
over pantaloons. The sun shimmers majestically on his
white turban as he walks before his guards, towering over
them, leaning heavily on his cane, but to the Palestinian
witness the cane is a potentate’s staff, royally touching the
ground before each step.
George, realizing he has been mesmerized by this
experience, bolts to his feet, intimidated by the great
warrior’s clear, perceptive eyes trained upon his own. The
man stops on the rug opposite him and says in the softest of
tones:
“Allahu Akbar. There is no God but God. May His
blessings be upon you.” The very tall man, some six inches
taller than the Palestinian, brings both hands together
before his face and bows his head, and adds: Slalaam
Aleikum.” George, overcome by the man’s graciousness,
replies: “And upon you, peace.” Bin Laden kisses the
shorter man on both cheeks, as is the Arab custom.
“Forgive me for keeping you waiting Ahmed al Qassam my
Palestinian brother. Important matters needed my
attention.”
Flattered that the significant man remembers the honorary
name he has taken; the first name a tribute to the Wahabbi

207
imam blown up by an Israeli missile in retaliation to a
Hamas bombing in Tel Aviv; the surname he took from the
militant arm of Hamas--Izz al-Din-al Quassan. George
addresses the sheikh by his full name, demonstrating he is
also knowledgeable: “it is I who seek your forgiveness,
Sheikh Osama bin Mohammed bin ‘Awad bin Laden, for
imposing upon your time when you must use it for such an
important undertaking as this.” George indicates the
training area across the river where men run obstacle
courses, where they scale walls, hand walk along stretched
ropes; others running at full speed, while carrying combat
gear, firing their weapons at targets with accuracy.
“Never will you be an imposition. I always welcome a visit
from you, my friend. Please be seated.” George stands
awkwardly as the man who shunned a privileged life in
Saudi Arabia to fight the Soviets, turns to his scarred-face
guard and says, “please bring our guest tea and sweets, if
they are available.” He waits until the guard moves in the
direction of the outdoor kitchen, then awkwardly seats
himself on the pillows across from his visitor. George
realizes how much he loves this leader of men, how much
he would follow him through the fires of hell, as he realizes
that the hard life this extraordinary man has chosen for
himself has prematurely aged him, graying his beard,
stiffening his limbs, making the simple task of crossing his
legs difficult.
“It troubled me to hear that the Israelis drove you from
your house in the West Bank. I pray no harm has come to
you since that time.”
“No harm, my Caliphate.” The visitor uses the title given
to ancient rulers of the Muslim people, when there was
only one ruler over their vast empire, when they ruled over
the most powerful kingdom in the known world. Sheikh
bin Laden smiles modestly at the tribute. “That terrible
experience, although not forgotten, is in the past. In staa

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Allah, I must return and drive the Jew infidels from my
homeland.”
“Yes, God willing. Yes, are a true soldier in the service of
Allah, the One and only God.”
“Driving the Israelis into the sea is the reason I seek your
help, once again.”
“I am honored to give it. Two hundred and fifty
thousand Jordanian dinars will arrive at the bank as
before.”
“That is most gracious of you. But, I do not seek that type
of help. The aid I seek, if it can be given, and the goal of
that aid achieved, then I in Palestine, you the chosen one,
will have the means to drive the infidels off of Muslim
land. Forever, I think.” George feels the great warrior’s
eyes probing his psyche, studying his demeanor for the
longest time, before he speaks:
“If the aid is within my power to give, it is yours.
But you. . . . Ah, the tea.”
The Palestinian visitor attempts to steady his nerves as he
watches the thin man take the service from an aide and
pour the hot, sweet brew into two demitasses. George takes
the proffered cup as his host takes a platter of chocolate
covered candies from a second aide. So powerful, yet so
gracious, the seeker of funds thinks about the man before
him. A man who could live in any palace in any part of the
world, yet he chooses to serve Allah in this harsh,
unyielding land. He finds himself gazing at the mountains,
beaten to treeless, rocky soil by the relentless sun.
“Please have a chocolate sent here from Beirut. A rare
treat, for I thought the supply exhausted.” The tall host
laughs as if he holds a forbidden delicacy.
George accepts a piece from the extended tray, the
chocolate begins to melt in the mid morning heat.
“Now my trusted friend, be good enough to tell me about
this gift that you hope to obtain from me, the one that will
serve the purpose of Allah.”

209
“I have been offered and I, in turn, offer the same to you,
the formula to make a pure fusion nuclear bomb, powerful
enough to level Tel Aviv, yet small enough to put inside a
soccer ball.” The Palestinian finds himself beginning to
sweat after drinking the hot tea, which he sees does not
have the same effect on the sheikh. He prays his
perspiration is not mistaken for nervousness.
“Does such a weapon exist?” the man’s question is asked
so softly that George must lean forward to hear it.
‘It does.”
“How came you upon such a formula?”
“The information was taken from an American Born Again
Christian. These extremists have permeated the highest
level of the American government in order to obtain such a
top secret weapon. This man intended to trade the
information to the Israeli, Mattath, for a crucifixion nail
believed to be the one that pierced the hand of the prophet
Jesus of Nazarene.” George sees that he has captured the
powerful man’s imagination, because for the first time, the
man‘s calm demeanor becomes energized.
“Our despised enemy has this nail?”
“No. My niece has it. She took it off the minister’s dead
son after she killed him at Aide.”
“Your niece took part in the victoryat Aide. How is such an
achievement by a woman possible?” The mujahedeen
leader directs the question more to himself than to his
visitor; disapproval is evident in his voice. “And this pure
fusion formula?”
“She also has it.”
“Your niece is remarkable for a woman, but a woman who
clearly does not know that her place is in the home. Did
you bring me such a formula.”
“She has refused to give me more details other than
complex lasers are needed. She also said money is needed
to buy Plutonium 239 and 235 and a leader needed, such as
you, with the will to build the weapon.”

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“Excuse me my friend. Guard, ask Doctor al-Zawahiri to
join me, if he can spare the time.” The camp’s commander
explains to his visitor: “my colleague and friend knows
more of these nuclear matters than I do. I ask you to tell
him what you have told me. As you know, Doctor al
Zawahiri has joined forces with my army, the one we now
call al Qaeda. Allow me to direct your attention across the
river. The men in formation approaching us are the elite of
the elite of our foundation.”
George swings his head toward the river, only seeing a
large dust cloud blowing in his direction. When the dust
cloud passes over the river, he sees that it has been kicked
up by the feet of running mujahedeen, as they make a right
turn out of the dust. Black turbans cover their heads and
scarves wrap around their faces, so that only their resolute
eyes can be seen. He counts twenty ranks of five men
abreast running at full speed, their boots hitting the water’s
surface in perfect unison, their right hands extending
AK47s above their heads. The formation, moving as one,
runs for fifty meters following the river’s flow, splashing
water in all directions in front of their Saudi leader, firing a
short burst from their weapons, their heads turned toward
him. As suddenly as they emerged, the elite troops
disappear, leaving the river, returning in the direction they
started from, once again behind a dust cloud created by
their feet.
“No enemy can stand up to such a force,” George
comments, truly impressed by the precision unit.
“Most of the fighters will leave to fight in places where
Islam struggles against its enemies--Somalia, Chad and
Algeria. The best of fighters will stay here to train
volunteers from all over the world. My friend, send your
young men to me, and I will return them to you as fierce
soldiers in the Army of God. Our detractors think of us as a
force without a country. With Allah’s blessing, the world
will become His country.”

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 * *

More than ever George feels the fatigue exacerbated by the

hot mid-morning sun as waits for an answer while Osama
bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri, sitting opposite him,
study him in silence. Both men ponder the information he
has brought them. He believes he is in the company of the
two greatest Muslims alive. The tall one having sacrificed
so much for the Muslim cause; the short, more
introspective, more studious man, known as The Doctor,
suffered so much in an Egyptian prison for the resurrecting
Islam as set down by Allah. The brilliant doctor, a true
exponent of Born Again Islam set down by the martyred
Sayyid Qutb who subsequently became the catalyst for
Muslim Brotherhood militants in Egypt. Doctor al-
Zawahiri, dissatisfied with the passiveness the Muslim
Brotherhood evolved into after being scourged by
retaliatory government, formed al Jahad, a militant
organization dedicated to eradicating leaders in Muslim
lands corrupted by western influence. Like Sheikh Osama,
he has sacrificed a privileged life, having been born into
one of the most preeminent medical families in Egypt.
The doctor, prematurely aged by three years brutal
imprisonment after the execution of Anwar Sadat, is the
first to speak: “Almed al-Qassam, the money and the
plutonium can be readily supplied, the scientists and place
to build such a weapon found. But I must inform you that
Allah would not look favorably upon us if we receive such
an important contributionfrom a woman. I speak for the
Sheikh when I say we must decline your offer.”
George feels regret grip his heart, not only will he not get
the bomb and the means to replace Arafat, but he has lost
face with these two great men. Unable to disguise the
disappointment drowning his psyche, the Palestinian drops

212
his gaze to the rug before him. He looks up when he hears
the softer words of the tall Saudi-born leader:
“My friend, if you can find a way to take this formula from
your niece and present it to us with your own hand, then we
will build the destructive weapon for you to eradicate the
Israelis occupying your land. Until that time, it is my belief
that the strong hand of a Muslim man is needed to guide
your niece to her proper place under Shariah.” Out of the
corner of his eye, the Palestinian sees the Egyptian doctor
nod his head in agreement. All George can bring himself to
do is nod his head in understanding.
“This holy nail that you spoke of, we must have it at any
cost. Offer your niece any price. I will pay it. I am
building a mosque in Kandahar, close to the village
Singesan, where the Taliban leader of the Afghan people
was born. This holy place will be called the Mosque of
Mullah Omar, and such a wonderful find as the crucifixion
nail of Allah’s prophet, should rest there, a gift
demonstrating our love for our ally Mullah Omar and our
respect for the peace he has brought to Afghan people.
“So that your journey here will not go un-rewarded, two
hundred, fifty thousand dinars will go to the Hamas bank
account. Go now my friend and pursue those tasks Allah
has lain before you.” George remains resolute to seeing the
bomb built, although he realizes the ancient nail has
impressed the sheikh and the doctor as much or more than
the nuclear weapon. The tall thin Saudihas difficulty rising,
necessitating the doctor to assist him to his feet. George
stands and bows his head in deference to the two
extraordinary men that the Muslim people place their hopes
upon.
As the training camp, al Farooq, disappears behind him, he
realizes he must force his niece to give him the bomb’s
formula and the nail the two devout al Qaeda leaders where
so interested in. For himself, he wants the formula; with it
he will have the means to neutralize the Israelis,

213
subsequently replace the ageing Arafat who has betrayed
the Palestinian people by recognizing Israel as a legitimate
nation. Now that Osama bin Laden is aware of Haifa, he
cannot afford to have her running loose, creating havoc that
will compromise him with the al Qaeda leaders, therefore
even though she is his beloved brother’s daughter, she must
be sacrificed. Whether or not Haifa tells him what he must
know, she must die, for he knows she will never observe
Shariah as the sheikh commanded.

*DOVID*

Prime Minister Bimar dispatched his aide to personally

pick up the Defense Minister and bring him to his residence
in Jerusalem, a modest four room apartment in the poorer
Hassidic district. The stress of the recent Iraqi War that the
Americans masterfully handled, but failed to finish by
leaving Saddam Hussein in place, must have taken its toil
on Israel’s aging prime minister as rumors in government
circles report him to be in poor health. Dovid is glad the
Gulf War, as it is called, is behind him, and one more
enemy is greatly weakened, but leaving another, Iran,
emboldened by its enemy’s defeat. Birmar’s aide is
unusually silent as the sedan weaves through the evening
rush hour traffic, leaving the minister to think that maybe
his involvement with the American fundamentalist has been
discovered. It has been almost a week since the disturbed
man left for Pakistan and no word of success or failure
pertaining to finding the Palestinian woman has reached
him. The old soldier knows, but cannot fully admit it to
himself that he wants revenge on the murderer of his last
surviving son, more than he wants to stop the woman from
developing the bomb’s formula.
The sun, at a direct angle, radiates off his white shirt, as he
and the aide exit the sedan and ascent a building’s outside
steps to the prime minister’s second floor apartment.

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Ascending the interior staircase, he nods to the solitary
boyish guard saluting him from a seated positionon the top
step. Perhaps, he hopes, another guard, less relaxed, is on
the prime minister’s balcony to stop any unwelcomed
visitor. Rachel, Bimar’s wife of fifty years, a small,
matronly woman, in a housedress and pre-WWII hose
rolled at her knees, greets them at the door. Upon entering
the apartment, Dovid is taken back by the small size and
modest furnishings, more befitting a junior government
official than the Prime Minister of Israel. The apartment
smells from the chicken soup simmeringin the kitchen.
The gray haired woman hugs Dovid before leading him to
her husband’s office; her grip is strong, befitting a woman
who has supported Israel’s first and foremost guerrilla
fighter, standing by the old warrior’s side throughout his
long career in the Knesset. The cheap metal desk that
Bimar uses when working at home is pushed to one side of
the small room to accommodate a hospital bed where
Israel’s leader lays half upright, fully dressed in a business
suit. A half dozen telephones of various colors, connected
to members of his cabinet, occupy a work table next to the
bed. On the wall behind Bimar, is an old picture of a Polish
styled menorah; on the adjacent wall is a picture of David
Ben-Gurion, Israel’s first prime minister and past political
rival of Bimar. The only other picture on the old metal
desk, which Dovid has not noticed until now is a
photograph of an ancient Roman arch. His attention rests
there.
“That is the Arch of Titus, some fifty feet high by thirty feet
wide, built to stand the test of time. I took the photo in
Rome when I attended an economic conference of
Mediterranean countries there.” The voice is much weaker
than Dovid remembers from their last meeting, bringinghis
attention to the aging man. Never physically strong,
although notorious for being mentally tough, the small man
seems a skeleton of his former self, his once vibrant mane

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of dark hair now white and thin; his once durable face
ashen and sunken.
“Look closely, Dovid, and you will see the relief carved in
stone, depicting Jewish prisoners carrying Jerusalem’s
golden menorah back to ancient Rome, after Titus’ son,
Tiberius destroyed the temple and leveled the city. The
50,000 Jewish captives, some depicted on the stone relief,
built the arch, toiling stone by stone, many Israelites dying
as slaves before the arch was completed. Thus this arch
depicts the world’s longest Diaspora—our people’s—from
70 A.D. until this twentieth century. I keep the photograph
to remind me what is in store for Israel, if it so much as
pauses to take a deep breath in the fight against our
enemies. Our enemies are all around us, Dovid, and they
will not desist in their onslaught until we Israelis are all
dead or pushed into the sea.”
“Israel’s defenses will not falter under my watch, Yitzhak.”
The larger man notes the heretofore fervor of undaunted
commitment has left the man’s eyes, leaving them dreary.
“And that is the very reason I asked you to visit me. You
and I, Dovid, are warriors, descended from a long line of
warriors—Abraham, Jonathan, David. We have fought for
this new nation since its inception.”
“You more than any one, Prime Minister,” the junior of the
two old men points out, wanting to draw attention to the
man’s accomplishments in the never ending fight for
persecuted Jewish people, first he fought in Poland against
the anti-semantic Soviet government, then as a member of
an underground unit, Irgun, putting pressure—bombings
and raids--on the British to withdraw their troops from
what was previously knownas the Palestinian Territories.
He was at the forefront in the War of Independence against
the many Arab armies, capturing several Palestinian
villages and seizing land that increased the size of tiny
Israel. Just recently, the Americans denied him the
opportunity to strike back at an old enemy, Iraq’s Saddam

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Hussein, who lobbed SKUD missiles upon Israel. Dovid
knows that not being able to protect the people he is sworn
to protect from the Iraqi attacks has frustrated the prime
minister as much as it has him.
“Do not be modest, Dovid. When I entered politics after
our great victory in 1948, you subsequently took on Israel’s
battles, first as a young soldier raiding Palestinian
strongholds in Jordan from where raiders attacked our
people to become a general of the IDF leading tanks across
the Sinai against Egyptian forces, driving them back into
Cairo. You are the only surviving high level officer who
was there in the beginning, bringing victory after victory to
our beleaguered country. That is why I will recommend
you to the cabinet to take my place when I step down next
week.”
“Yitzhak, our people feel secure under your leadership. I
guess there is never an appropriate time, but, I must inform
you that I will be opposing you at the head of a new party,
as the Lukud Party no longer represents my views.” Dovid
candidly volunteers his intent, regretting the timing of it.
“Dovid, I remember that you almost resigned your office
when I signed the Oslo Peace Agreement, acknowledging
the enemy’s right to become a nation. I tell you now that it
was just pages of paper, meaning nothing. The terms of the
agreement were written in such a way that many conditions
must be negotiated before the awful reality of a Palestinian
nation takes place. I am dying. My heart is worn out.
Whether or not you agree with my past policies, you are my
only choice to carry on the work we have started. Egypt
and Jordan have signed treaties with us, but Arab bombings
still terrorize us. That is why Israel will negotiate past
being blue in the face with these so called Palestinians,
giving them nothing. We have some one hundred
settlements in the Palestinian Territories, isolating
Ramallah, Jericho, Bethlehem and other Arab villages in
the West Bank. During the forthcoming negotiations that

217
will produce no result for Arafat and his PLO, you must
continue my policy of seizing Arab land in any manner that
you can engineer and build a series of settlements east of
the West Bank. You must separate these terrorists from arm
shipments coming from Syria though Jordan and Lebanon.
Once the territory is acquired and settlements built, you
will link the settlements with roads and set up military
checkpoints on them to frustrate Palestinian movement.
Continue to build an isolation wall completely around the
West Bank and Gaza. As before, these walls must be fifty
feet high with gun towers every 50 meters, razor wire atop
the ramparts, buttressed by two meter deep trenches and
high voltage lines before the walls; have the engineers
place sensors along the wall’s length, fifty meters from it to
detect untoward movement. Seize and clear Palestinian
land for one kilometer before and behind the wall. If we
cannot force these Arabs from the land, we can cage them
like the beasts that they have proven themselves to be. In
this endeavor, do not be dissuaded by foreign or domestic
detractors.”
“I knew the post Oslo negotiations were forced on you by
the Americans, but I had no idea it was your intent to let the
agreement with Arafat languish. Thank you, Prime
Minister for restoring my faith in you. I have been waiting
to finally neutralize these Palestinians for some time now.”
“My friend, Israeli politics can be a very fickle business.
For now, stay with the bird we have in our hands, the
Lukud party. Mold it to your philosophy, and there will be
no need for a new party. When I step down, you will have a
majority vote in the Knesset to implement the policy I just
detailed. The moderates will screech and howl, but they
have little clout to stop you. The Israeli people want
security and will support you in your endeavor. Whichever
party you head, I know you will set the right course for
Israel after I am gone. The current American
administration admires you, but do not take them for

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granted. Be a supportive partner to the Americans in our
war against mutual foes, for without the continual
American support, life in Israel would be very precarious.
Compromise as much as you can with them, but not on the
segregation tactic. These Arabs occupy land Adonai
promised Avarham. I trust you to see that these things are
done.”
“You have my word, Prime Minister.”
“I hesitate to ask, but is there anything in your life that
could bring your government down after the Likud Party
selects you to take my place?”
Dovid saw the old man scrutinizing him, so felt a hesitation
in answering would jeopardize his chance of becoming
prime minister. “No,” he lied, because directing the
nation’s policies would give him the chance to once and for
all castrate the Palestinians.
“I thought not. Now leave me, I have much work to do
before I resign, and you have much preparation before
you.”
Dovid stood before the dying man, regrettingthat age was
about to take another of Israel’s great leaders. Being Prime
Minister of Israel would throw him into the world’s
limelight, where the slightest exposure of the American
murderer or the Palestinianwoman would rock the nation.
But the stakes were high enough to risk it.

