Anxiety building quickly, Muhammad was hoping someone at the table would support him. None spoke up. “There was an earthquake,” he stressed. “Mild, yes. And when it first happened we were granted permission to see what had happened. I personally viewed the tunnel . . . you too, Safwan,” he said, pointing to the gaunt Arab wearing a kaffiyeh who sat across from him. “You saw it with your own eyes. Tell them.”
Safwan was silent; his charcoal eyes went to his hands.
Muhammad persisted, “Considerable damage was done—”
Ghalib overrode him. “Need I remind you that the damage was done long ago when you sat idly by over the past decade and allowed Jews to excavate the tunnels beneath the Muslim Quarter?”
“It was a trade-off,” he insisted. “They got the tunnel; we were permitted to restore the Marwani Mosque.” He held his hands and balanced them like scales.
“And see where that got you? You cleared the way for thieves to blow a hole through it.”
The Marwani Mosque had been the thieves’ entry point to the arched vaults beneath the mount—and a hidden chamber sealed behind its rear wall, which they’d accessed with C-4 plastic explosive.
Muhammad’s face reddened. He was playing right into Ghalib’s hands. And the man was certainly looking to make an example out of him. One thing was now clear: Ghalib’s appointment here was indicative of a subversive political agenda playing out on a much higher level. Given the current state of affairs, he still couldn’t imagine how the Israelis had even granted Ghalib entry into the country. Most likely, Ghalib had been snuck in by his Lebanese Hezbollah contacts. Ghalib had yet to step foot off the Haram, refused all media appearances, and corresponded under the assumed name Talal bin Omar. However, the Israelis weren’t stupid, so Muhammad could only guess that they preferred having Ghalib within easy reach. “The proper resolution we’ve always sought has been peace. Cooperation. Coexistence. Just as the Prophet teaches us.”
Ghalib sneered. “Peace? Coexistence?” He mockingly held his hands out at the man and let his gaze circle the table. “There is no peace in Jerusalem. Peace is a hopeless ideal that appeals only to the weak. There will never be peace in a place where Jews burrow like vermin beneath the great Prophet’s sacred mosque. And coexistence is an excuse for your fear of their guns and nuclear weapons. Only victory will bring peace. And in the name of Allah, we will prevail.” The teacher in him shone through, ever ready to provide Qur’anic tafsir favoring jihad. “Do you not agree?”
Scowling faces swung toward Muhammad. The Keeper’s question was a loaded gun. He paused to consider an appropriate rebuttal. “I do not condone what is now happening, but—”
“My ears have heard this digging!” another elder burst out. “While praying in the mosque . . . below my feet . . . I hear chipping sounds!” He cupped a hand around his ear and tried to imitate it: “Chh-chh-chh. Chh-chh-chh. This is what I hear. It is true. The Jews seek to destroy the Haram!”
The room erupted.
Smiling, Ghalib savored the moment. A half minute later, he finally raised his hands up to silence them. “Infestation. Like termites. That is what we are dealing with. There is a plague here that must be eliminated. We must free our house from defilement. It is not a choice. It is our sworn duty.”
The council members barked their support.
“We must avoid drastic action,” Muhammad delicately pleaded as he rose to his feet and placed a hand flat on the table. “Hostility will only cost innocent lives,” he said, patting the hand twice. “Has this not been proven time and time again?”
Rebuking shouts drowned him out. Ghalib once again intervened to settle them down. Then he jabbed a spindly finger toward Muhammad and commanded, “Sit down!”
Muhammad’s firm expression withered into despair. He threw his hands up in surrender. “I cannot support this . . .” He made to leave the room.
Ghalib’s right hand sliced the air like an ax blade. “I am not finished!” he roared, nostrils flaring.
Muhammad froze and turned back to him.
“Jews have no place here!” Ghalib held up a balled fist and swung it like a hammer. “This is a truth that cannot be questioned! Be assured that our response to recent events will be swift and concise. And our voice must be one. It is evident that your disgraceful words are solely your own and will not poison our ears. Therefore, your services are no longer required by this council. Now go, and don’t come back.” His hand chopped an arc to the door. “And let me remind you that anything you say outside these walls will have very serious consequences.” His face twisted. “Very serious indeed.”
Glaring eyes bored into Muhammad like needles in a pincushion as he slunk out of the room.
The room erupted again, the men boisterously voicing their approval of Ghalib’s fervent patriotism.
19
******
Qumran
By the time Amit steered the Land Rover off Kaliah-Sedom (Highway 90) and up the drive leading to an empty parking lot, the sun was setting over the hills of Jordan, making the Dead Sea glow amber and sapphire. He claimed the spot closest to the planted palm grove bordering the tiny makeshift oasis that was Qumran’s visitors’ center.
“Isn’t this romantic,” Jules said. “We have the place all to ourselves.” “Too bad I didn’t bring some wine.”
“Always a step behind,” she teased, shaking her head.
He grinned tightly, knowing she wouldn’t be saying this after he’d
shown her what he’d found up in the hills.
They both hopped out.
Amit circled to the Land Rover’s rear and lifted the hatch to retrieve
some provisions.
Meanwhile, Jules took a few seconds to admire the picturesque sea with its white mineral-crusted shore, the stark umber hills jutting up into the amethyst glow spreading into the sky above.
The Land Rover locked with a quick flash of lights and a tiny chirp as Amit pocketed his keys. He came to her side holding flashlights and a black rucksack.
“God, it’s so beautiful,” Jules said.
“Sure is. And smell that?” He breathed through his nostrils, long and steady—the distinctive aroma of clay, potash, and bromine.
She sampled it too, her thin nose flaring at the sides.
“That’s history . . . the Bible; what keeps me coming back,” he said.
“Smells a bit like a swimming pool,” she said in a snooty French accent, “but whatever floats your ark.”
“You’re ruthless.” Shaking his head, he handed her a light.
He led her up some paved steps past the squat gift shop and ticket center, out back to the gravel trails leading to the sheer cliffs that formed a continuous wall to the north and south. To their left were the excavated ruins—mainly foundations—of the village the Essenes had inhabited up until the first century. Not far beyond them was a deep gorge extending from the sea to a huge mineral-coated crevasse cut into the cliffs by the winters’ flash flood runoff. They were headed to a zigzag path running up it.