Hadassah Covenant, The (6 page)

Chapter Five

The Wall Street Journal Europe
, Monday, June 30, 2003, p. A1

For 1,500 years, from the era of Alexander the Great to the late 13th century, a high Mesopotamian priest in Babylon ruled as the supreme leader of Eastern Jewry. Known as the Exilarch, he settled all disputes brought before him by Jews living as far away as India and Spain. The Exilarch’s authority ended only when Mongol hordes sacked Babylon, for centuries the city with the world’s largest Jewish community
.

—“E
XILE
S
EEKS
R
EPARATIONS FOR
J
EWS
F
ROM
I
RAQ IN
F
IRST
S
TAGE OF
P
LAN
”

C
OALITION
H
EADQUARTERS, THE
G
REEN
Z
ONE
, B
AGHDAD—THE FOLLOWING MORNING

W
ith a loud slap
, the leather-bound sheath of ancient documents struck the briefing room table and slid sideways. The short, thickly muscled United States Army officer who had slammed it down stood, exhaled loudly, and glared around at the four men sitting before him in the canvas-filtered light of the divisional briefing room.

It was a careless way to treat objects this sensitive, but Colonel John McIntosh also knew that he didn’t care. Tiptoeing around ancient artifacts was just the kind of time-wasting frivolity he hated most about his job. Precisely the sort of politically correct goose chase that resulted in soldiers getting killed for no useful purpose. Such as the case at hand—classic example of bureaucrats messing with the mission profile and getting good men zipped into body bags.

For his opening salvo, the colonel fixed a disdainful scowl at the
bearded Brit, Osborn, the personification of all this nonsense.

“So—you really think
this
is what those men fought and died for? Took out a chopper and a dozen men?” “I do, sir.”

Good
. Ari “Osborn” was relieved he had been able to deliver the response flat and unmoved.

“Must have been real antique lovers.” The colonel rolled his eyes at the others, military men all, and elicited a few cheap, sympathetic chuckles.

“Sir,” Osborn continued, the first lilt of a defensive pitch unavoidably stealing into his voice, “the documents were likely stolen from the Battaween Synagogue in Baghdad when it was looted several months ago on orders from the highest ranks of the insurgency—maybe by al-Zarqawi himself. You know how sensitive the subject of Jews and Judaism is in this country. This whole region, for that matter. So you begin with the fact that truly ancient Jewish artifacts are extremely rare. To the rarity, you can add the anti-Semitism, which adds to their attraction. Then add any possible intelligence value they might hold.”

“Well, that’s fine, but I have neither the time nor the patience to front this little turf war. However, for the sake of clarity, let me state my sympathies right up front. We’re here to conquer terrorism, not start a museum. So who’s gonna end up signing for these things and baby-sitting them until we can get on to serious matters?”

The colonel’s pugnacious demeanor was so stereotypical, Ari almost smiled.

The Italian colonel stood up and said in careful English, “As you said, Viper 5 lost twelve of our best men and friends to secure this material. Our mission is to protect or reclaim stolen antiquities. And we paid a very high price to carry it out. These items must be returned to the Antiquities Protectorate.”

“Sir,” began an American intelligence officer sitting beside him, “I’ve had a look at one of them since Dr. Osborn brought them in. And from what I could tell, it was still in pretty good shape. Hardly an antiquity.”

“What is it, then?”

Another American in the corner mumbled, “It’s a hot potato.”

“You have no idea,” Osborn put in with a nod at the comment. “I asked a friend from Israel to read—”

“You
what
?” The colonel leaned forward on his fists. “I asked an Israeli friend to read the parchment.” Osborn was carrying off the ruse on orders. Headquarters in Jerusalem had instructed him to signal the American that Israel would soon know—without destroying his own cover. Osborn consciously relaxed his shoulders, his breathing, and fixed the American with strong eye contact. He was skilled in making these things work—only with expert training and a good deal of luck would the colonel know the truth. “There was no other way. I read Latin, Greek, and a smattering of Persian. But Hebrew—”

“An
Israeli
?” The colonel’s face had turned bright red, and he leaned even further to stare into Osborn’s face.

“Sir, there’s not a single Hebrew interpreter anywhere in the theater, at least officially. We just never anticipated Jewish documents being trafficked. In order to assess these items properly, I had to move quickly and get expert help.”

The colonel sighed deeply, stood to his full five foot seven, and swept the group with glowering eyes. “And what did your Israeli friend say?”

“He said the other documents were lists of family names. Genealogies.”

“Harmless, no?” offered the Italian colonel hopefully. “Well, I thought so at first. But then my friend explained further. It turns out quite the contrary. They’re explosive. See, there are only a few dozen Jews left in Iraq. But there used to be an enormous population here. Hundreds of thousands in Baghdad alone. They were not only influential, but in many cases, enormously wealthy. They owned or controlled many of the organs of industry. Over the years, many of them escaped the occasional outbreak of persecution by moving away to more friendly countries. This exodus started centuries ago, but it picked up steam as time went on.” Osborn paused a moment, but when no one spoke he continued. “And then, when Israel was formed in 1948, the Iraqi authorities cranked up the persecution to an all-time high. Finally, the government struck a deal with Israel. If the Jews would renounce their Iraqi citizenship and
abandon their holdings, they’d be allowed to leave with a single suitcase and the equivalent of fifty dollars in cash. So for the next few months, Israel started flying out Jewish refugees in an airlift called Operations Ezra and Nehemiah. By the time they were done, only a few thousand Jews were left in the whole country. Ironically, Iraq was supposed to accept a sizable number of Palestinian refugees from the West Bank in exchange, but they reneged on that part of the deal.”