*THE PREACHER*

“The Save Me Jesus Sunday Evening Hour, brought to you

by The Christian Majority, continues with its founder and
your host, Paul Hansom.”
The preacher never tires of being identified as the founder
of the televised show he started long ago in an abandon
bowling alley, using an antiquated transmitter, video
camera and microphone, covering the walls with egg
cartons, converting the storage room into a sound room. In

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the beginning, he only transmitted to the countryside, east
of Richmond, Virginia; perhaps he reached five hundred
households, with not one spectator seated before him.
Now, three decades later, with state of the art video and
audio equipment and five sound stages, the equal of any
major television network, the show he originated by
demanding the gospels’ absolute written word be obeyed,
currently reaches twenty-five million Born Again Christian
homes. As founder, he has expanded the original spiritual
broadcast from the original thirty minutes to the most
watched two hour show in Christendom, adding a Christian
daily news hour, a family enrichment hour, teenage and
toddler guidance programs with over thirty paid reporters
and hosts, plus scores of writers and technical people. He
stands on the sound stage, in middle of his religious empire,
very much a man controlling his environment, surveying
the thousand seat theater, packed with devoted followers,
some even standing in the rear aisles.
“Thank you Lord for giving me all these wonderful friends
seated before me in this marvelous auditorium on this
gorgeous summer night.” He expects and hears thunderous
applause and is truly grateful for the bountiful blessings the
Lord has bestowed upon him. “My friends, before we get
to our question and answer part of the hour, I cannot allow
our guests to depart without delving further into the most
important event in a Christian’s lifetime. This departure
from the program will probably make our show run over
and interfere with your plans for the evening, so I ask your
forgiveness.” Applause from the audience signals consent
to his deviation allowing him to continue: “in her
marvelous book, The Second Coming; The Last Sign Is
Upon Us, Patty Duncan has written that the most
wonderful, most anticipated event is in our imminent
future.” The preacher seats himself in a leather reading
chair across from his two guests, sensing the television
camera focusing on him for a close up picture. He asks:

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“Patty, this sign, the rebuilding of the Jewish temple in
Jerusalem, the final sign before the Second Coming of the
Lord, what events do you foresee following His descend
from Heaven?”
“It will be the end of the earth as we know it. The peoples
of the earth will file before the Lord Jesus, and He will
separate the true believers, the ones who openly and totally
accepted Him as their Savior, from the non-believers, those
who failed to express their everlasting devotion to Him.”
The preacher can feel the blood pounding in his temples as
he vindicates the author’s vision: “So it has been written.
Glory be to God. Matthew wrote, ‘He shall sit upon the
throne of his glory. And before Him shall be gathered all
nationsand He shall separate them one from another, as a
Sheppard devivideth his sheep from the goats.’ Yes my
friends, the faithful among us, on His right, shall ascend to
Heaven into everlasting peace and glory. And if I am not
there to see that approaching day, I will greet you when you
arrive.” Lamenting murmurs over his possible mortality
stir throughout the audience.
“Before you, my faithful friends, ascent to the Heavens,
you will see Satan forever conquered, thrown into Hell’s
abyss never to tempt another soul with his evil, and the
non-believers, the Godless, will fall into a lake of fire
before your eyes where everlasting torment awaits them. A
torment so vile, they will writhe in unspeakable agony. I
will now speak to the vast viewing audience outside this
auditorium: if you are one of those who have failed to
accept Jesus Christ as your Savior, it is not too late to save
your soul and avoid eternal damnation. As Matthew said,
‘repent thee for the Kingdomof Heaven is at hand.’ I beg
you to get down on your knees as I speak and accept Jesus
as your everlasting Savior, and avoid the everlasting
torment of hell’s damnation.”
The old man, even as fit as he is, struggles to lower himself
to his knees, finding the author and the general assisting

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him. “Repeat after me. Save me Jesus. Save me, and I
will worship you until my dying day. Give me everlasting
life, and I will forever honor You as my one and only God.
Amen.” Even though his eyes are shut, the preacher senses
the author and general knelling beside him, and hears the
audience repeating his words in unison. He lifts himself
upright, again with the help of his guests, and wipes the
perspiration from his brow, before taking a seat in his chair.
His two guests also seat themselves.
“General, you were in the Middle East as a battlefield
commander during the recent Gulf War that saw the Iraqi
Army thoroughly defeated by allied forces. And you have
just heard Miss Duncan proclaim that the last ingredient to
the Second Coming of our Lord is the rebuilding of the
Jewish temple in Jerusalem. If our Jewish friends in Israel
tore down the Dome of the Rock Mosque, which I might
add was intentionally built directly atop the destroyed
Jewish temple by Muslims conquers around the year 785
A.D., could their army withstand a united Muslim attack?
This attack would be from a vast population infuriated by
the destruction of their supposedly third most holy site and
the subsequent construction of a temple rebuilt there by the
modern day Israelites, a people with a Holy Bible
mandate.”
The general, lean and fit, who has just taken his seat
opposite the preacher, allows a knowing smile to occupy
his normally ridged face, as he answers: “pound for pound,
the Israeli Armyis as tough and capable as I have seen. In
some ways, they are the equal of our own U.S.forces. No
army of any nation in the Muslim world can stand up to
their advanced technology in the air and on the sea and
their capability on the ground. In a word, the Muslims are
outgunned. And if that isn’t enough, these Israelis will
fight as one people, a tiny nation with its back against the
wall, as it has demonstrated in the past. The Muslims, a
divisive combined force as they have proven themselves to

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be in the past, will not attack tiny, but mighty Israel in
force, having learned their lesson from past wars. The
Israelis could bring a big iron wrecking ball out and knock
that golden dome, into a piece of bent junk, smash the
prophet’s rock into poppycock dust and barely break into a
sweat fighting off the outraged Muslims.”
“Thank you, General for giving us such a forceful
evaluation of Israel and its many enemies.” Thunderous
applause sounds from the audience, accompanied by shouts
of “glory be to God.” “So you see, my friends, life as we
know it on this earth is about to change. Blessed be the
children of the Lord. Now, as is our custom, I will answer
questions from you my very patient audience.”
Normally, this part of the Sunday evening show is his
favorite time, as it allows him to be one on one with his
followers in the audience, to hear their concerns and
address them from his heart, but tonight he finds himself
impatient to end the show, for the general’s appearance on
the program is just a pretense for being here; the real
reason, as stated in an earlier telephone call, concerns
urgent news about Harlan, God’s warrior, who he
dispatched to Israel to bring back the holy nail. Something
has gone wrong, and he does not know what that wrong is,
but suspecting the worse because Harlan should have sent
him the holy object by now. He uses all his skill not to rush
through a young couple’s genuine concern about whether or
not it is a sin to enjoy sex during marriage and awidow’s
concern about not being able to forgive the criminal who
beat her husband so badly that he must now use a
wheelchair. He has heard the same concerns many times
before and he has, as now, calmed their torment with
promises of the Lord’s spiritual guidance.
The one question he is not prepared for comes at the very
last minute from a woman who has graduated from his
divinity college on a campus less than a half mile from

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where he sits, a woman to whom he personally handed a
diploma.
“Doctor Hansom, you have told us many times that the tiny
nation of Israel and its Jewish people need our prayers, our
political and monetary support, for they are our friends, our
breathern before God. Our Lord was raised in a Jewish
household, lived a Jewish life and obeyed the laws set
down by Moses, before His ultimate sacrifice to mankind,
which includedthe Jewish people. What troubles me is that
on the day our Lord descends from Heaven, and we all
stand in judgment before Him, how can these Jewish
people, who have had two thousand years to accept our
Lord Jesus as their Savior and have refused to do so, ascend
to eternal life in Heaven? How can they not be sent to
eternal damnation?”
“The young woman posed the very question that has
troubled the preacher all the years during the time he has
unfalteringly supported Israel to keep that nation alive so
the Bible’s prophecy could be fulfilled. He has told himself
that the Lord Jesus has forgiven the Jewish people for
instigating His crucifixion, and he, the head of the nation’s
fastest growing church, must find it in his heart to also
forgive them, but he has not been able to come to grips
with the reality that the Jews would rather face eternal
damnation than accept Jesus as the Son of God, the
Messiah the ancient Israelite prophets said would come.
“Trust in the Lord to show our Jewish brothers and sisters
the true light, the true path to Heaven and everlasting life,
so that they may join us in eternal glory.” He can see that
the woman is about to ask how such a change of heart can
come about so gives the cue for the show’s finale to the
director:
“My friendslet us give thanks to our Savior for this
wonderful time we have spent together.” He stands, takes
the hands of the author and the general and bows his head
in prayer. The music sound track of “Oh Happy Days”

224
resonates from the many speakers in the auditorium, as the
soundstage fades into darkness.

* *

The preacher and the general have finished the vegetable

soup, toast and tea the head of the church ordered from the
cafeteria, light nourishmentfor the end of the day. The
preacher considers the general, Dale Buchman, a close
friend, admiring his professional commitment to the
military and devotion to God, especially appreciating the
risk he has taken acquiring and passing on the bomb’s
formula in the service of the Lord. The general, a man who
maintained the physical prowess of his youth seems calm,
and the preacher long ago learned to control his anxiety
over calamitous events he cannot control, and he suspects
the military man is about to relate one such calamity.
“Dale, exactly what has happened that you feel such
urgency to discuss it in private?”
“Our courier to the Israeli minister has not only failed to
obtain the holy nail, he is in custody of the Pakistani police
in some backwater providence near the India border.” The
general puts his index finger on a world globe at a spot
southeast of Islamabad at the border with India. “My
contact in the U.S. foreign agency informs me that Harlan
has not been charged yet, but when he is, the charge will be
the murder of a Pakistani taxi driver and a pending second
murder charge of greater significance. The eminent
scientist, Dr. Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, was also found
murdered nearby, only by a different caliber pistol than the
Israeli made one found on Harlan, so there is some delay in
connecting our man to that killing. If the authorities make
the connection, and subsequent news of the renowned
scientist’s death by a stanch American Christian, found
wearing a bloody Arab robe, it will send reprisal waves
throughout the Muslim world.”

225
“The man I sent to the Middle East has had to take life in
the Lord’s service before, so I am sure his acts, if proven
true, can be justified,” The preacher, recalling the Born
Again Christian’s avenging service to the church,
rationalizes to the general.
“Be that as it may, this same government agent was
privileged to read the Pakistani Secret Service report and
later granted the opportunity to speak to our man. In all
likelihood, he has revealed the fusion bomb’s formula to
someone other than the Israelis. That someone being a
Muslim.”
“Harlan would die before doing that.”
“Doctor, I regret to inform you that the Pakistani report
indicated Harlan has been castrated.” The news of such a
horrendous act inflicted on his born again prodigy shakes
the preacher, forcing him to bite his lip to silence the
anguish he feels building within his throat.
“He refused to talk to the U.S. agent, so that man checked
his past movements and found the Israelis rescued him
from a Hezbollah stronghold somewhere in Lebanon. He
was subsequently hospitalized, indicating to me that
Hezbollah thugs probably were the ones who castrated him.
Someone in the Israeli government, Minister Mattath, I
suspect, assisted our man with his movements in Pakistan.
Why? I don’t know, but it indicates to me the Israeli
minister is up to his neck in this business. The murder of
an eminent nuclear scientist, a stanch advocate of nuclear
power for all Islamic countries in such close proximity to
Harlan’s arrest, indicates to me that Harlan shot the
scientist before he could pass on the formula to groups
committed to this country’s destruction.”
“General, our man may have failed in his mission, but he
has acted noblygiven the suffering put upon him. We must
move to rescue him. No expense or effort can be spared.”
“I truly wish rescue was an option, only events have moved
past that. Once the Pakistani government learns of his

226
mission, subsequently my and your involvement with the
Israeli government, only our government will have enough
influence to secure his release. And they would only
negotiate his release to prove treason against you and me. I
have no fear for myself, but I fear for you, your church and
the ministries that you created for the Lord. You and your
work would be irreparably damaged, and that cannot be
allowed to happen.”
“Harlan would never betray us.”
“No one, including me, can stand up under such torture as
these primitive Arabs will inflict, it will be slow and
horrendous. He will break and reveal all, as I suspect he
did with Hezbollah. He must die before the interrogation
begins.”
The usually calm demeanor of the preacher begins to show
stress, as perspiration forms on his forehead. “He has
become a son to me. How can I consent to his death?”
“Paul. . .” The general kneels beside his friend, taking his
hand and continues, “Abraham meant to sacrifice his son,
Isaac, to the Lord to demonstrate his love. Can you do
less? The greater good lies in protecting the ministry you
have built in the Lord’s name.”
The preacher realizing Harlan, the man he long ago saved
from committing suicide, must now be sacrificed, cautions,
“he must not suffer.”
“I have your consent then?”
The preacher can do no more than lower his head to answer
yes.
“All U.S. foreign agents carry a cyanide pill, so swift to
bring death that it is painless. I will use my position in the
pentagon to visit a Pakistani military base in nearby
Rawalpindi on a fact finding mission, and while in that
country give this cyanide pill to our man. He is no fooland
will recognize his only option.” He squeezes the preacher’s
hand to reassure him.

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“The religious crusader, feeling his age, can only say: “the
holynail. Tell Harlan that I must know who has it. He must
reveal the whereabouts of this sacred object before you
issue him the cyanide pill. Now let us get on our knees and
pray that the man’s soul will find peace in everlasting life.”

*HAIFA*

The Palestinian woman once again dresses in a stylish,

although modest, dress that a professional woman would
wear as she sits, feeling very secure, in a conference room
in the Bank of Jordan. Outside the sealed windows, the
traffic flows freely, but silently,in Amman’s modern
business district. She is content to watch Doctor Saadi
Zahi Zalet, the scientist and teacher who first verified the
ancient object’s authenticity, discuss his findings with
another archeologist whom her Uncle George brought with
him from somewhere in the Arab world. The object of
everyone’s interest lies in the center of the expensive wood
table, looking worn and mangled with the dent, its pointed
end still caked in ancient dirt. Even on the royal purple
cushion Haifa placed under it, it hardly seems worth the ten
million English Pounds that Osama bin Laden has agreed to
pay through her Uncle George, acting as his agent, once the
second scientist, Doctor Mahmud Randani, gives the go
ahead. The female seller’s attention strays to the fifth
person, the banker at the table, who is becoming impatient
with the long scientific discussion, because for the last
fifteen minutes, Randani, rubbing his dark beard and
furrowing his bald head, has been reading his colleague’s,
Zahi Zalet, report on the ancient object, occasionally
questioning a scientific point. She, her uncle and the pudgy
banker have sat silently at the table. She wonders what the
well groomed, heavyset man thinks about the transaction
taking place; does he believe it is illegal or shady at best?
She decides it does not matter what he thinks, because the

228
prospect of a ten million English pound deposit in his bank
prompted him to offer her this conference room and a lot of
personal attention. Therefore, she comes to the conclusion
that money is his main concern, not legality. Haifa smiles
reassuringly at the banker, who glances at her each time he
checks his watch.
Earlier, she once again purchased a throw away cell phone
with usable minutes, making one call to her uncle, leaving a
message at a radical West Bank mosque for him to
telephone her. When he returned the call within four hours,
she thought the rich Saudi finding refuge in Afghanistan
had agreed to finance the bomb. She inquired about his trip
to that country still gripped by a stone aged mentality and
his subsequent audience with Osama bin Laden, the
supposed liberator of Afghanistan. Fully expecting to
receive a positive answer to the bomb proposition she made
through her uncle, she was somewhat surprised to hear him
say “the first issue to be discussed will be the purchase of
the object you obtained at Aide, the one that crucified Jesus
the prophet.” She insisted he tell her of the mujahedeen
leader’s decision about the bomb, but her uncle would only
discuss the nail. Informing him of the price, she fully
expected him to balk at the figure, instead she heard
urgency in his voice as he said he would call her back in
tenminutes. When, her cell phone rang, he said, “theprice
is agreeable. The sale must take place immediately. Let us
agree upon the arrangements.”
Again, she asked about the funding of the fusion bomb, and
her uncle normally straightforward, answered that “if and
only if the nail is genuine, Sheikh bin Laden will favor your
second proposition.”
The banker getting impatient waiting for the two
archeologists to conclude their discussion, picks up the nail
from its velvet cushion to examine it, probably wondering
what all the fuss is about, she thinks. Her uncle, seeming
more anxious than normal, reaches across the table and

229
jerks it from his hand and replaces it upon its cushion.
Embarrassed by his act, the executive offers his apology to
the group at the table, which gets the attention of the two
scientists.
Doctor Randini volunteers: “trios minutes more, s’il vous
plait.” The careless mixture of French and Arabic tells
Haifa that the scientist is probably a Sunni contact of bin
Laden’s from Syria, a country once governed by the
French, as getting a knowledgeable archeologist out of the
West Bank through Israeli security would be too risky. The
connection prompts her to recall the opportunistic Syrian
law enforcement officer whose throat she slit in Damascus
after fleeing from the West Bank, at the time not knowing
the importance of the object she took off the Israeli
minister’s dead son. Her thoughts next take her to the raw
American fundamentalist who desperately wanted the nail
for powerful church leaders in his country. Seeing him
alive at the Pakistani/India border stunned her, disbelieving
that he could escape the Hezbollah killers in Lebanon and
trace her to Meghwar in Islamabad. His overcoming a
crushed psyche from the castration demonstrated to her that
he possessed more resolve than she thought he had in him.
Then again, she thinks, he is a religious nut who believed
his god gave him the power to overcome every crisis,
finding the fortitude to locateher in Pakistan. His god
given fortitude morphed into a god given caprice when he
stepped onto a bus full of Muslims and brazenly addressed
a Muslim woman, as she pretended to be, respectfully
attired as the men of Allah dictate. The assault on a devout
woman’s modesty caused the bus driver to fetch the
Pakistani border soldiers, bringing on the end for the
foolish fundamentalist. She almost feels sympathy for the
American, knowing he will not escape from a Pakistani jail
as he did from a Hizballah cellar, especially after Sultan
Bashiruddin Meghwar’s body is discovered.

