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Authors: Christopher Reich
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shwarma and slivovitz, synagogues and mosques. The old and the new shoved into an urban blender, stirred and spilled onto a sun-bleached cityscape with a joyless and seemingly random abandon.
Crossing an intersection, he entered the Shalma Road and began the short climb to the old town. He checked his watch. It was nearly four. He had begun his run three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago. By now, the theft had been confirmed. The border patrol, the airports, the militia, had all been put on alert. The prime minister had been informed and a war council convened. It would be put forward that Mordecai Kahn was their man. No one else had the access. No one else the means. Only the motive would baffle them. Kahn was, after all, a patriot, a staunch member of the Likud Party, a decorated veteran of Mitla Pass who had lost a son and a daughter to the country’s defense. Finally, they would decide that it made no difference. The order would be given.
Kahn smiled ruefully. It was all a dance. A wonderfully choreographed pas de deux whose principals had rehearsed their steps a thousand times.
A left turn conducted him past Clock Tower Square. The elegant spire of Mahmoudiyeh Mosque pierced the sky. Beside him, the sidewalks pulsed with humanity. Old men sat around iron-legged tables playing chess, drinking coffee, dreaming of peace. Jaffa counted as one of the oldest functioning ports in the world, and in its time, had been ruled by Greeks, Romans, Turks, Christians, and Arabs. Today, it was the Jews’ turn.
Peter had raised Tabitha from the dead here and gone to live with Simon the Tanner. Richard the Lionheart had raised the Crusaders’ banner fifty yards to sea on Andromeda Rock. But Kahn found the city’s modern history more compelling. Throughout the first half of the last century, Jaffa’s docks had welcomed the worn and sturdy multitude that had sworn to remake the Holy Land in its own image. As a boy in 1946, he himself had trod the wooden piers, a refugee from Hitler’s malice.
Today, he would make use of the pier again. He had come to the country by sea, and by sea he would leave it.
Reaching a stop sign, he put the car into first gear and glanced out his window. Nearby, two men, an Arab and a Jew, turned their faces to the sky. One shielded his eyes, while the other shook his head and looked away.
Kahn knew the helicopter was shadowing him. He had caught the rotor wash twice already. The bird was an Apache, and flying low today. When the order came to fire its Hellfire missiles, the pilots did not want to miss. A military radio tuned to their frequency was jammed into the glove compartment. Kahn believed in precautions.
The radio squawked as the men from Central Command issued their impotent instructions.
“Now,” a voice crackled amid a haze of white noise.
Kahn sat straighter, seized by doubt. Years had passed since he’d donned a soldier’s uniform. He had certainly never been trained for something like this. He had no business embarking on such a dangerous and doubtful enterprise.
You are a human being, a voice scolded him. And a Jew. You have every right.
Two blocks ahead, two cars entered the intersection from opposite sides and collided with one another. Glass shattered. Metal twisted. The drivers flew out of the cars, arms waving, hands gesticulating angrily. Kahn narrowed his eyes. The performance had begun. They hoped to catch him quietly, with a minimum of fuss and as little notice as possible. They would not wish to explain why their policy of targeted assassination had been turned on one of their own, or what drastic circumstances had demanded it be carried out in one of the more historically sensitive areas of the city.
He would give them no choice.
The taxi was closing behind him.
It was time.
Kahn wrenched the steering wheel to the right and punched the accelerator. The ancient Fiat hurtled the curb, the back wheels spinning free for a moment, before catching the dusty aphalt and
Crossing an intersection, he entered the Shalma Road and began the short climb to the old town. He checked his watch. It was nearly four. He had begun his run three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago. By now, the theft had been confirmed. The border patrol, the airports, the militia, had all been put on alert. The prime minister had been informed and a war council convened. It would be put forward that Mordecai Kahn was their man. No one else had the access. No one else the means. Only the motive would baffle them. Kahn was, after all, a patriot, a staunch member of the Likud Party, a decorated veteran of Mitla Pass who had lost a son and a daughter to the country’s defense. Finally, they would decide that it made no difference. The order would be given.
Kahn smiled ruefully. It was all a dance. A wonderfully choreographed pas de deux whose principals had rehearsed their steps a thousand times.
A left turn conducted him past Clock Tower Square. The elegant spire of Mahmoudiyeh Mosque pierced the sky. Beside him, the sidewalks pulsed with humanity. Old men sat around iron-legged tables playing chess, drinking coffee, dreaming of peace. Jaffa counted as one of the oldest functioning ports in the world, and in its time, had been ruled by Greeks, Romans, Turks, Christians, and Arabs. Today, it was the Jews’ turn.
Peter had raised Tabitha from the dead here and gone to live with Simon the Tanner. Richard the Lionheart had raised the Crusaders’ banner fifty yards to sea on Andromeda Rock. But Kahn found the city’s modern history more compelling. Throughout the first half of the last century, Jaffa’s docks had welcomed the worn and sturdy multitude that had sworn to remake the Holy Land in its own image. As a boy in 1946, he himself had trod the wooden piers, a refugee from Hitler’s malice.
Today, he would make use of the pier again. He had come to the country by sea, and by sea he would leave it.
Reaching a stop sign, he put the car into first gear and glanced out his window. Nearby, two men, an Arab and a Jew, turned their faces to the sky. One shielded his eyes, while the other shook his head and looked away.
Kahn knew the helicopter was shadowing him. He had caught the rotor wash twice already. The bird was an Apache, and flying low today. When the order came to fire its Hellfire missiles, the pilots did not want to miss. A military radio tuned to their frequency was jammed into the glove compartment. Kahn believed in precautions.
The radio squawked as the men from Central Command issued their impotent instructions.
“Now,” a voice crackled amid a haze of white noise.
Kahn sat straighter, seized by doubt. Years had passed since he’d donned a soldier’s uniform. He had certainly never been trained for something like this. He had no business embarking on such a dangerous and doubtful enterprise.
You are a human being, a voice scolded him. And a Jew. You have every right.
Two blocks ahead, two cars entered the intersection from opposite sides and collided with one another. Glass shattered. Metal twisted. The drivers flew out of the cars, arms waving, hands gesticulating angrily. Kahn narrowed his eyes. The performance had begun. They hoped to catch him quietly, with a minimum of fuss and as little notice as possible. They would not wish to explain why their policy of targeted assassination had been turned on one of their own, or what drastic circumstances had demanded it be carried out in one of the more historically sensitive areas of the city.
He would give them no choice.
The taxi was closing behind him.
It was time.
Kahn wrenched the steering wheel to the right and punched the accelerator. The ancient Fiat hurtled the curb, the back wheels spinning free for a moment, before catching the dusty aphalt and
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