“But, sir, what does this have to do with genealogies?” asked the Italian, shrugging expressively.

“Yeah,” chimed in the colonel as he sat down again. “What’s your point?”

“Well, when the anti-Jewish pogroms first started in Iraq, many of the Jews who remained started slipping away from their communities and just melting into the population. Assimilating. Changed their names, their language, everything. They tried to erase every possible sign of their heritage. Not out of cowardice but genuine fear. Fear for their lives and for their children.”

“And the documents . . .”

“They’re the last reliable records of who all these assimilated Jews really were.”

A long, knowing pause fell upon the group.

“See,” Osborn’s tutorial continued, “it was a tradition among these people to make their children memorize their genealogies going back twenty or more generations. So there was no written record—but in case they ever found themselves on free soil and were asked to prove their Jewishness, it was all in their heads. These other, written synagogue genealogies were kept as a sort of ultimate backup record and were very carefully hidden. But they could quickly become death warrants for every one of these people and their descendants if they ever fell into the wrong hands.”

“Which they did.”

“Yes, they did. In fact, there was something worse still.”

The air suddenly filled with the colonel’s expletives.

“We found fragments of translated copies. Into Arabic.”

The colonel frowned and shook his head. “You mean—?”

“Yes, sir. The records were copied. These names were written down and moved elsewhere.”

Now the colonel thrust his fingers across his face and up through his short blond hair. “Of course.” His sarcasm was returning; his face bore the expression of one weary of living. “So these . . . death warrants, as you call them, may have been freely distributed into the ranks of Islamic insurgents.”

Osborn replied, “To the thousands of Jews who’d gone underground, living like Iraqis, these documents are without a doubt road-maps to their own assassinations.”

The diminutive but powerful man looked upward, as though imploring G-d for help. “Now, is there any chance that your Jewish interpreter friend has no ties whatsoever to the Israeli government?”

Ari Osborn was silent for a moment. He fought back a wry smile as he thoughtfully stroked his full beard. “Little chance, sir. He works for the . . . Israeli National Library.”

McIntosh’s exhaled breath made every one of them jump.

Another officer spoke up from the center of the table. “Sir, the State Department will probably have to be notified.”

“Of
course
I know State will have to be notified!” the colonel shouted.

“I don’t understand,” Ari said in his best lame-question voice.

“Really! You mean geopolitics isn’t your specialty?” McIntosh was in full fury now. “Well, you may have heard that Israel has stayed as far from this war as it possibly could. At least officially, that is. Their Mossad is everywhere; we know that. But it’s all as far undercover as possible. Best for both sides.”

Osborn monitored every muscle in his body and even held his breath. The smallest inhalation, if taken too quickly, could give him away. For that matter, his own pupils could betray him—but he could hardly control that.

“If word ever reaches Jerusalem that some of their own people have been exposed to terrorists and are in grave danger,” McIntosh continued his tutorial, “well, you know Israel has always taken the initiative. The
military
initiative. And the least involvement from Israel could destroy the Coalition. Radicalize the Iraqi Parliament. Maybe destabilize the whole region. Heck, who knows—maybe even fuel a real war. Is that serious enough for you? You sure fired up a storm with your little museum pieces!”

There was a pause. Finally, Ari spoke up in a low, measured voice. “You can assume that Jerusalem already knows.”

“Why?”

Osborn shrugged.

“Why?” This time, McIntosh’s voice had risen to a shout.

Osborn fixed the American with a dead-level stare. “Because my friend was, shall we say, highly agitated after I was finished with him. His credentials are from the Ministry of Religion in Jerusalem. And who knows, he could be . . .”

“Great. Mossad.” The colonel’s voice was flat. The histrionics were over. “These documents are property of CIA, all right? Forget the archaeological side ever existed. And Craig, fire up the Black Hawk. I’m going to have to see the general right away.”

“Which one?”

“
The
general. Do I make myself clear? This is big problems. Things are about to hit the fan. Anonymous Jews are about to start dying all over the place.”

As if to add its own exclamation point, the distant yet too-close crackle and thump of an exploding car bomb launched the normally unruffled men to the edge of their seats. Embarrassed chuckles filled the room.

But no one stayed behind to continue the discussion.

In the outer parking area, far removed from any American watchers, Osborn jumped into his car, sighed deeply to release the tension wracking his body, and slowly lowered his forehead to the steering wheel.

So far, so good
, he told himself. He was nearly certain he had pulled off the deception with his cover intact. Not a meeting for the faint of heart.

Without even glancing aside, he fumbled between his front seats and tightly grasped a plastic bag wedged there. He sighed again in relief.

Thank goodness, he had made copies of everything, and withheld many of the originals for himself. . . .

Almost to reassure himself that he was in control of the unfolding events, he opened the bag, removed the first scroll, and carefully
unrolled it. He chuckled to think of the sanitary environment in which a document like this would normally be handled.

Then, right there in the daylight, he pulled out the infrared scope again and began to read the second part of Leah’s desperate letter—a plea that now threatened to shake a world three thousand years removed.

. . . Esther, I elaborated to you on my own night with the King to let you see why the events that followed came as such a shock, and also to spare myself the ordeal of trying to describe my emotional state in the minutes after Mordecai informed me of my rejection.

To have the most remarkable thing seemingly happen, to see the King actually fall in love with me before my very eyes, and then to have my instincts confirmed by—dare I say it?—awed and overwhelmed words from his very own lips, not only that but to feel myself fall in love with him, and
then be rejected
, with no knowledge of why. . . .