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“My respected colleague’s thorough report has assured me
that the nail, found in Jerusalem can be dated to 1 B.C, plus
or minus one hundred years. Therefore, Mr. Hamad, I
conclude that this object before you is a genuine Roman
crucifixion nail of the very same type that crucified the
prophet Jesus.” Her uncle smiles broadly, the banker
sighsrelief that the examination is over. The two
archeologists give each other a knowing look.
The small, compact balding archeologist, resembling a well
conditioned athletic as much as a scientist stands and
addresses the Hamas leader: “if you have no further need of
my service, Mr. Hamad,then I will be on my way. Merci
beaucoup.” With a French thank you, the scientist takes his
briefcase, closing the door behind him.
“Please excuse me while I make a telephone call.” Haifa
studies her uncle while he exits to another room, the
executive’s she guesses. The banker opens a laptop
computer in front of him and occupies himself with it. “I
have a listing of all incoming deposits on the screen. If
Allah wills, a deposit to your account should appear soon,”
he addresses Haifa in a matter of fact way. Before the
woman can look at the screen, Doctor Zalet stands and
offers his hand in a parting gesture. The Palestinian woman
takes it, while stating, “when the deposit is verified, I will
send the thirty thousand dinars for your service to the
Palestinian Red Crescent Relief in Jerusalem, as you have
requested.” The studious man nods hisappreciation. Haifa,
if she could admire any Muslim man, she could Zalet for
not accepting a fee for himself.
Her uncle reenters the room, removes his own laptop
computer from his briefcase and sits opposite the banker,
watching whatever domain he has activatedon the screen.
Within a few minutes, whatever signal he has been waiting
for must have appeared on the screen, for he shows the
banker a sheet of paper, then asks, “is this the correct
account number? The banker indicates that it is, and her

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uncle uses his cell phone to call his bank, merely saying,
“please transfer the money to the account I previously
indicated. A few minutes later, the satisfied bank executive
turn his computer screen so Haifa can view it; she sees the
entry of ten million English Pounds Sterling blinking on the
screen next to her bogus name and account number.
Boxing the nail and its velvet cushion into a wooden case,
she stands and hands it to her uncle. “Give this to your
master, and tell him for me that I am waiting for him to
contact me.” She can see that her condescending use of
‘master’ has bruised her uncle’s ego, but that is exactly
what she intended to do, hoping to provoke a response from
him.
“If our business is concluded, please allow my associate
and me to talkin private,” the Hamas leader requests of the
banker. After the man departs, he reprimands Haifa: “the
less anyone knows about our contact in Afghanistan the
better. Now, allow me the time to get this precious object
to the sheikh and you will be contacted.”
“I will send my new cell phone number to the same
mosque,” Haifa replies, all the time thinking, the contact
won’t come from your god likesheikh, Uncle George,
because your phone calls revealed your agenda. Religious
zealots can be so predictable: bin Laden will not deal with a
woman or he would have wired me the money directly.

*HARLAN*

The prisoner, wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, watches

the flies swarm over the untouched plate of curried rice on
the dirt floor at his feet, having little appetite to eat
anything in the sweltering heat inside the old warehouse
converted to a jail. A few careless flies fall into the rice’s
thin broth, struggling to escape, but Harlan knows there is
no escape for them; even though he faces the same dire
reality, he cannot bring himself to accept that he is equally

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doomed. The high overhead roof has leaked enough
runofffrom the recent downpour to form numerous muddy
puddles on the dirt floor. Prisoners, mostly East Indians
arrested crossing the border into Pakistan, mill about his
small barred cage in their dirty pajama like clothing, their
sandaled feet indifferent to the stagnant water and
mosquitoes breeding in pools throughout in the gutted
expanse of the two story building. The incarcerated East
Indians, putting forth a cacophony of Arabic and Hindu,
unlike the important Anglo prisoner, are free to move about
their confine, although finding little unoccupied space to
walk. Many of the dirt caked faces and bare torsos are
marked with sores from unsanitary conditions. The stench
from the one toilet used by hundreds of prisoners gagged
the Anglo on arrival, now he is as indifferent to the smell as
he is to the flies crawling on his exposed limbs. Harlan,
because he is an American and a suspected murderer, in
addition to being caged, is shackled around the neck and
chained to the wall behind him; his captors are taking no
chance that he will somehow escape before they decide
what to do with him.
The soldiers, who took him off the bus turned him over to
local authorities, before the two dead bodies were found,
therefore he escaped the more sophisticated national
security police interrogation. The chained man was not
aware that a second murder had taken place until the next
day following his capture when rough jailers showed him a
photograph of a dead scientist, Sultan Bashiruddin
Meghwar slumped over the steering wheel of his Buick
sedan. He now realizes the dead Pakistani is the victim of
the Palestinian woman. His questioners, crude and
rudimentary, had beaten him during his first two days in
captivity, preferring to knock him about blindfolded in a
circle of six men. This rough interrogation went on until a
more sophisticated and bilingual internal security agent
from Islamabad questioned him about the nuclear scientist

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that the Palestinian woman had murdered; after the agent
from the government left, failing to get a confession from
Harlan, the jailers realizing his importance to
Islamabadceased to beat him. Harlan inferred by the tone
of the security agent’s questioning, that they thought him to
be either an American or Israeli agent sent to kill Meghwar,
to stop further nuclear development in the Muslim world.
The prisoner only admitted that he was following a woman
who had stolen a valuable possession from him; as far as
the two murders in the vicinity, he stated he knew nothing
about them. Of course no one believed him, since he was
arrested with a pistol that had been recently fired. The
government internal security agent, dressed in a suit,
instead of the traditional kurta and shalwar, wanted to take
him back to Islamabad for a more thorough interrogation,
but the local authority, a mullah, was not about to release
such a valuable prisoner without something valuable in
return from the national government. Then last week, a
CIA agent, saying he represented the U.S. Embassy in the
Pakistani capital,questioned him about events leading up to
his capture, especially why he, an American, was in such an
out of the way location with a professionally forged
passport and Israeli automatic pistol. Harlan refused to
answer, as he had with previous questioners. The man
reminded him that given his circumstances he was
behaving unreasonably—cooperation was needed to spare
him untold discomfort--only to receive an ironic smile from
Harlan. Frustrated by the fruitless questioning, the
American agent took the prisoners fingerprints, looking
very surprised that no one had taken them before that time.
The fundamentalists has shown no fear of his captors nor of
his circumstance, believing his God will not allow harm to
come to him as it did in Lebanon. He was sorely reminded
that he had moved and executed the Lord’s will so easily in
the United States, the baby killers’ executions, the
bombings of the unfaithful. But here in this heathen part of

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the world, even in Jerusalem where the Lord once walked,
he has been anything but successful, being deceived by the
Israelis and debased by the Palestinian woman. He yearns
to escape this hot, insufferable captivity, find the woman,
subsequently the holy nail; he is resigned to losing the
bomb, for in his mind, it is secondary to the object that
pierced his Lord’s flesh.
Harlan looks past the flies covering his meal at the
Pakistani agent who earlier questioned him, dressed in the
same striped business suit and an American, also in a suit,
following a small, bearded man in black traditional loose
fitting shirt and pantaloons. The trio accompanied by two
thuggish jailers, create a dead silence as they move through
the milling prisoners, sidestepping the stagnant water pools,
andapproach the two guards at the entrance to his cage.
Harlan’s slumped torso bolts upright when he recognizes
the general who gave him the facsimile of the fusion bomb
and its formula at the New York Airport.
Distaste covers the fit military man’s face when he sees the
younger American’s filthy condition, his bruised and
battered face, the chained man sitting in the dirt with flies
swarming about him, his bare feet muddy from the water
trickling down the wall into the dirt. In the cramped cage,
not more than ten by ten feet, there is no bedding, just a
bucket for his excrement. Once the cage door is unlocked,
he leaves the accompanying men outside. Standing over
Harlan, he says, “I am sorry, son. If I knew you would end
up like this, I would never have agreed to send you off.”
The military man speaks through a handkerchief he holds
over his nose and mouth to mitigate the stench.
“Don’t worry about me, general. I am in the Lord’s hands.
And I shall fear no evil.”
The general squats beside Harlan, his hand on the filthy
shirt covering the man’s shoulder. He whispers so the men
outside the cage will not hear: “Harlan, the Lord may not
be able to stop what is already in motion.”

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“He forsook me because I screwed up the mission in Israel,
but I have given recompense for my failure.” The general
stiffens at the thought of the man’s unholy castration, at the
same time admiring his resolve.
“As long as I intend to carry out the mission, He will not
forsake me a second time. Once I get out of here, I will get
the holy nail for the preacher. I would swear to that upon a
bible, if I had one.”
“I truly wish I could give you such a holy book, but these
heathens would only burn it. I know your heart is good and
your soul pure, only it will not be enough to save you from
a horrible fate. I, the preacher, no one will beable to secure
your release. These primitive Pakistanis will question you
about the two dead men. No benefit will come about by
you staying alive, only damage to those free to carry on the
Lord’s work. You must forfeit your life for the Lord’s
purpose.”
“What are you saying?”
“Harlan, your situation is hopeless. These people are
inhuman. They live and function like cave men. And if
you do not tell them what they want to know. . . well. . .
their methods for extracting information will be gruesome.
These people have no qualms about reducing human life to
a mass of quivering flesh.”
“I broke once, because I fell out with the Lord. It will
never happen again. With the Lord above me, I can
withstand any torture that these heathens can inflict.”
“I believe you, only the preacher cannot risk your breaking
under torture and revealing what you know.”
“Are you saying he wants me dead?”
“He wants you in Heaven with your Maker.”
Harlan can only stare at the flies swarming about the
enclosure, as he cannot think past the thought that the
reverent man wants him dead.
The general removes the handkerchief from his mouth, so
his words are not muffled. “I only have a few minutes

236
more, so please listen carefully. These backward jailers
don’t have the facility to x-ray gifts brought to prisoners.
They have agreed to let me give you a bar of soap, tube of
toothpaste and a toothbrush. Break the toothbrush handle
and you will find a cyanide pill. Swallow it. Death will be
instantaneous, and you will feel no pain. Do it as soon as I
leave. Because of my high rank in the U.S. military, the
Pakistani government’s security policeman, watching us
from the other side of this cage, will wait until I leave to
take the Sundries away from you.” The general places a
paper bag with the toiletries beside the chained man who
says nothing.
“You must tell me who has the holy nail.”
“The Israelis did not posses it when I met with them. A
Palestinian woman previously took it from the son of the
Israeli Minister of Defenseafter she killed him. She knows
its value and wants ten million English Pounds for it. She
is the same woman who broke me, and to whom I revealed
the bomb’s formula. She is the same, unswerving woman,
who probably verified the bomb’s legitimacy before she
killed the nuclear physicist, whose death I will be charged
with.”
“Do you know where she can be found?”
“Amman, Jordan is all she said. She is very tall for an Arab
woman, and very striking in appearance. And very deadly.
That is all I know of her.”
“Go with God, my boy.” The military man stands and nods
to the jailers to open the door to the makeshift cell.
The fundamentalist watches the general, the Pakistani
internal security agent and local authority, followed by two
guards, push their way through debased humanity to the
exit door. He picks up the paper bag, stands and moves as
close to the barred enclosure that his chain will allow. He
shouts, “hey you,” in English, until he catches some
prisoners’ attention and tosses the paper bag through the
bars at them, thinking, captors scourged the Lord before

237
He fulfilled His destiny, can I His faithful servant not
follow in His courageous footsteps?”

*GEORGE*

Sevenmen prostrate themselves before an imam in the dark

orchard, barely uttering their evening prayers for fear of
drawing unwanted attention. All seven Muslims raise
themselves to a knelling position, repeating the final verse
of their prayer:
“Most Gracious, Most Merciful, show us the straight way,
the way of those on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy Grace.”
George as the official head of Hamas, changes places with
the imam who has led them in prayer, and faces his cohorts,
his bodyguard taking a place behind him.
“Ahmed al Qassam, the Israeli thugs are systematically
disfranchising the Palestinian people in every imaginable
way, desiring to drive us from our lands.”
George grits in his teeth in anger, not at the man who uses
his preferred alias but at the hopeless situation Palestinians
find themselves in. He barely is able to discern the face
under the moonless sky, but he knows his cohort’s voice
well, a Hamas leader of a small cell in Ramallah, right
under Fatah’s nose. Omar Said is a man thin as a rail,
prematurely gray and with a twitch from the water-
boarding and electric shock suffered in Dahariya, the
notorious prison of the Jew enemy. The Israelis seized his
house and land after they bulldozed his well, stating he had
no permit to dig it. When he, in protest, pushed an Israeli
officer from his doorway, they arrested him for subversive
activities.
“Walls encircle our land, cutting families off from one
another!” a voice from the dark cries, which sets off a
barrage of grievances from the Hamas devotees.
“They seize Palestinian land so they can build their walls!”
“Soldiers at checkpoints insult our women!”

238
“The Shabak arrests our men, even our children, and hold
them without charge.”
“In Nazareth, settlers throw garbage at our women and
children as they make their way to markets and schools.
They hurl these insults from land once occupied by the very
same women and children being insulted.”
“How long must we bear these injustices without punishing
the Jewish swine?”
The questions and accusations coming from the six Hamas
men sitting in the dark are loud enough to alert the many
Israeli spies living among them. “My brothers please
lower your voices.” George, agitated that he and these six
Hamas leaders have become so weak that they must meet in
an farmer’s orange orchard in the dark so as not to be
arrested, or worse yet, assassinated by the Israelis’ favorite
method, rockets by American made attack helicopters.
“We must make them suffer for their devilish acts. The
Jews have reduced us to creatures fearful of our shadows.
The only weapon we have is shaheed bombing, and we
rarely use that weapon,” the thin Omar Said whispers.
George in an equally hushed tone, replies, “when the boy
shaheed, Mahmoud Hassiessi, blew up the Jews in
Jerusalem during their Passover celebration, the army
destroyed my house. I escaped, but othersdid not when the
soldiers bulldozed ten houses in all directions around my
one. Four men were shot down during a protest against the
destruction, one woman and baby crushed under a
bulldozer. You, Omar Said, saw what they did to your
village at Jenin, after an Israeli bus carrying twenty soldiers
outside of Tel Aviv was destroyed by our shaheed.” George
uses the battered man’s alias, a name taken from of an
infant, a hero in the eyes of Islam fundamentalists, who
died in his mother’s arms at Jenin from an Israeli bullet.
He adds, “in Jenin, there were hundreds of Palestinians
murdered and wounded, hundreds more displaced and
driven to refugee camps in Lebanon for the deaths of a few

239
Israeli soldiers,” George concludes, no longer certain the
death exchange is worthwhile.”
All the men obscured by the darkness wear Jalabiya over
their western attire in reverence to their God and heritage.
George gazes at all six men, who have taken the names of
Palestinians honored as heroes. George respects the aliases
the men seated before him have taken: one man’s name
comes from the shaheed who bombed trespassing settlers in
Hadera as they drank their coffee at a street side table;
another name from a Hamas soldier who was assassinated
as he prostrated himself in the street for evening prayers;
his aide’s name comes from a three year old boy blinded
and both arms amputated when an Israeli rocket hit his
parent’s car; another name taken from a Hamas imam who
died under torture rather than give up the names of freedom
fighters.
“Allow me to express my outrage,” The words directed to
George come from Doctor Ismal Juma, a physician from
Bethlehem, whose wife and three children were mistakenly
hit by a errant rocket fired from an American made F-16
attack jet, intended for the car ahead that the attackers said
was filled with terrorists. “Our people are starving, our
little ones malnourished, because their parents cannot get
through the checkpoints to work. Farmers’ produce and
fruits blocked by checkpoints rot on trucks waiting to get to
the marketplaces. Water from the Sea of Galilee that used
to be plentiful to our people, is diverted to settlers to water
their lawns and fill their swimming pools while our women
queue for hours at a single spigot that occasionally pours
water. Those, too infirmed to fill their bucket at the water
spigot, drink from stagnant pools of filthy water. During
the heat of the day, electricity is turned off for no reason
other than to make house fans cease to cool rooms. I
believe these Palestinians would say it is better to suffer
death fighting the occupiersthen continue to be oppressed
as they are. I am for increasing the shaheed bombings. We

240
must demonstrate to the Israelis that they cannot continue
to terrorize our people. This I believe is Allah’s will.”
“Praise be to Him, the One and only God” the seven men
mutter in unison.
“Yes, we must increase the bombings,” sounds from the
five principals facing George.
“Abu,” the Hamas head man speaks to his aide, more his
bodyguard, standing behind him, a young and very fit man,
who has just returned from intensive training at al Farooq
in Afghanistan. He has learned Sheikh Osama’s
mujahedeen combat skills, the very same training that
George witnessed on his last visit there. “How many
bombs can we manufacture in a week?”
“As many as we have demand for. It is the indoctrination
of the shaheeds that slows down the process. If we could
reduce the time to a week or ten days, then we could
dispatch many soldiers of death at the Israelis.”
George dislikes overruling his subordinate, but his devotion
to the dictates of Allah compels him to do so: “the time
cannot be shortened, because it is necessary for future
shaheeds to prepare to join Allah in an eternal life, to spend
their last hours with family and friends, mentally preparing
for their journey to the afterlife.”
“Ahmed al Qassam, there are many young men attending
my mosque in Nabius who are devoted to our intifada,
willing to sacrifice their lives in the service of Allah, praise
be to Him. I can send you as many as you need.” The
words come from Farhat Zayyad, an imam who took the
name of his son who died as a volunteer in the Egyptian
Army, fighting the Israelis in the Sinai.
“I, who have fought the Jews and their American weapons
in Jordan and in Lebanon during two wars, as you have in
Jerusalem, now speak as a veteran warrior. We must
convincethe Israelis that they cannot terrorize the
Palestinian people with impunity. We must retaliate in all
the ways that Allah has chosen to bequeath usthrough his

241
messenger. Peace be upon him. I am tired of hiding like a
rat in the daylight, sneaking around in the dark as we do at
this moment. Of course, the Jews will retaliate. Some of
us talking here will be eliminated or imprisoned, our loved
ones scattered in the winds. I speak for myself, my wife
and two daughters: we will risk those consequences just to
punish these murderers.”
“Thank you, Zahi Fa’id,” George says to the heavyset man
sitting next to him, an ex Fatah commander, who left Arafat
for Hamas after the PLO leader recognized Israel as a
nation. His oldest son is in an Israeli prison, his youngest,
shot while throwing rocks at the occupiers’ soldiers, is now
paralyzed from the neck down.
As is the custom of Arab leaders, George sits silently,
pondering his cohorts’ words. He wants to tell them about
the fusion bomb’s formula that he plans to personally
deliver to Sheikh Osama and the possibility that within a
year’s time, Hamas will have the means to bring the
apartheid government occupying Palestinian land to its
knees, but cannot risk word leaking out to his niece before
he eliminates her. Even among these true believers, she, a
woman disobeying Shariah, has earned admiration forher
jihad against the Israelis. He believes that increasing
shaheed bombings among the Jews will endanger everyone
sitting near him and their organizations, but if he wants to
hold Hamas together, he can find no other way than to
comply with their consensus.
“My brothers and friends, many of you were with me when
Hamas became a cry in the dark against injustice, because
the pig infidel, Mattath, invaded our holy temple in
Jerusalem. Ever since Narkba, the catastrophe that
displaced a half million of our people and the subsequent
Right of Return and repatriation have been denied us by our
enemy, inflictions-- one assault after another has been piled
upon us, until our fundamental demand, that of driving the
occupiers from our land is lost in a labyrinth of ongoing

242
assaults. I will cite these injuries to you: they are our
continual loss of land since 1948 to where we are small
islands surrounded by the Israelis. Now the separation wall
is being built around us, the unhampered building of
settlements on Palestinian land, the IDF checkpoints, the
mass imprisonments of our people. Given the endless
assaults, I concur that we must fight the enemy in any way
we can and suffer the consequences no matter what they
may be. Let us now set a goal of one shaheed bombing per
week in heavily populated Jew areas. God willing, we will
send a message to them that their everyday inhuman acts
cannot go unpunished. Since many of our bomb makers
are in prison or dead, Abu will train and assist you in
arming the martyrs that Allah, blessed be His name, will
send forth against the infidels. Before we disband, let us all
pray that Allah will give us the means, perhaps a mighty
weapon to render our enemy helpless.”

*DOVID*

The imminent Prime Minister of Israel glances at the

scattered clouds intermittently blocking the sun, cooling the
morning in the process, thinking, I should be thankful for a
reprieve from the heat, only I think I am about to feel
political heat from this American. He studies the fit
general, hair cut in a past era flattop, who has arrived in
Israel unexpectedly and requesting an audience, stride
purposefully across the lawn. The heavyset old warrior,
himself once a full general, sits at the far end of the walled
off, landscaped expanse behind the Knesset building. He
wanted to deny the audience, citing affairs of state, which
would be true, as he is about to be appointed prime minister
by the
President, afterward he will be required to address the
Knesset. His momentary address will pertain to stopping
the rash of suicide bombings hitting Tel Aviv, Haifa and

243
two settlers’ temples near Bethlehem and Jenin, but the two
star general carries too much weight within the American
Pentagon to be denied an audience. He glances around
him, thankful that the many tables scattered about the
private compound are sparsely occupied; most of the 120
members of the political body have taken their seats inside
the Knesset chamber, studying the speech he is about to
deliver.
Dovid stands to greet the general, his aide immediately
pulling hislawn chair away. He notes the American dresses
in civilian clothes and does not have an escort, so
concludes this visit pertains to the missing artifact or the
bomb, probably both. “Dale, an unexpected, although
welcomed surprise.” The American takes his extended
hand, but does not return the older man’ssmile. “Join me
for some coffee. I have fifteen minutes before I address the
political protagonists and antagonists in our Israeli drama.”
He indicates the Knesset building.
“Ariel, if you please,” he says to his aide. The attendant
immediately pulls a lawn chair away from the table,
pouring coffee as the visitor sits in the shade of the table’s
umbrella. “Let us have some time alone, Ariel.”
The general waits until the prime minister’s aide moves to a
distant table, out of ear range. “First allow me to
congratulate you, Dovid. Israel needs a true soldier in the
driver’s seat. In these volatile times, you are the best man
for the job. Now tell me, what the hell is going on? I just
left the courier your admirer in the states sent to you
chained to a wall in some Pakistani shithole near the Indian
border. He is about to be put on trial for murdering Doctor
Sultan Bashiruddin Meghwar, the nuclear bomb maker.”
The Israeli does not allow his concern to show, even though
he has fretted over the American’s whereabouts, realizing
their association could bring his government down before
he has a chance to implementpolicy.

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“He informed me that the Rabbi you sent to negotiate the
trade gave him the phony crucifixion nail that we rejected,
and then tried to get the formula from him by force. The
Pakistani police in Wazzirabad took an Israeli Desert Eagle
pistol from him after his arrest. I assume you sent him to
Pakistan to stop the Palestinian woman who has the bomb’s
formula. I always believed you to be a man of honor. Why
did you make the arrangements to trade, knowingly
deceiving us? With the exception of Harry Truman in
1948, our mutual acquaintance in the states has been the
best non-Jewish friend Israel has had.”
“Dale, I can only state that sending the Rabbi with the fake
nail was a mistake in judgment on my part. In retrospect, I
should have personally met your courier, requested time to
find the ancient nail and safely send him back to U.S. This
Palestinian woman, whom we have no solid description of,
ambushed an elite IDF platoon and a tank squadron that my
son commanded in a Palestinian refugee camp, gutted
Jonathan and took the nail from his dying body.”
“You have my sympathy, I didn’t know you lost your son.”
“My last surviving one.” The prime minister sips his
coffee, struggling to obscure the pain overtaking him at the
image of his son agonizing in slow death while the female
heathen looked on. “Please, enjoy your coffee. It comes
from Kenya. Would you like a Danish roll.” He pushes the
basket of rolls toward the general.”
“No, I don’t want any goddamn Danish. “In all due
respect, Prime Minister, you have really blotched our
arrangement. Not only don’t we have the priceless holy
object, we have just given the most deadly weapon
mankind has created to a bunch of crazy fanatics who have
a penchant for blowing themselves up. Now they can blow
up the Middle East, including your tiny country. And once
they see how enjoyable that can be, they can roll a few
bomb balls down Madison Avenue in New York City,
perhaps a few more down Santa Monica Boulevard in

245
Beverly Hills, not to forget Pennsylvania Avenue where the
president resides. I will bet the farm that your Palestinian
female was in Pakistan to verify the formula’s potency.”
“I don’t believe this woman has had enough time to
develop the weapon. The Pakistani military has been after
our government for sometime to sell them a dozen of our
earlier designed Merkava tanks. In the past, I could see no
reason to arm an Arab nation. That is until now, if they will
release your man. He is the only one I know who can truly
identify this woman.”
“Our man is dead. Gone to meet his maker.”
“I see. What do you suggest then?”
“This woman is in Amman, trying to peddle the holy nail
and, God only knows what else. Harlan Stegal, gave me a
skimpy description of her. I am going to find her, recover
the nail and then execute her and anyone else that might
have knowledge of the bomb.”
“A high ranking officer in the United States Army
executing a Palestinian woman in a friendly country
overrun with Palestinian refugees. I believe you may have
a difficult time convincing your superiors about that
stratagem.”
“The dice have been thrown: I am through as a military
officer. I resigned my commission after realizing how dire
the free world’s situation will be if this fusion bomb gets
off a Muslimdrawing board. You are to stay out of the
picture, except to give me cooperation in getting into
Jordan undetected.”
“I admire your sacrifice and especially your courage, Dale.
Of course I will be only too glad to furnish you with a car,
driver and travel pass through Israeli security lines.”
“With God’s help, we shall secure this nail that pierced His
Son’s flesh and clean up your mess in the doing.”
“With God’s help.”
“Prime Minister, the members of the Knesset are waiting
for you,” General Noat, the past commanding general of

246
IDF, now Dovid’s replacement as defense minister,
accompanied by the aide Ariel, speaks to his longtime
military companion.
“Thank you, Solly.”
“General Buchman, what new weapons can we expect from
your great country in the future?” the new defense minister
asks, subsequently taken back by the American general’s
dark look in response to what he thought to be a
lighthearted question.

* *

To the new prime minister, sitting in a stuffed chair before

the desk he once occupied as defense minister, he feels
juxtaposed, gazing upon Solly Noat, long time comrade in
arms, sitting there in his place. The head of Shabak,
Avarham Katz, the old Jew liberated by the Russians at
Treblinka, sits next to him, feeble in body, resembling a
withered mound of flesh, his trousers hitched over his pot
belly. So emaciated is the old man’s chest, the trousers
look to be belted at his neck, but inside that oversized head
the prime minister knows there is a mind still sharp and
quick. Dovid pats the knee of the white haired internal
security policeman and gets a toothless smile in return; the
old man has once again removed his false teeth, the ones
replacing the teeth he lost in the Treblinka death camp as a
teenager.
The Israeli head of state next focuses on Meir Poraz, the
head of Mossad, a younger man, a past IDF general and son
of a general. He does not know this agency head, who has
earned a PhD in structural engineering, nearly as well as
the other two veteran agency heads in the room, except for
the man’s exceptional bent for intrigue, of which there is
ample supply in the territories. Poraz could pass as a
diplomat, wearing rimless glasses and a neatly pressed

247
striped suit, his reddish blond hair conservatively parted on
one side. Dovid’s aide sits on a wood chair by the door.
All the men’s attention is on him, the new head of state, as
he summarizes the urgency of the meeting: “Fatah is
obligated to respect the treaty Arafat signed. The new
terrorist group we once supported to neutralize Fatah,
known as Hamas, the Islamic Resistance Movement, has
transformed into a pack of murderers. Israel has
sufferedsix of their suicide bombings in six weeks. One
hundred, forty three dead, four hundred wounded. There is
only one way to stop them. Cut off the heads of Medusa’s
snakes.. No more waiting for undeniable proof of their
complicity. Any hint of their leadership role in these
murders is proof enough. Avarham, identifyingthese
murderers must be your first priority. Meir, once identified,
executing them will be your agency’s task. Solly, if for
some reason, executions are not possible, then you are to
use every weapon at the army’s disposal to destroy their
neighborhood, their entire village if necessary. If the IDF
must level every Palestinian habitat in the West Bank in the
hunt for these animals,that is acceptable. The terrorist
bombings, murders and maiming of our people must stop.
Start with the biggest snake, this George Hamad. Does
anyone know where he is?”
“He has returned from Egypt, Prime Minister. We believe
he has rented a house somewhere in the Bethlehem area,”
the Mossad officer answers.
“Dovid stands. “Locate him and keep him under
surveillance until he leads you to the lesser snakes, and
then simultaneously execute them all. Ariel.” He indicates
for his aide to open the door. He takes the hand of the old
man seated next to him and helps him stand. “Avarham, be
so good as to escort me back to my new office.” At the
door, he turns to the two agency heads and says good-
naturedly, “gentlemen, don’t forget to observe the Sabbath
tonight.”

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 * *

As the two old men walk arm in arm—one large and

rotund, the other wizen--through the long hallway to the
prime minister’s office overlooking the ancient wall--all
that remains of the Israelite temple the Romans destroyed
almost two thousand years ago, now dominated by the
golden dome of the Muslim mosque built over the ruins, he
softly asks the Shabak leader, “is everything in place?”
“As we now speak, the officer, a Palestinian Jew I suspect
of supplying information to the PLO, is escorting the
American general through the territories.” The old man’s
voice quivers, but his eyes are as steady as the desert wind.
“This Israeli born, but Palestinian officer is a bi-lingual
captain of the infantry, an appropriate guide for such an
important guest as your American general. We can kill two
birds with one stone.”
The heavyset prime minister must slow his stepto stay in
pace with the old Nazi camp survivor’s shuffle step.
Getting this old man, who continually defies the mortality
of old age, to execute an American ally was not as difficult
as he first thought: Avarham has never forgiven the
Americans for denying his family sanctuary before the
Nazis gassed them. “It must look like a Hamas bombing.”
“And so it shall. At the military checkpoint east of
Jerusalem, ten miles this side of the Jordanian bridge, a
vehicle with a Palestinian license will ram their car,
trigging an explosion--very much resembling the recent
Hamas suicide bombings.”
“You have such a man willing to sacrifice his life?”
“I have contacted a father who lost his wife and two
children when the cyber café in Tel Aviv was bombedby a
maniac. He has been told that the American and the Israeli
captain have been linked to the recent bombings in Israel.
His need for revenge burns greatly in him, sohe does not

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question the source. The man will never be identified as an
Israeli, but as a Muslim, because of the Qua’an and other
Arab items he will carry. The Americans will believe that
their general died by Hamas hands.”
“See that only one Israeli soldier is at the checkpoint. No
more than one can be sacrificed.”
“Dovid, it would look suspicious if a sentry was pulled
before the allegedHamas bombing. I chose that particular
checkpoint, because there are only two soldiers manning
it.”
“So be it. Once these martyred Israelis stand before
Adonai, they will know we had no choice but to sacrifice
them,” Dovid adds, believing the American general,
knowing what he knows, cannot live to destroy the plans he
has to ensure Israel’s existence. Avarham, will you bow
your head with me in a prayer for the souls of the three
Israeli men?”

*HAIFA*

It only cost the plotting woman one thousand dinars to have

the executive banker give her a letter stating that she acts in
the Bank of Jordan’s behalf, executing foreclosures on
Palestinian farmers in arrears on their loans. The Israeli
guards at the border crossing welcomed her with a rare
warm greeting, once they viewed her forged Israeli
passport, and contacted their superiors informing them of
the letter of intent she carried. Haifa knew before hand that
any foreclosure of Arab land is a godsend to the Israeli
government, because they will pay the highest price for it
in order to build their settlements on what was once Arab
land. Even with that awareness, she is taken back by the
number of new ultra-orthodox Hebrewsettlements
springing up between the Jordan River and the West Bank.
After crossing the King Hussein Bridge, she has counted
fifteen newly built or being built since her last crossing of

250
the river. The new Prime Minister of Israel, Dovid Mattath,
the man she loathes, has demonstrated his commitment to
displacing Palestinians from their land and isolating the
Arab West Bank from outside contact.
During the short drive from the bridge, she has shown her
letter of intent and her forged Israeli passport for the fourth
time to the occupiers’ soldiers at fortified checkpoints.
Dressed somewhat more provocative in a form fitting
blouse and short skirt, and speaking fluent Hebrew as a
native Israeli would, she, the driver and her taxi have been
allowed to pass through each checkpoint, while countless
Arabs queue up like livestock in fenced off corridors to
continue their journeys.
She returns the soldier’s flirtatious smile, while he gets
instructions over the two way radio he uses. When his
conversation is over, the young Israeli leans into the
passenger compartment and says suggestively, his blue eyes
twinkling, “I am told I must search your body before you
pass.”
For an instant, Haifa is alarmed, until he adds: “if only I
could, sexy, it would be a very thorough pat down. You
may pass through. Have a good trip.”
The Palestinian woman holds back her repulsion as she
squeezes his arm, uttering a throaty “thank you.”

* *

Now in the Arab town of Bethlehem she waits in the taxi’s

back seat, while the driver gets directions from a street
vender selling bread to Al Hindaza, a suburb on the
southeast of the ancient town where her uncle’s house is
located. Her uncle put her suspicion on full alert when he
insisted she come to the West Bank to make arrangements
for the bomb’s development, stating Sheikh bin Laden’s
representative would not travel to Jordan. She has little
belief that the mujahedeen leader would lower his principle

251
to deal with a woman, even through she is the niece of a
high placed Hamas leader. She is convinced her dead
father’s brother is scheming to get his hands on the bomb’s
formula, probably planning to eliminate her in the process.
Therefore, she realizes it is extremely risky to meet him at
his house, but convincing herself that forewarned is
forearmed. Besides, events have unfolded as she planned,
and the opportunity she has wanted ever since her teenage
years is about to emerge.
Haifa takes a death breath to steady her nerves, taking in
the rundown neighborhood with intersecting dirt streets,
around her uncle’s small house. His dwelling is just
another mud brick hovel blending in with surrounding
hovels so as not to draw Israeli attention to him, a leader
vowing to push Israel from all land they occupy. She waits
until evening prayers are over and then dismisses the taxi
cab driver with a Jewish hundred shekel note and giving
him half of a second one hundred note, telling him the other
half is his if he waits for her fifty meters down the dirt road.
She knocks on the front door and is instantaneously met by
her uncle. He, after showing his disapproval of her modish
clothes, clasps her hand, leading her down a dim hallway to
the dinning room in the rear of the house. The room is
more in keeping with a man of her uncle’s status, polished
cherry wood table, tasteful chairs and dininghutch. The
Hamas emblem—crossed swords before the Done of the
Rock Mosque with Islamic Resistance Movement written
underneath—hangs on the wall, along with pictures of her
grandparents with their arms around her father and Uncle
George when they were pre-teen boys. Haifa is more
interested in the muscular young, man sitting at the table,
who jumps to his feet when she enters.
“Asalaam Aleikum,” he customarily greets her.
“And upon you peace,” she replies using the Muslim
response. And to test this clean cut, good looking man in a
very tight tee shirt and jeans, she adds, “Allahu Akbar.”

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His face lights up, showing a perfect set of white teeth, as
he repeats, “God is Great” and adding “Mohammedis His
messenger. Peace and greetings be upon him.”
George, who has stood aside though the exchange, offers:
“allow me to introduce Abu Shair, a close aide to Sheikh
bin Laden. He has travelled here to witness our business,
and if successful take possession of the merchandise. Abu,
this is my niece, Haifa.”
“Well then, let us get down to business,” she replies.
“First things first, Haifa. If you don’t mind I must search
you for a weapon,” her uncle states.
“I would prefer that this delightful looking man do the
searching.”
“Haifa! I will not tolerate that type of talk from a Muslim
woman,” the irate, older man scolds.
“My apologies Uncle,” she responds, all the time studying
the al Qaeda man, who grins rather than being offended by
the remark. “I am curious who will search you and who
will search Abu Shair?”
“As you can see, I carry no weapon.” George opens his
arms wide and turns in a circle so that his niece can
examine him.
“And you, “Haifa directs her words to the muscular man.
“I carry no weapons. You have my word as a devout
Muslim man.”
Haifa laughs as she sets her laptop computer on the dinning
table. “Sounds like a man’s deal in that I must trust you
two have no weapons and one of you gets to search me for
a weapon. Proceed, andlet us get it over with.” She walks
to her uncle and holds her hands above her head. The pious
man’s hands move across her back, sliding down her
buttocks to her legs. He faces her, displaying
embarrassment and awkwardly pats her thighs. “Forgive
me, but a search had to be made. Now let us all sit at the
table and eat.” He indicates a chair opposite Abu for Haifa
to sit. “Allow me to serve you, my brother’s daughter.”

253
From a tureen, he ladles out corn chowder into a bowl in
front of her.
Haifa sips from a glass of orange soda while her uncle and
Abu help themselves to the chowder and hard bread.
“Abu Shair, if I am to turn this fusion bomb’s formula over
to you, then I must know what guarantees I will have that it
will immediately go into production, and I will receive the
first one.”
“You have Sheikh Osama’s word.”
“I don’t see his word on the table. Did you bring a written
statement with you?” Her voice rises, accusatory. She
stands and begins to pace back and forth, sipping her
orange soda.
“My niece, please calm yourself. As a gesture of his good
intent, the sheikh will deposit another ten million English
Pounds into your bank account.”
“And I am to turn over the bomb on the strength of that
sum. I am not selling this bomb, merely offering to share
it, after I get the first one.”
“Please sit down and enjoy your meal. Osama has given
me his word, upon which his honor rests,” the Hamas
leader lies. “Approach his offer this way: even if he fails to
build the bomb in a timely fashion, you now will have
twenty million English Pounds and still retain the bomb’s
formula. How difficult will it be to find another Muslim
backer? I see you brought your computer. Turn it on. I
have installed a wireless signal for internet usage.”
Haifa increases the rapidity of her pacing to dramatize her
uncertainty.
“You did inform your banker to stand by as I earlier
suggested, did you not?” her uncle asks.
The woman stops pacing and turns on her computer, setting
it to her web mail page. “You are right about twenty
million pounds gettingme started on my own bomb.
Although, I am holding you and our Afghan funder
accountable if I fail to receive the first bomb from him.”

254
Both Abu and Haifa, resuming her pacing, wait while her
uncle uses a cell phone to instruct a second party, “oil is
needed to light the lamp.”
Within five minutes another deposit of ten million pounds
sterling appears next to her bank account listing her phony
name on the computer screen. From her computer case, she
removes a diagram of the bomb’s casing she sketched, plus
a description of the fly eye lasers and the necessary nuclear
atomic ingredients. While her uncle examines the
information, she resumes her pacing, only to hear her uncle
request that she take a seat at the dining table while he
studies the information. She ignores his request.
“After a few minutes the Hamas man inquires: “how do we
know this is authentic?”
“The eminent nuclear scientist, Doctor Sultan Bashiruddin
Meghwar of Pakistan has seen this information and stated
that such a small device will not only explode, but will do
so with the fury of hell.” She emphasizes ‘hell,’ capturing
the fundamentalists’ imagination. “Any nuclear physicist
working in the weapons field can verify what Doctor
Meghwar told me.”
“And how do I know what you are stating is true,” the
clean cut Muslim asks.
“The Pakistani scientist has wagered his life on the bomb’s
validity,” Haifa calmly answers, enjoying the irony of her
statement.
“Very well, we will just have to trust you, my niece.”
“If you are lying, Sheikh Osama will find you. There is no
place on earth where you can hide,” Abu adds dryly.
“Let us all be seated and finish our dinner,” George says,
ladling a spoonful from hischowder bowl. The younger
man follows suit, only Haifa paces as before. He uncle
gives her an irritated look, but does not insist she seat
herself.
Haifa waits until both men invest themselves in the meals
before them and then speaks, “Uncle George, would I be

255
correct in saying that if you have the first fusion bomb in
your possession, then you would own the capability to
replace Chairman Arafat as official head of the Palestinian
people. You could rid our torn remnant of a people of his
corrupt government, and put an Islamic government in
place, one that follows your version of the Shariah to the
letter, keeping us women in robes, deny us schooling,
keeping us secure in our domestic cells.”
“Haifa, I told you the Sheikh has given his word that you
shall have the first developed bomb. Why are you so
uneasy? I have never seen you this way before. Please sit
down and eat something before you return to Jordan.”
“Abu, as the Sheikh’s close aide, you would know to whom
the firstbomb would go. Is that true or not?”
“Haifa stops pacing, and stands behind the muscular al
Qaeda man, awaiting an answer.
The man turns toward her and smiles to calm her nerves.
“It is true. The first bomb will be yours.” He turns back to
finish his bowl of corn chowder.
“The truth is that you never talked to bin Laden regarding
the bomb. Now that my uncle has the formula, you are
here to murder me.” Before the powerfully built man can
turn and deny the accusation, the woman grabs his hair, at
the same time slitting his throat twice to the neck bone with
the razor blade she removed from between her buttocks.
She holds his hair until he stops thrashing and drops the
quivering body atop the bowl of chowder. Her uncle
splattered with blood, pushes away from the bloody table,
but can do no more than stare in horror at Abu’spulsating
body.
“My hunch about him was right, let us see if my second
one, that he carries a weapon, is also correct.” She kneels
beside the dying man sprawled across the table, while her
uncle stands and backs away slowly toward the door. “Not
so fast, Uncle.” The woman reveals a small caliber
revolvershe has removed from Abu’s ankle hoister. “It

256
seems that your phony al Qaeda man was not a man of his
word. He was carrying a weapon. Sit down and finish
your dinner, Uncle. Another course has been added to the
table.” She wipes her blood covered hand on the barely
breathing man’s shirt.
After the man who intended to betray her sits, the woman
circles behind him, holding the pistol to his head. “You
really believed I was naïve enough to think that your great
religious warrior would deal with a woman. With so many
wives, he only knows one way, the Wahabbi way, to deal
with women. Religious zealots are so predictable. So high
and mighty that they can twist the word of god to conform
to their idea of how another person should conduct their
lives.”
“Sheikh Osama is an honorable man.”
“I am sure he is, within the parameters of his narrow
minded world. I not only refer to his twisted ideas about
women, I refer to yours, my uncle.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean. Eat some soup, the
blood will do you good where you are going.”
“What do you mean?” She cocks the pistol next to his ear,
until he ladles a spoonful into his mouth.
“I wanted you to believe you would have the bomb in your
possession, the means to lead the Palestinian people from
under the Jewish apartheid yoke, to a time when your
greatest dream would be fulfilled, the day you freed our
people from the Israelis. Had it worked out, your name
would live in glory and your place beside Allah guaranteed.
Having a future bright with hope--that’s a great feeling,
isn’t it?
“I know that elation, because I had it as a teenage girl with
life greeting me with open arms. Not some shapeless robe
serving from the kitchen, her mind shackled by the dictates
of thoughtless men, but anenlightened woman free to chart
her own course, live where she wants, marry whom she

257
chooses. I thought I could make those choices, only they
were not allowed in your vision of a woman’s future.”
“You were staying out late, drinking, and only God knows
what else.”
“Where did the Prophet write that God said to slice off a
woman’s clitoris? Don’t you think that mutilation for
staying out late is overkill?”
“I warned you.”
“So you did. Eat some more soup.”
Haifa waits until the man reluctantly puts a spoonful of
bloody corn chowder in his mouth and shoots him in the
back of the head three times.
“No woman, at least one with brains enough to step out of
the rain, wants to live under your version of Shariah.
Arafat’s government, as corrupt as it is, tends to be more
understanding of women.”

*HARLAN*

Hooded, and yanked along by a rope tied to his wrists, the

prisoner has been riding in the bed of a truck for about
twenty minutes, since being unchained at the Wazzirabad
jail. The midday sun burns his skin through the thin, crusty
shirt hanging from his emaciated body as the men pull him
from the truck’s blisteringly hot metal bed, leading him to a
spot where someone knocks on a door. He feels weak from
his bout with the dysentery plaguinghim for the last week.
Under the hood, he hears three different footstep patterns,
telling himis fully guarded, leaving no room for escape.
The door opens before him, and one of the guards shoves
him in, pushing him down a long hallway, wherehe hears a
second knock on a door. This time, the men grasp him by
both arms and guide him into the room, where his hood is
pulled off. He stands before an huge, elderly man, who
must weigh three hundred pounds. The man, obviously the
leader of the men positioned on cushions around the room,

258
tugs on his white, scraggly beard, as he studies
Harlanthrough slits in the fleshy face. The prisoner notes
the man wears a Karakul, the furry peaked cap that
important Afghans prefer. A Kurta, the loose fitting shirt
popular among these archaic Muslim men, covers his huge
body as a tarp would an overstuffed chair.
The American counts thirteen other Pakistanis, local
tribesmen, all wearing similar Kurtas, with Pakuls, the
common man’s round head covering, atop their tangles of
wild hair. These feral men recline on cushions pushed
against the walls of the oblong, windowless room.
Everyone wears a heavy beard, except for the short,
trimmed one on the man sitting next to the corpulent leader;
all have Kalashnikov rifles, either placed before them on
the floor or leaning against the walls.
“Did you beat him before bringing him here?” the old, fat
man asks in Arabic.
“Yes, Mullah Subarif, we did,” the guard holding the rope
bound to the prisoner’s wrists answers.
“And. . . .”
He did not cry out. He did not even grit his teeth.”
“Idiot, you did not beat him hard or long enough.”
“We did as you instructed, Mullah: lashed him thirty
minuets with a wet knotted rope. He is a devil who does
not feel pain,” the same guard answers.
“Even devils feel pain. This bearded infidel will be no
different.” The mullah’s words change to heavily accented
English: “your beard does not fool us, Jew. We have the
pistol found on you.” He indicates the Israeli weapon lying
at his knee. “We know you are a spy, Jew pig. Why did
Americans visit you in our jail on two different occasions?”
Harlan does not answer, even a woozy as he feels, he shows
his contempt for the questioning by sneering at the mullah.
The guard holding the rope speaks Arabic to the fat mullah,
“someone has sliced off his penis.”

259
For a moment, there is stone silence in the room, as the
Pakistani men digest such an unusual happening. Then, the
fit, lightly bearded man sitting next to the mullah, fondling
the Israeli pistol, stands. He is the prisoner’s size, more
muscular and ten years his junior, wearing more expensive
Afghan clothing than the cruder occupants of the room. He
stands before the prisoner and yanks down his trousers. The
fourteen bearded men, some maturing in age, some barely
past their teenage years, gather around the half naked
prisoner, roaring with laughter at the still red stump on the
American’s groin. Harlan bears his shame, praying to his
God for the opportunity to kill these primitive Muslims.
“You have sinned against Allah’s people and He—blessed
be His name—has marked you,” the mullah comments in
English from behind the younger Pakistani.
“Your Allah—blessed be His name—can lick the waste
dripping from my ass.” the outraged prisoner counters, only
to be struck in the mouth by the pistol’s butt. He staggers
after the blow, falling to his knees, but finds the strength to
regain his footing.
“There is no God but God. And His name is Allah. You
will not defame him,” the young well built man screams in
Harlan’s ear.
Through bloody lips, the fundamentalist manages to scream
back: “there is no God, but the God of my fathers. The
Lord Jesus is his SonWho gave his life for scum like you.
Hallow be His name.” Harlan manages to pull up his
trousers without interference from anyone in room.
Arabic words of, “blasphemy, heretic, profanity,
wickedness,” from the Muslims reach the prisoner’s ears.
“The government police in Islamabad have given you to me
to do with as I judge.” The huge mullah lifts his bulk from
the cushion and stands, aided by two of the younger men,
casting his eyes over the men in the room. “I find this man
guilty of the two murders in our village and guilty of
apostasy. Allah has spoken to me. This infidel is to be

260
burned at the stake for the unholy apostate that he is.
Those in agreement, raise your hands.” All fourteen
Pakistanis raise their hands.
“Jew, before you die you will tell us everything that you
know. In the end, we will drag you, a blabbering fool, to
your damnable end. My son, who has been educated at
Chicago University in your country, will conduct the
questioning. Omar, show this dog-pig your methods of
persuasion.”
The neat, more sophisticated man unrolls a cloth before the
prisoner. He whispers in Harlan’s ear and then
subsequently translating his words to the observing
Pakistanis: “I fought the Sovietswhen they invaded Muslim
land.” He removes a corkscrew from atop the unrolled
cloth. “I had the pleasure to use this imaginative device on
many prisoners’ skulls. They squealed like little pigs when
I drilled into their heads, pouring these hungry insects into
the hole.” He reveals a half inch long capsule swarming
with African soldier ants. Omar, the second in command to
his father, the mullah, waits for the prisoner to show fear;
seeing none he seats himself next to his parent.
Harlan glances down at the array of sharpened spoons,
surgical knives and hacksaws. He notes that his guard has
not picked up the length of rope lashed to his wrists, so
picks up a surgical knife. Immediately, the bolts of the
Russian rifles slam shut, injecting rounds into the
chambers. The emaciated prisoner shows them his bloody
teeth as he grins, before plunging the scalpel into his thigh.
The pain becomes a dull burning one, rather than a
stinging, unbearable one. “Let me kick off the festivities
for you by drawing first blood,” he says to the mullah
standing before him. The old, fat man, and his son, Omar
who still holds the Israeli pistol, and the remainder of the
tribesmen stare at the blood soaking Harlan’s filthy,
threadbare trousers where the scalpel remains stuck,

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astonished at seeing such caprice in a man facing a ghastly
death.

*HAIFA*

The Palestinian woman, portraying a sophisticated beauty

idling away time at the pool, rubs sun screen overher long,
bare legs. Aware that she has drawn attention from the
flabby businessmen lounging under poolside umbrellas,
their chunky hands holding cool alcohol drinks, she rubs
more sunscreen on her bare midriff, meaning to tease them.
Other scantly clad women lay about on deck chairs or float
oninflated rafts in the oversized pool; the Marriot is, after
all, the most posh hotel in Amman, a secular city with a
progressive king. Haifa feels confident that no one, even
the few gawking government officials she taunts with a
warm smile, will recognize her under the wide brim hat and
sunglasses. The setting brings back memories of her
teenage years before her dead uncle mutilated her genitalia,
when she travelled to Beirut to lounge about the beach and
flirt with rich Arab boys. This decadent lifestyle means
nothing to her now. She would not be wasting her time
basking in the sun if were it not for the affair she is having
with Peter Bentley, the Deputy Head of Jordanian Missions
attached to the British Embassy. From a moneyed
aristocratic family near London and use to the best
accommodations, he rented a luxury suite of rooms for the
weekend, asking her to wait for him until he concludes
some diplomatic matters at his embassy. Even though he
would not discuss what matters he must attend to, she
strongly suspects it has to do with the Israeli/Palestinian
problem. American, Israeli and Saudi dignitaries are in
Amman to celebrate the king’s birthday at a ball, his son
the future king is hosting, so they use the event to tackle the
insolvable problem without its major players—the

262
Palestinian Liberation Organization and Hamas. As far as
she is concerned, the problem could be easily solved:
restitution to the Palestinians displaced from their land; the
right of return for all Palestinian living outside Palestine
and an Israeli return to United Nations mandated borders of
1948. Only the problem remains a quandary for the
Palestinians aslong as the Israelis are the predominate
power in the Middle East.
Her eye catches Peter, the dashing, young Brit, waving to
her from the tenth floor balcony. She smiles and waves
back, thinking, Briton where she studied, for all its
pretenses would be a decent country if it didn’t have fifty
percent men living there. Haifa previously planned to
seduce an influential embassy official at this posh hotel
near the foreign embassy district of Amman, to use his
connections to find another source for funding the bomb.
And, the well bred Brit, a high ranking embassy official,
happened to bethe first opportunity. She hadbeen in a
quandary over how to build the bomb for the last week,
ever since disposing of her uncle. Prior to meeting Peter,
she had equally distributed the twenty million English
Pounds at Amman and Zurich banks, but she estimates she
will need close to one hundred million to complete
construction of the fusion bomb.
Young, attractive, personable and extremely flirtatious,
Peter became an easy conquest for the tall, shapely woman
lounging about the poolside in a skimpy two piece bathing
suit. She looked on as an experience hunter would her
prey, while he gave the poolside visitors a splendid
exhibition of performance diving. Afterward, he intended to
join friends at a table, only to have her hand him a towel as
he left the pool, commenting in perfect English, “I see you
haven’t lost your touch since Atlanta,” referring to the
Olympic Games where he competed in the diving event.
“You were there?” he asked, giving her a wide grin.
“No, but I recognize your winning smile.”

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“Do you now. Tell me, what could it be that I could win
from you.”
“For now, you have won my attention. Only time will tell
what future winnings lie in store for you.”
He pauses, brazenly surveying her skimpy clad body.
Intrigued by her curvaceous body and bold manner, he
volunteers, “let us not waste any time then. Join me and
my friends for a cocktail?”
“I have a better plan: join me at the pool bar for a drink.
We will have more privacy that way,” Haifa laced her
words with as much amorous suggestion as she could. She
did not want to expose herself to an onslaught of curious
questions from a gathering of British embassy personnel.
The first encounter in which he chose to join her at the bar
was three weeks ago. A week later, they were having sex
during every evening he could free himself from his
diplomatic duties.
The Brit pantomimesthat he will change into his swim
trunks and join her pool side. She nods her agreement,
feeling no regret that she cannot enjoy sex with the
consummate male over whom most women would be
wildly desirous. Faking an orgasm at the moment he
ejaculates, is enough to prompt him to say, “I think I am
falling in love with you.” She does not return the
expression, sensing she will have more control over him if
he stays hungry for her affection.
Perhaps, she tells herself, she was hasty executing her uncle
and his henchman, even though the moment was right find
revenge for the outrageous and hypocritical assault he
ordered the imam to inflict upon her. As it turned out,
Hamas officials believe the Israelis murdered her uncle, as
Mossad has been expeditiously executing other high
ranking Hamas members. She has learned that the
surviving members of the Hamas hierarchy also believe the
Israelis confiscated the ten million English Pounds her
uncle removed from a Hamas bank account on the day of

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his death and transferred to her account in the name of bin
Laden. Haifa finds some solace from the reality that her
uncle did not get the ten million English Pounds from the
Saudi; he took it from Hamas funds, not bin Laden, to trick
her into trading for the bomb’s formula which he intended
keep for his own interests, fully intending to get the money
back after he murdered her.
Feeling somewhat desperate carrying the bomb’s formula
in her head, knowing the Israelis, the Americans and al
Qaeda want her dead or worst yet, willing to torture her
until she reveals all she knows, she removes the legal pad
from her bag, studying the columns where she has noted
the pros and cons of contracting bin Laden or the American
fundamentalist’s superior in the United States or the
heretofore unthinkable possibility of contacting a third
person whose name she sometimes finds it difficult to
pronounce.
Bin Laden has not answered her letter soliciting his aid to
complete the bomb that she sent through her Egyptian
Muslim Brotherhood contact in Cairo. She calculates it
was ignored because she is a woman, doing what the sheikh
believes is a man’s obligation, but more probably because
the great mujahedeen fighter has just orchestrated the attack
that put the navy cruiser, the U.S.S. Cole out of
commission in a port in Yemen, killing seventeen American
sailors. And, his head, now buzzing with accomplishment,
cannot consider the means to send a greater death blow to
Israel and the United States. Even though the Saudi
millionaire has the means to construct the bomb, she cannot
afford to wait until his principlescatch up to the twentieth
century.
The woman turns her attention to the fundamentalist’s
superior in the states. Surely, whoever this person is, he
would most probably know his lackey is wasting away in a
Pakistani jail, ready to blabber all he knows when the
torture begins, incriminating the unknown person and who

265
knows how many others. Whoever it is in that vast,
populous country would be ready to pay millions to stop
the formula lost by the fundamentalist from reaching
Muslim hands. Discovering and contacting that person
would necessitate employing means that she does not
possess, unless she brought Peter with his diplomatic
contacts, into her confidence. She calculates that the Brit
diplomatis enamored with her, but not enough to put his
promising career in jeopardy by making suspicious inquires
in the U.S.
At the moment, she considers the last option to fund the
bomb. A contact bizarre in its conception and so
improbable to hers or any Middle Easterner’sreality as to
be possible.
“Let’s have a swim before we dress for the king’s ball.”
Peter’s hand cups her bare knee, interrupting her thoughts,
his finger tapping a beat on her inner thigh, his eyes
suggesting they have sex before leaving for the ball. She
brushes his lips with hers, saying, “my only pleasure is
giving youpleasure.” Suddenly, a possible answer to her
dilemma materializesin her head. If the sex with Peter goes
as well as it has gone in the past, he will grant the very
small favor she intends to ask him.

* *

Once the English Bentley doors open, Haifa and Peter, exit
outside the Raghadan Palace, one of many the royal family
uses for such high affairs as the king’s birthday party. The
young English official rushes Haifa through the doors, past
the attendants, into the ball room where King Hussein,
Queen Noor, Crown Prince Abdullah and his stately young
wife are greeting the last of the reception line. Haifa,
dressed radiantly in a fashionable white evening dress she
spent an exorbitant amount on for this occasion, takes a
deep breath to relax, barely noticing Vivadi’s Four Seasons

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softly playing in the corner of the ornate reception room.
Being the last couple to step into the greeting line, she
wantsto get past this royal family with the least scrutiny.
Good fortune seems to be on her side, as the heir to the
throne, Abdullah takes her escort’s hand, commenting:
“Welcome Peter. So glad you and your friend could attend
tonight’s party, even if it is at the last ringing of the bell.
Pressing business delayed you, I take it?” He smiles good-
naturedly, his eyes going to Haifa. The Palestinian female
smiles at the suave Hashemite, a younger copy of his short,
yet regal, father.
“Thank you for inviting me, Crown Prince. Allow me to
introduce my friend, Haifa Hamad.”
“You are most welcome here. Palestinian, are you not?”
“I am a Palestinian born in Lebanon, but privileged to
reside in your gracious country,” Haifa replies, extending
her hand to the prince, and then to his wife after she is
introduced.
“My wife, Princess Rania is also Palestinian.” Haifa gazes
upon the woman, radiantly beautiful, her double in beauty,
poise and size.
She is renown for pioneering opportunities for women and
education for all children, Jordanian and Palestinian. The
princess grasps Haifa’s hand and holds itwarmly. “I hope
we can talk later. There are many issues for women to be
solved in my country, and many opportunities for women to
solve them.”
“I would be honored Princess,” Haifa lies, thinking, there
was a time when I would have been so honored, but now I
have more deadly issues to consider.
“Haifa finished her post-graduate work in England, as you
did Crown Prince,” Peter volunteers.
“Not at Sandhurst, I take it?” The dapper young heir
apparent laughs kiddingly, referring to his extensive
military schooling in England and later duty with the
British Army. “We are most fortunate to have you both

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attend our party. Please, don’t let me detain you from
wishing my father a happy birthday.” Haifa notes the
prince’s more than curious gaze upon her or connected her
surname to her dead uncle. She wonders if he has
somehow learned of the Israelis’ search for her or
connected her name to her dead uncle. Her attention goes
to the aging Queen Noor, a still attractive and
gracefulwoman in a pale green evening gown. She is taller
than her husband, who dresses in a tuxedo. The balding
man, no longer the dashing monarch often photographed in
the cockpit of a jet fighter plane, wearing the Arab
Kaffiyyah, appears weaken by his bout with cancer,
although every bit as gracious as his supporters claim him
to be. He holds Peter handshake until introduced to Haifa,
then extends his hand, saying, “so pleasant to see such a
lovely couple as you two are. Dinner will be served soon.
In the meantime, mingle with our friends.”
Haifa, for the first time gazes at the room, its walls covered
with painting of the Hashemite royal family and filled with
dignitaries in tuxedos and military uniforms, elegant
women of all ages dressed in fashionable evening wear;
everyone, champagne glasses in hand, seems to be chatting
in small groups of four and or more.
Before they can move into the crowd, a waiterappears with
a tray of filled champagne glasses. Peter and Haifa each
take one and touch glasses. “To us,” he toasts. She takes a
sip and smiles sweetly at him. “Now let me see if I can
find the Israeli ambassador and deliver the small favor I
promised you.”
“Peter, if it will compromise you in any way, then let’s
forget it.”
“Nonsense. A promise is a promise. Give me the note.”
“I left it unsealed, in case you want to read it.”
“Why would I want to read it? It is only an innocent
request to the Prime Minister to visit your grandparents’

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graves in Israel. Palestinian or not, you should not be
denied. You do have a British passport after all.”
Haifa squeezes his hand in appreciation, and then seals the
envelope with her tongue. In the note, she has identified
herself to her hated enemy, Prime Minister Mattath,
informing him that she is willing to negotiate the bomb’s
imminent detonation. If he chooses to deny her request,
then she will have no option but to use it. She includes a
time and the number of an untraceable, black market cell
phone to contact her. She hands the envelope to her escort,
her fingers touching his lips.
“Good evening Peter. How good to see you again.” Haifa
and the Brit turn to see a Saudi, dressed in an expensive
white robe and headdress held in place by a gold spun cord.
Well groomed and extremely handsome, he displays perfect
white teeth between his neatly trimmed mustache and
beard.
“Good evening, Prince,” Peter returns the greeting, acting
very much like the diplomat that he is.
“Are you going to introduce me to you lovely companion?”
Of course. Forgive me my friend, this is Haifa Hamad.
Haifa I am pleased to introduce Prince Muhammad Nauf,
special representative of his Highness, King Khahid Al
Saudof Saudi Arabia. Here tonight, I suppose, to extend his
country’s best wishes for a happy birthday to the King of
Jordan.” Haifa infers that the two men are friendly by
Peter’s sudden informal reference to the visit.
“You suppose right, my friend. I am honored to meet such
a beautiful woman as you, Ms. Hamad. Where have you
been hiding? Or better yet, Peter, where have you
discovered such a rare beauty?”
“Right here in Amman, Prince”
“Your gain is my loss.” He takes Haifa’s hand. “I pray you
will save me a dance later.”
“It will be my privilege,” she relies, noting his lingering
gaze upon her.

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“You are so gracious.” The debonair prince kisses the back
of her hand. “Until then.” The robed man moves to a
gathering of Jordanian senior military officers.
“He is a notorious womanizer outside of Saudi Arabia, a
pious Wahabbi inside that country’s borders,” the Brit
comments.
“We all have our faults, “Haifa adds, making a mental note
to make the most of her promised dance with a member of
the Saudi royal family.
“Some more so than others, Peter comments, his eyes fixed
on the Saudi Crown Prince. “See that squat, ugly toad
over there drinking water and standing by himself. That is
Meir Perez, the Israeli ambassador andone tough biscuit.
Let me see if I can remind him of past favors her majesty’s
government has extended to his country.” He leads Haifa
by the arm to where the short, rotund Israeli ambassador
stands. Perez smiles, showing a set of crooked, yellow
teeth; one large mole prominently resides on the upper lip
of his pugnacious face.
“Ah, Peter, so good to see an old friend among so many
friends. And who is this beautiful, young woman that you
bring to me? My dear, you make an old warthog feel like a
prince, a fairy tale one, not the Saudi kind.” The
ambassador refers to the Saudi prince chatting with the
Jordanian officers. Haifa, in spite of despising all Jews,
notes that this one, an unattractive old man, has an
engagingpersonality.
“Ambassador Meir Perez, allow me to present Haifa
Hamad.”
The Israeli ambassador does not extend his hand, after
hearing the Palestinian surname. “My pleasure, Ms.
Hamad. Do you reside here in Amman?”
“For the time being, I am pursuing the opportunities
available to a professional woman.”
“Yes there are many opportunities for an accomplished
woman. Do you speak Hebrew? I only ask as we Israelis

270
are in the need of bi lingual people speaking both Hebrew
and Arabic.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Ambassador, I do not,” Haifa lies once
again, this time to put off the Israeli’s probing.
“Too bad. Israel’s loss. And you, Peter, what have you
been up, since I last saw you this afternoon?”
Pete shows a blushing grin.
“I see. Well, it is a young man’s world.”
“Ambassador, I have a note I would like you to give to
Prime Minister Mattath.” A grimace of displeasure
overtakes the Israeli’s round face. “Think of the delivery
as a token of our friendship and continuing cooperation.”
“There are proper channels for writing the Prime Minister.”
“And this is one of them, Meir. Haifa’s grandparents are
buried at Deir Yassin, a village that is no more, with a
graveyard that is no more. She only requests to visit them
there and say a few reverent words over the place where
they died. Your prime minister has put restrictions on all
Palestinians desiring to visit Israel. I believe that once he
reads her note, he will make an exception for her.”
“Exceptions make dangerous precedents, leading to more
exceptions.” He scowls his disapproval. “But if it is as
harmless as you say, I will do it.” He takes the envelope
from the Brit’s hand and tucks it inside hisjacket pocket.
The king’s hostess rings the dinner bell. “Now, let us
approach the moment I have been waiting for. Food! You
are a lovely, charming woman, Ms. Hamad. I will
approach the prime minister in your behalf.”

*THE PREACHER*

The old man, who is the leader of the largest

fundamentalist church in the United States, known as Born
Again Christians, and with a huge TV viewing audience,
cannot resist eating the last bite of his sirloin steak, one of

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many gourmet entries served at the gala dinner in the
prestigious New York City hotel. Lately, events have led
him to overeat; he realizes it is a nervous manifestation,
one that that has put weight on his frame, unhealthy for a
man approaching seventy years of age. He leans back into
his chair, and, before he can loosen his belt, a waiter
immediately removes his empty plate; the desert chef
appears with the tray covered with various cakes, tarts,
macaroons, cream filled canopies, chocolate mousse and
other sweet delights. The preacher waves the chef off,
requesting a cup of teainstead. The keynote speaker, a
previous Israeli prime minister and once hawkish head of
the Lukud Party, is about to conclude his speech. The
preacher has heard various versions over the years of the
Survival of Israel speech the important man usually gives
to Zionist Christians. But, tonight the audience is mostly
Jewish.
“God promised the ancient land of Israel, you know as
Galilee, Judea, Samaria, to the decedents of Abraham, the
Jewish people, and His people have returned after two
thousand years of Diaspora to reclaim it. The land from the
Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea, we call Eretz Israel,
belongs to us, the Jewish people, and we will never, never
relinquish a foot of it,” the distinguished politician states to
thunderous applause.
The Christian fundamentalist, one of a few gentiles at the
gathering of Jewish elite in the large Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
ballroom, scrutinizes the one hundred or so couples, seated
four at a table with a waiter standing in attendance at each
exquisitely set table. He recognizes famous actors and
actresses, movie directors, powerful owners of newspapers,
presidents of television networks, executive editors from
the most renown book publishers and of course, writers
with household names, all generous donors to nation of
Israel. High ranking White House officials, doctors,
hospital executives, lawyers with a nationwide reputation

272
are in attendance. Seated at the rear of the large dinning
room are the less known, but perhaps the most powerful,
the movers and shakers, the true money raisers for Israel,
the lobbyist—American Israel Public Affairs Committee
and representatives from lesser Israeli Political Action
Committees. These lobbyists influence the U.S. Congress
to send billions of dollars, along with multiple high tech
weapons to the Jewish nation. Intimidates Congress might
be a better word than influences, he thinks. This is the
crème de la crème of the Jewish population in America, the
famous, rich and powerful, the preacher tells himself and
then adds with certainty: they are all going to burn in Hell
at the second coming of my Lord. History—Jews refusing
to abandon their God in the face of an imminent Roman
massacre and subsequent attacks on their faith throughout
history--have proven to him that these American Jews or
any Jew for that matter cannot be persuaded to accept Jesus
Christ as their Lord and Savior, therefore will be doomed.
But he does believe that it is possible for all Jews to return
to Israel, setting the stage for the Second Coming. He is in
attendance tonight, honored because over the years, his
ministry has raised millions of dollars for Zionism to
accomplish a worldwide return of the Jews to their ancient
land. But tonight, he plans to even exceed that sum of
money, as soon as the one time prime minister concludes
his speech.
“Thanks to everyone seated here tonight, Israel is secure
amongst a surroundingsea of enemies. The might of our
tiny nation, backed by our true friends, the Americans, is
our current security. Since the Partition Plan, sanctioned by
the United Nations, and codified by Israel’s War of
Independence, she has,through her many victorious wars,
doubled the size of her land. But many enemies still
occupy land within the borders of greater Israel. The Arabs
there are of a different religion, different culture and cannot
be assimilated. They are sworn to destroy our small

273
country therefore they must be made to find land
elsewhere. Let them go to Jordan, to the Sinai or other
lands belonging to Arab people. As hard as Israel has tried,
and she has diligently tried, to coexist with these people,
many Israelis now realize that there is no place for the
Palestinians between the Jordan River and the
Mediterranean Sea. If they cannot be bought out, then they
must be forced out. Either way, it will take millions of
dollarsto remove them. That is why the state of Israel is
indebted to everyone in attendance tonight and why your
continual support is so necessary and so valued.” Another
round of thunderous applause sounds throughout the
dinning room. The preacher finds applaudsas vigorous as
the other guests.
“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for allowing me
to address you tonight. Now, it is my extreme pleasure to
introduce a great friend of the nation of Israel, a great
humanitarian who heads the most respected Christian
ministry in this country. I give you the Reverent Doctor
Paul Hansom.” The preacher stands, bathed by applause
from the distinguished people. He walks to the small dais
at the head of the room. At a time such as this, when he
should feel honored by the plaudits of so many influential
people, he feels vexed since losing the holy crucifixion
nail, and not being able to present it to the Lord Jesus at the
Second Coming and much grieved over losing the most
favorite member of his flock, Harlan Stegal, and recently
losing his friend, Dale Buchman, whom he encouraged to
travel to the land filled with damnable Muslims. The
Muslims responsible for their deaths must be punished;
hopefully, his announcement tonight will be the means to
do it.
“My dear friends, I am truly honored to be sharing a meal
with you during this regal occasion. I am determined to
see Israel survive, as I know each one of you are. The
United States of America, the nation that we are blessed to

274
be citizens of, stands behind Israel, committed to her
survival.” The preacher must wait until the applause dies
down to continue: “just this month, proof of our
commitment has been demonstrated: an American has
given his life. General Dale Buchman, my close friend and
an officer in the American Army, a decorated veteran of
Vietnam and the recent Gulf War,was viciously murdered
by Arab terrorists on what is currently Palestinian occupied
land. I have a letter of condolence from, the Prime
Minister of Israel, Dovid Mattaththat I would like to read to
you.” The silent room is all the permission the
fundamentalist minister needs to continue.
“My dearest friend, Paul:
I dispatch this letter to you at the same time I inform your
government of the following matter and before word
reaches the world media. I am deeply sadden to inform you
that General Dale Buchman, while on a personal fact
finding mission in the Middle East was struck down by
Palestinian terrorists, members of Hamas, the enemy of free
people everywhere.
While passing through an Israeli Defense Force checkpoint
in the Palestinian occupied West Bank, near the Jordan
border, his vehicle was struck by a car bomb, instantly
killing him, an Israeli officer and two young soldiers on
duty nearby. It is a terrible loss for both our nations to
suffer, therefore no stone will be left unturned until Israel
finds and prosecutes the plotters behind these dastardly
murders.
Please accept my and the nation of Israel’s deepest
condolences.
I remain your devoted friend and admirer,
Dovid Mattath
Prime Minister of Israel.”
The preacher pauses to allow the letter’s grave nature to
fully influence the many dignitaries seated before him, and
then declares:

275
“It is my firm belief that Israel can never feel secure while
terrorists, like the ones who viciously took the lives of a
great American and innocent Israeli soldiers, live within the
borders of her ancient land, therefore I announce tonight, in
the name of the American general Dale Buchman, a
campaignto raise one hundred million dollars from
Christian followers within the next six months. Once this
money is in Israeli government hands, I hope it will be used
to rid the Holy Land of terrorists.”
For the moment, not one sound is heard in the room as the
guestsdigest the fundamentalist’s announcement. Then to
the preacher’s heartfelt joy, the entire gathering stands in
unison and applauds him.

*HAIFA & DOVID*

Seeing that her bluff has worked, the woman, dressed

completely in white to ward off the desert sun, watches the
very distinct shape of the extremely rotund prime minister
exita taxi some hundred meters from her. Not sure whether
or not the Israeli has set a trap, she tenses some as the taxi
circles and then retreats to a kilometer in the distance.
Scanning the flat alkali plain and the sky above in all
directions, she sees that not one sign of life moving.
Standing before the taxi that brought her, Haifa instructs
the man to pull his vehicle back a kilometer and wait for
her signal to return.
Mattath phoned her after receiving the message though his
ambassador to Jordan, expressing doubt that she was able
to build a sophisticated fusion bomb in such a short time.
Knowing she needed big leverage to get the head of the
Israeli government to meet her without an escort, Haifa
fabricated the scenario for its construction, telling the
Israeli the plutonium was purchased in Russia, the other
high energy components she purchased through Meghwar’s
past connections inNorth Korea. She added that the

276
American fundamentalist informed her that the Israelis had
acquired a facsimile of the bomb design in the form of a
bowling ball, although lacking the means to ignite it, so she
described that designto him. She then described the duel
lasers, but not the missing link—the lasers’ firing
sequences--that she had acquired from the fundamentalist.
Baiting him further, she related how easy it had been for a
Muslim soldier of God to steal an automobile with an
Israeli license plate and drive to Tel Aviv, carrying such a
small, indistinct object as the fusion bomb. That soldier of
Allah, an Israeli Arab by birth, is prepared to detonate the
bomb if he refused to meet her.
With enough truth in her threat to convince him, the prime
minister said he could not meet her for a week as he was
due to meet the American president in the United States in
two days.
“Cancel the trip or you may not have a country to come
back to,” she replied, not wanting to give him time to
entrap her.
He responded by saying, “where are we to meet,” thinking
a disgruntled president is a lot less harmful than this
vengeful woman.
She gave him the coordinates of a dry lake in Negev
Desert, a perfectly flat and perfectly desolate five mile
patch. She demanded that he travel alone to Beersheba,
hire a taxi to drive him to the spot some hundred, thirty
kilometers to the southeast.
Dovid feels the morning sun burn into the front of his white
shirt as he moves toward the figure in white. The woman
he had sworn to hunt down and kill has positioned herself
with the sun to her back. He puts on his polarized
sunglasses to get a better view of her, as he treads heavily
in her direction, feeling burdened by his excess weight. He
notes that she is tall and shapely, her carriage proud, as she
moves to meet him halfway, as her instructions told him to
likewise do. Also according to her instructions, he

277
travelled in the dead of night, only identifying himself at
the IDF checkpoints to sleepy sentries, who either did not
know who the prime minister of Israel is, or were too
mesmerized by his presence to react to an unprecedented
appearance.
The woman, monster in his mind, whom he gazes upon
brutally murdered his son, attempted to murder him and his
wife at his son’s funeral, executing two children and
wrecking a mother’s life in the attempt. The very same
woman, he is positive, who shot the Mossad agent at the
Amman airport. He is also certain she tortured and
castrated the American to gain the bomb’s formula. But as
much as he hates her, he does not underestimate her. As a
woman in an Arab world, her accomplishments are
uncanny: she has pulled off so many incredible feats that he
cannot discount her claim that she has developed the fusion
bomb, therefore risks everything, including his life, by
appearing here unarmed and unescorted. He raises his
arms, removes his hat and turns full circle so that she can
see he has no weapon.
Ever since her parents were murdered by the Phalanges, the
Lebanese Christian militia, this blood thirsty Israeli
standing before her--now old, fat and slow--sent into
Shatila, the Palestinian orphan has wanted to destroy
theman. This aging, but very deadly man represents
everything she hates in the Jews who stole her
grandparents’ land, murdering them in the process. How
easy it would be to gut this white haired executioner who
engineered the apartheid state the Palestinians now must
suffer, as she did his son, but now that they are face to face,
she has a bigger purpose in mind. She raises her arms to
demonstrate that she has no weapons and turns, feeling the
last of the hot morning breeze press the lightweight shirt
and slacks against her body.
“What insurgent state funded the bomb?” are the first
words leaving her enemy’s mouth.

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“Funded by men living in caves,” she lies.
“You gave the bomb to those madmen?”
“I got the first one, the sheikh and his followers get the
rest,” she lies again, enjoying the alarm spreading across
the Israeli’s wide, deeply lined face. “Since your country
has never admitted to possessing a nuclear bomb, I believe
your best weapon against enemies has been to create your
foes’ worst fear by allowing them to think Israel has a
thermonuclear bomb. In reality, your nation only has a
bulky fission bomb, enough to level some Arab cities, but
not the bigbang that I have and you want. But, all will not
be lost for your outlaw nation. I intend to give you the
formula, and you can go home and build your own
destructive device. The man many call the mufti will then
be reluctant to destroy your country, knowing full well the
caves of Afghanistan, where he is said to reside, will be
well within range of Israeli missiles carrying lethal, yet
small packages.”
“You are demented.”
“Perhaps.”
“What is it that you want?” Dovid tells himself to stay
calm, understanding that he is bargaining from a weak
position and not wanting to take the chance that she is
telling the truth, and the bomb is in Tel Aviv.”
“For starters, blow up thesegregation walls. Evict all
settlers in the two hundred settlements in Palestinian
territory, starting with the ones surrounding Jerusalem.
Open all roads to Palestinians, so they can live a normal
life, and pull your army checkpoints back to Israeli borders.
Your borders will be much smaller, after you denounce
Israeli claim to every foot ofland seized after the U.N.
mandate of 1948.” Dovid cannot help but chuckle over the
impossibility of her demands.
“I have two more conditions: allow all displaced
Palestinians to return to the land that Israel has stolen from
them and compensate them for fifty years of exile.”

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“You obviously do not understand how the Israeli
government functions or you would not demand such
unworkable conditions. I would be voted out of office in a
month, after I implemented just one of your demands.”
“What office will you retain after Tel Aviv is leveled to
dust? Understand, Minister, you have no choice.”
“It will take years to carry out your demands. If I do as you
say, I will need sufficient time.”
“You have one month to destroy the segregation walls.
Another month to evict the settlers; their houses must be
left standing for Palestinian occupants. Within six months,
all my conditions for the survival of Israel must be carried
out or Hiroshima and Nagasaki will look like distant
supernovas compared to what will happen to your modern,
metropolitancity. That is all I have to say, except that the
bomb will be yours when my conditions are met. Are we in
agreement?”
The prime minister, damning the day he proposed trading
the ancient nail for the bomb, now directed against Israel,
reluctantly nods his head in agreement.
Haifa turns her back to the aging prime minister, signaling
her taxi to pick her up as she walks toward it. Dovid
ambles back toward his taxi, a man stymied over finding an
option to complying with her terms.

*HARLAN*

“For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him.

For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him.
For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him.
For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him.
For if we be dead with Him, we shall also live with Him,”
the fundamentalist mutters to himself, the same biblical
verse he has muttered for the last two weeks, at first
amusing his captors, then disconcerting them with his lack
of control. Hallucinating as he is, he is still aware of a tarp

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being pulled away from the cramped cage that holds him in
the Wazzirabad mullah’s compound situated on a
windswept plain outside of the border town, believing the
time he prayed for—his ascent to Heaven—will soon be
upon him. He feels the wind from the unsettled day cut
through his thin shirt, hears the bleating of goats and
clucking of chickens, but what they represent has no reality
for him. Through his one remaining ear, he hears the
cage’s lock being opened and the metal door swing out. He
feels the stumps of his hands being lashed together with a
rope and then being yanked free from the cage by another
rope around his neck. Stumbling about on cramped legs.
he keeps muttering, “for if we be dead with Him, we shall
also live with Him,” for even in his dementia, he is certain
his end, which is his beginning,is imminent. His
mutterings are drowned out by the roar of the spectators, as
the rough captors pull him to the outer gate of the bleak
compound where he will appear as the star of today’s show.
The administration in Washington D.C. decided not to
interfere with the primitive execution of a fugitive they
believe to be a right wing terrorist; the thought being that
he will be eliminated out of the American public’s sight,
and the Christian Right spared a high profile trial in the
states for one of their own.
Hearing taunts of “burn the Jew,” the captive cannot see his
hecklers, for the mullah’s son, the American educated
extremist, plucked out both his eyes and tried to force him
to eat the ovals. When he would not chew his eyes, his
tormentors chopped off the fingers of his right and left
hands, one finger each time he ignored subsequent
demands eat his eyes. At the time, he saw no irony in the
fact that the preacher had denied the sadistic mullah’s son
the two fingers he shot off so long ago in Hazzard,
Kentucky. Not crying out in pain, Harlan bore the
disfigurement in silence, until he glanced down at the
bleeding stumps where all his fingers were cut off at the

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third joint, then he groaned and passed out. His captors,
wanting to keep him alive for further torment, cauterized
the stumps while he remained unconscious. After surviving
the session, when he lost his eyes and fingers, he knew he
would not break under further torture like he did in
Lebanon.
The blind captive, hair and beard matted stiff with months
of grim, his Afghan shirt and pantaloons soiled and bloody
from and the torture sessions and being confined in a cage,
is indifferent to the rotten fruit and debris with which the
spectators pelt him. He is oblivious to the blood trickling
down his face from a rock hitting him the forehead. In fact,
ever since the mullah’s son, had him strung up by the wrists
to a pulley attached to the ceiling, separating both shoulders
from his arms, he has felt little pain from the subsequent
torture to make him confess to being a Jewish assassin.
The words from the ancient Christian hymn that he now
mutters came to him in the session when his captors clipped
all ten toes from his feet; this time he did not faint. The
mullah’s son left him alone for a week after that gruesome
session, until yesterday when he made one last attempt to
get him to confess to being a Jewish assassin, threatening to
cut off his nose, receiving only a blank stare as a reply.
The doomed man continues to stumble on swollen, toeless
feet, the rope around his neck chokinghim to the point that
he can no longer repeat the inspirational lyrics. He falls to
his knees, gasping for a breath of air. The captors leading
the American by the rope, attempt to yank him to his feet
with a series of violent jerks on the rope, calling him, “Jew
infidel,” only to have the fallen man lose consciousness.
If Harlan was lucid and not completely deranged as he now
appears, he would have laughed at being called a Jew by
the primitive men, as he did during the three months of
similar accusations. During that time he never once said he
was an American Christian and not a Jewish assassin and
never admitted to any complicity in the two murders of

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Meghwar and the Afghan guide. Harlan has lost all sense
of the past, except for a thin reminder floating somewhere
in his head that he is a Born Again Christian, saved by his
Lord Jesus, believing his Lord appreciates the baby killers
he assassinated, the bombings of the unholy houses where
the disbelievers practiced their evil deeds.
He also knows the Lord has forgiven him for his past
whoring and boozing, forgiven him for the fiery deaths of
his wife and child, forgiven him for eliminating the
Christian pilgrim from Florida, because the horrendous
torture he has endured from the hands of these heathen
Muslims has atoned for the sins and especially the loss of
the holy nail. Jesus will greet him in Heaven with open
arms.
Water is thrown over his face, and he feels it being slapped.
He continues to chant, “’For if we be dead with Him, we
shall also live with Him.’” Someone lifts him to his feet
and shoves him toward his destiny.
“Burn in Hell, Jew pig,” now becomes the cry from the
spectators. Their incessant taunts increase to a frenzied
howl, indicating to Harlan he now approaches imminent
glory.
“Confess your crimes to my father and before Allah’s
faithful, and I will have you strangled, spared the horrific
agony of a burning death,” the Mullah’s son whispers into
Harlan’s remaining ear, so close to the condemned man that
his breath caresses the captive’s wild hair. The battered and
maimed man has no conception of what this Arab requests.
Mixing English and Arabic in what becomes a lucid
moment, the condemned fundamentalist states: “Yea,
though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil for thou art. . . .”
The mullah’s son spits in his face to the delight of the
spectators and orders the captive bound to the awaiting
stake. As his legs are lifted into the middle of three
automobile tires, the captors lash him to a thick stake and

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stack brush and cut wood around him. He feels at peace,
aware that he did not betray the Lord this time,
withstanding punishment from the minions of Hell.
Hungry flames engulfing him snap at the sky, their heat
igniting the combustible tires. Harlan can hear his skin
sizzling, but cannot feel pain. The spectators loud clamor
softens to a bare murmur, as they consume the infidel’s
burning death.
In broken, although intelligible Arabic that he has picked
up during his captivity, the Born Again Christian, the
flames licking at his head, singeing his beard, shouts with
all the power the Lord has installed in him: “‘Hear me,
Muslims. For what you do today, thy wives shall be harlots
and thy sons and thy daughters shall be dividedby line and
thousands shall die. For, behold the Lord cometh forth out
of His place and will come down upon you. And the
mountains shall be molten under him, and the valleys shall
be cleft, as wax before the fire.’”
The ancient prophet, Micah’s words, screamed by a mangy
lunatic, consumed in flames, mesmerizes the spectators.
The darkening sky overhead unleashes a clap of thunder
and a subsequent flash of lightening. A fierce gust of wind
causes many in the superstitious crowd to pull away from
the delirious fundamentalist engulfed in flames.

*EPILOGUE*

In the six months that passed since Haifa coerced the Israeli
prime minister to act on her demands, except for tearing
down some sections of the segregation wall and
abandoning a few settlements in Gaza, her enemy has
reneged on her every demand. She knew he would, for the
Israeli government’s penchant is to promise and then stall.
No settlements have been abandoned in the West Bank, and
ultra-orthodox Jews still live on Palestinian land. Soldiers
still harass Palestinians at checkpoints, and no exiles have

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been allowed to return to Palestine. The murderer of her
parents must believe he has called her bluff, in that he does
nothing he agreed to and she has not leveled Tel Aviv to
dust. His belief does not matter to her, as destroying Tel
Aviv was never her intent; her intent was to defuse Mattath
in order to buy time to find the resources to build the
world’s most deadly bomb.
After accomplishing her goal of building the bomb, she has
dropped a genuine Israeli passport into an airliner’s toilet
receptacle on the plane she and an escort provided by
Prince Nauf have taken from Riyadh to Jeddah—the
thriving Saudi city on the Red Sea. The city the Muslims
call the birthplace of the biblical Eve. It is the gateway to
Mecca. Subsequently, because no trains or airplanes go
into Mecca, she and the escort, like all pilgrims, took a bus
from Jeddah to the holy city, to fulfill a Muslim’s
obligation to perform the Hajj at least once in a lifetime.
She took the Israeli passport from the woman named Liya,
the same Israeli woman whose children she earlier ordered
kidnapped and later executed and who was once a friend of
the prime minister’s family. Haifa found the unstable
woman, forgotten by the prime minister, living alone in a
modest apartment on a small pension near Tel Aviv
University, her husband having left her for an emotionally
stable female. After shooting the woman once in the head,
she disposed of the body in a Tel Aviv industrial area
dumpster.
She counted on the probability that a cleaning attendant
would find the passport she dropped in the trash receptacle
after the flight returned from Jeddah to Riyadh, as the
underpaid always search the trash for anything of value.
Since the passport was of no value to the finder other than
being an item of suspicion, it would find its way to the
Saudi police. Her intent was to leave the impression of a
Jewish terrorist impersonating a Muslim woman making a
Hajj, in this case a woman seeking revenge on the Muslim

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world for the murder of her two children,. Making certain,
no one missed the trail, she also left a dress and sandals
purchased in a Tel Aviv clothing store, in a Riyadh hotel,
unmistakably the discarded attire of an Israeli woman. She
then changed into her preferred covert burqa to wear on her
final journey.
Before the scheming Palestinian woman met with the
Israeli prime minister, she encouraged the Saudi prince she
met at King Hussein’s birthday party, to seduce her. Being
a womanizer outside of pious Saudi Arabia with unlimited
wealth, he purchased a lavishly furnished condominium in
the wealthy section of Amman with the condition that she
discontinues her relationship with Peter Bentley, the British
diplomat. Dropping the good looking Brit was exactly
what her plan called for, as the Amman diplomatic circle
would think of her as an opportunist dropping one man for
the attention of a much richer one, certainly not a woman
intent on destroying Israel. She knew, as all highly placed
Muslims did, Prince Muhammad Nauf, special
representative of his Highness, King Khahid Al Saud of
Saudi Arabia, when not carousing outside of his country is
a devout Wahabbi Muslim who has funded and continues to
fund insurgent groups such as al Qaeda vowing to destroy
Israel and do harm to the United States.
Once Haifa addicted the Wahabbi playboy to her body and
acquired his trust with passionate words of affection, it was
a logical step to relate her past acquisition of the deadly
bomb and her intent to destroy Tel Aviv, driving the Jews
from the Middle East in the process. After the prince got
over the shock of a woman who had given her body to him
acquiring such a deadly weapon, funding the bomb, finding
a location in the Sudan and nuclear scientists to construct it
were exactly the challenges the rich Saudi sought, because
in the narrow straights of Islamic fundamentalism, a
practitioner cannot swerve from a hatred of Jews and the
temptation to destroy them.

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Unlimited money can acquire almost anything, especially
information, and the prince possesses the brain power to
utilize his fortune to its fullest extent: once he sent
felonious word to the many extremists, financed by his
donations to their various causes, that he wanted to obtain
nuclear technology for a salt water purification plant to be
built in the Sudan, word came back from T’bilisi in
Georgia. The phone call informed hem that nuclear
scientists from Rosnergoatun, the holding company for the
entire Russian nuclear industry were for hire at bargain
prices. As any informed Arab would know, since the
breakup of the Soviet Union and subsequent bankruptcy of
the Russian government, payments to government scientists
were almost non existent. Haifa and Prince Nauf flew to
the Georgian city, T’bilisi and then, after renting two
Japanese SUVs, crossed the border into Russia as tourists
visiting the ancient city, Rostov on the shores of Lake Nero,
said to one of the oldest settlements in Russia. After
perfunctorily viewing the medieval Kremlin and monastery
with their onion domes protruding into the sky, the caravan
of two SUVs diverted their travel from the venerated sights
to where they found scientists sitting at tables of a local bar
near the nuclear power plant, nursing the one drink they
could afford for the day. They waited for employment as
common day laborers, struggling to keep their families out
of harm’s way. The prince hired six very grateful
scientists, one in particular was an acclaimed nuclear
physicist, and directed the SUVs to retrace their path to
Georgia, after paying sizable bribes at theborder crossing.
At the crossing, it was a no brainer for the duty officer to
take money to allow the scientists to earn a living outside
the country. The party of eight and fifty pounds of easily
attainable Plutonium 239, extracted from spent uranium
rods, the prince purchased for the wholesale price of three
million English Pounds, flew to Port Sudan on the Saudi’s
private Boeing 727 airliner. The irony that Osama bin

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Laden, an enemy to the Saudi and to the Palestinian, built
the airport never occurred to either of the nuclear intriguers.
Port Sudan is Sudan’s busy industrial port on the Red Sea,
established by the British during their imperialistic
outreach. Once in the Sudan, Haifa, her partner in intrigue
and the Russians carrying Plutonium 239 boarded a train on
a rail line, also built by the British, linked to the Nile River,
getting off at Tokun, a sizable, although poor town by the
sea, where a scientific laboratory could operate without
detection and authorities paid to ask no questions. The
water purification plant they started construction on was
never intended to have nuclear power. Being constructed to
run on conventional power, it would be the prince’s gift to
the Sudanese people, a token of his gratitude for the use of
their land. The prince and Haifa, presenting themselves as
a Saudi philanthropist and his mistress devoting their time
to the betterment of the predominately Muslim north half of
the country, were able to move back and forth between Port
Sudan and Tokum smuggling necessary ingredients for the
bomb’s development and supervising the construction of
the bomb. The thermonuclear bomb, the most deadly ever
to be detonated, Price Nauf intends to use to destroy Tel
Aviv—the hub of Israeli commerce—immediately after as
his pilgrimage to Mecca is completed.
Haifa carefully arranged the timeframe, knowing the
prince would not want to destroy Tel Aviv until after he
performed the Hajj. She, playing the role of a practicing
Muslim, expressed her desire to the married Saudi to also
complete the Hajj in Mecca. T Totally enamored with
Haifa and not wanting to give up one moment without her,
Prince Nauf arranged for her to stay in Riyadh while he
prepared his family for the trip to Mecca. The day before
he left, he hired a chaperon in the Saudi capital to
accompany her so she could properly visit the holiest of
holy cities on her own. Once the prince left Riyadh with
his wives for Mecca, she diverted her destination from

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Jeddah to Port Sudan. Leaving the chaperon asleep in his
economy room, she, after discarding the pillow attached to
her stomach, changed from the effacing robe to clothing
befitting a secular woman with whom the Russian scientists
were used to seeing and thendrove to the remote laboratory
at Tokum near the Red Sea. Since the enamored prince felt
Haifa totally captivated by his affection, he trusted her to
come and go from the laboratory; the six nuclear scientists
showed no concern for her appearance as she was the co-
creator of the bomb.
Collecting the six Russians in the laboratory’s lunchroom
and convincing them to surrender the first version of the
completed fusion bomb became easy. She revealed six
bank drafts, each for one half million English Pounds and
pledged to send one draft to each of their families, knowing
beforehand the families had been barely existing on the five
hundred rubles a month Prince Nauf paid their spouses.
Her next move was to present the Russians with a very
expensive bottle of Stolichnaya Elit Vodka. She previously
used a hypodermic needle to lace the bottle’s content with
chroral alcholate-a tasteless knockout drug strong enough
to stay potent in one hundred percent proof alcohol.
Sensing the Russians were anxious to drink the rare vodka
she proposed a toast, singing a boisterous “prost” to their
new prosperity, feigning to sip her glassful as the six drank
deeply from their glasses. Haifa foresaw the impossibility
of leaving six Russian nuclear experts with the knowledge
to sell the deadly fusion bomb to anyone willing to pay
their price, so waited for them to fall asleep at the table.
When they all had passed out from the drugged vodka, she
executed each one with a bullet to their temple. Her next
move was to set fire to the laboratory, destroying all
information pertaining to the bomb and its fish eye lasers.
Boarding the train from Tokum to Port Sudan, she heard the
awful explosion coming from the remote laboratory when
the industrial size propane tanks, whose valves she fully

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opened, detonated. Now all the loose ends had been
trimmed, so she found herself unencumbered to pursue her
deadly end.
Once back in her Port Sudan hotel, Haifa put the bomb,
untested but guaranteed by the Russian scientists to be
lethal, in a baggage trunk a high placed Muslim woman
would travel with and shipped it across the sea to the Hotel
Qasr Al Sharqg in Jeddah to await her arrival.

* *

The woman visualizing her finale has changed into a white

hijab, an Arab robe, and head covering along with a veil
covering all but her dark eyes and exchanged the pillow
fastened to her stomach for the ten inch sphere containing
the fusion bomb. She now walks amidst a shoulder to
shoulder throng counter clockwise around the black stone
set in a fifty foot high by thirty-five wide marble temple
known as Kaaba. She is surrounded by at least three
hundred thousand worshipers--women dressed similarly in
white robes or the more modest burqa and men wearing
only two white sheets; the top one draped over their torsos,
the bottom sheet cinched by a white belt. Those worshipers
not close enough to kiss the black stone point at it. Even
though the men try to increase their pace around the Kaaba,
progress is extremely slow due to the mass of humanity
pressed into the holy courtyard of the Great Mosque,
Masjidul Haram. Haifa has made one circle, and needs to
lose the escort provided by Prince Nauf, a courteous older
man appropriately named Muhammad, before completing
the required seventh circle around the stone. The Hajj, this
fifth pillar of Islam, a submission to Allah, was observed by
Muhammad the Prophet, and the black stone is said to have
been set in marble by Ibrahim, Allah’s first prophet, and his
son Ishmael. All this means little more than ritualistic
mumbo-jumbo to her. Today is the greater Hajj, the eighth

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day of the twelfth Islamic month Dhul Hijja, , very
appropriate for sending 300,000 of the devoted surrounding
her and another two million Muslims in Mecca to their
paradise above, if such a place exists--free them from their
religious enslavement here on earth, she reasons.
Haifa never intended to level Tel Aviv, for that would be
too simple for a woman obsessed by hate, the pure kind that
comes from being victimized by victimizing religious
practitioners. In her mind, religion is evil, creating more
misery than bliss, more harm than good. Men use it to
acquire power; women use it to acquire identity. She uses
hatred to acquire revenge: in this her final effort, pretending
to be a Jewish agent, as the trail she has left will indicate,
she will destroy Mecca and some two and a half million
Muslim worshipers with mankind’s most powerful nuclear
bomb. This catastrophe, Haifa calculates, will turn the
world against Israel, isolate that racist country like they
isolated the Palestinians; that is the longer and better
revenge. Both her hands fondle the bulge where she has
fixed the bomb to her stomach. Muhammad, her escort,
smiles benevolently after observing her holding her belly,
believing she is pregnant. Prior to this day, knowing the
prince hired Muhammad through a broker, she met him in
the lobby of her Riyadh hotel wearing a burqa covering the
noticeable bulge made by a bed pillow fasten to her
stomach, planning to replace the pillow with the bomb once
in Jeddah.
Blood soaks the white sheet covering her escort’s leg where
she has nicked him with a razor blade. The Palestinian
woman grabs his arm and, once she has his
attention,indicates the bleeding. The older man glances at
her in disbelief, having felt nothing when the sharp blade
slashed him. Pushed on by Hajj participants, he is unable
to stop to inspect the bleeding, so looks to her for
instructions.

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“Go seek help from one of the many aid stations situated by
the walls. Once I finish my Hajj, I will find you.” The
man seems uncertain that he won’t bleed to death before he
can push his way through the throng of worshippers to an
aid station. She gives him a hundred Riyal note, saying,
“buy the best of medical attention for your wound.”
Haifa has completed a second turn around the black stone
and is still unable to push her way through the mass of
men, thirty or more circling and at the same time trying to
reach the stone in order to kiss it. Closer to the stone and a
few steps behind her pace, she spots the Saudi prince with
whom she copulated and who financed and built the bomb,
walking with his four wives. The elegant young women
are dressed in ivory white, spun silk robes, headdresses and
veils. Before she can turn away, his eyes find hers. His
two jeweled fingers form a V on the white sheet covering
his chest, signaling their secret bond. The slight smile his
lips form twists in horror when his eyes lock on the
protrusion the bomb makes under her hijab. The diabolical
woman, giving the appearance of being pregnant, sees that
her lover has guessed her intent, as he franticly pushes his
way toward her.
To Haifa, it is important to get to the black stone to ignite
the bomb, for it is the center of Islam, symbolic of the
mentality that took her womanhood, depriving her of a
ordinary life and symbolic of everything erroneous to a
developing society, so she tries to push closer to it.
“Please, let me through. I must kiss the Kaaba for my
baby’s good fortune,” she pleads to the men as she pushes
her way to the stone, all the time noticing the prince
shoving and pushing his way toward her, attempting to
intercept her before she can detonate the bomb,causing
other men to push back, creating a disturbance. Within
three bodies of reaching the stone whose black marble base
is covered with men and women kissing it, she feels the

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prince’s arms encircle her torso in a bear hug, pulling her
away.
“What are you doing, Haifa? Are you insane? This is not
what we planned to do.” His hands pull up on her robe, as
he tries to take the bomb from her body.
“Help! Someone help me. This man has gone mad. He
attacks me, a pregnant woman of Allah.” She can see that
in his haste to get to the bomb, he has pulled her robe up
over her knees, a terrible sacrilege in this most holy place.
The men around her accost the prince and not recognizing
him, restrain him.
“Let me go. It is this woman that must be stopped. She has
a bomb that will destroy us all, turn the world into a hell on
earth,” he shouts, his normally composed face now twisted
into a frightful mask.
“Please take this lunatic away before he shames me further.
I am faint with child and only seek to kiss the holiest of the
holy, the black stone that Ibrahim and his son Ishmael
placed here and the Prophet, peace be onto him, kissed.”
Two of the many Saudi security policemen stationed
throughout the mass of humanity to keep order, reach the
upheaval amidst the procession and grasp the prince by his
bare arms.
“This man acts like a fiend, molesting this woman and
insulting Allah and His devoted followers,” a male
worshiper informs the policemen, reinforced by other
accusations from angry Muslim men gathered around the
prince who appears wild eyed and disheveled, his once
perfectly groomed hair and beard sweaty and in disarray.
“You must listen. This woman is not pregnant. She has
fixed a nuclear bomb, more powerful than anything the
world knows,to her stomach. It will annihilateeverything
within a hundred kilometers. You must believe me.”
“Take this madman away,” a man within the fracas shouts
at the policemen.

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The two security policemen tighten their grips on the
struggling, unstrung Saudi prince. One policeman speaks in
an authorial voice: “we do not wish to use force, but if you
do not come with us now we will incapacitate you.”
Haifa’s coconspirator breaks free, struggling to get to her,
crying out, “why have you betrayed me.” Only before he
reaches her, the Saudi security policeman shoots him in the
back with electrodes from a taser stun gun. The Prince of
the House of Saud drops to the ground before a circle of
worshippers, writhing in agony. Two more security
policemen arrive on the scene, and together, all four men
carry the prince away, his four wives struggling to get to
the Saudi policemen to inform them of just whom they
haveimmobilized. The white sheet adorned men part ranks,
giving way for Haifa, allowing her to finally reach the
ancient black stone. Once she presses her face against the
stone, allegedly black from absorbing centuries of sins
from worldwide Muslims, the disrupted worshiperscontinue
their pilgrimage.
Haifa, with her forehead pressed against the stone, has both
hands within the skirt pockets of her hijab, her fingers
touching the small electronic transmitter that will activate
the fish eye lasers on the bomb attached to her belly. Once
activated, they will create the immense heat of the sun and
subsequent pressure to drive the atoms inward at the speed
of light. She thinks, had the Germans been made to give
the Jews a piece of their country rather than Palestinians,
maybe then my uncle would not have become the religious
fanatic that disfigured me. Had not the Israelis used their
alleged God’s bequest of land to steal my grandparents
land, maybe I would not be doing this. Her finger finds the
small transmitter’s button, and her last thought is: too bad
the sheikh in Afghanistan, the prophesized mufti, cannot
see a female shahida,in action. This is what Allah would
call a real bomb.

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Not even the dead nuclear scientist, Doctor Sultan
Bashiruddin Meghwar, knew the exact power of mankind’s
first pure fusion bomb, although he did estimate it would be
somewhere in the realm of two hundred megatons of
dynamite. Whatever the extent of its true force, the bomb
that the Palestinian woman detonated decimated the black
stone, the city of Mecca and two and a half million faithful
Muslims, leaving not one trace of mankind and his industry
for forty kilometers in all direction; a mushroom cloud
hung over the vanquished place of the Hajj for nineteen
days, a respected number in Muslim theology. The
radiation fallout, although less than a fission bomb, was
large enough to pollute Jeddah, eighty kilometers away,
forcing two and a half million residents to evacuate that
city.

* *

After the dead Israeli woman’s passport and her supposed

articles of clothing were found and, as Haifa expected, the
armies of the world, mandated by the United Nations and
led by Christian Russia and the United States and by
Muslim led Saudi Arabia and Iran, move to cordon off the
tiny, Jewish nation of Israel, isolating it before an attack.
The only hesitation for the allied forces being whether or
not to use nuclear weapons on the holy land, as they believe
Israel used on the Muslim’s most holy place.
Haifa would have enjoyed the irony surrounding Prime
Minister Mattath, a staunch advocate of regaining the land
of biblical Israel, knowing he would have been quite
pleased to see the Palestinians, finding themselves on the
wrong side of a forthcoming invasion, flee Israeli occupied
land by the tens of thousands. The boy soldier, who
became Israel’s most devoted warrior, and subsequent
apartheid prime minister had a massive stroke after losing
American support. He now lies in a stupor, spared

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witnessing the imminent demise of his country. Haifa
would have relished seeing Sheikh Osama bin Laden’s
graven face upon hearing the news that Islam’s most holy
site and most holy city is a pile of radiated dust. She
probably would have commented that a man so sure of
Allah’s will, could do no less than misjudge it. What sweet
irony it would have been for her to live to the day when
enemy bombers destroyed the holy nail—the object that
initiated all the excitement--along with the Temple of
Mullah Omar in Afghanistan.
What Haifa did not intend and what she never thought of is
that she gave the Born Again Christian leader, Paul
Hansom, and his devoted flock in America rapture
beyondexpectations. The preacher, the earlier, young
fundamentalist champion who produced the millions of
Christian political activists who work diligently to
influence government and control society, has forgotten the
loss of the holy nail, regaining the vigor of his youth,
humming, “they will see the Son of Man in a cloud with
power and glory,” as American Jews and the Jews scattered
over the planet are scurrying to Israel to protect their last
haven on earth before it is completely cut off by United
Nation forces. The hundred million dollars he promised to
raise for the tiny nation, along with the proceeds from
recent sales of his university, hospital and television
network he now uses to assist loyal Jews from all over the
world to enter Israel, because once all Jews return to defend
the biblical land, what need does he or any of his estimated
sixty million followers have of money, now that the Second
Coming of Lord Jesus is imminent; in his mind this is a
much greater gift than possessing the holy nail.

* *

Haifa, a woman mishandled by man, proved to be too much

woman for man.

296
*END*

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