Gospel (94 page)

The magazine article by an elderly Zionist who thought the oft-stated urge to tear down the Dome of the Rock and put up a Third Temple was foolish aesthetically, because he liked the Dome and could see it from his window.

The Little Sisters of Jesus closing up their religious articles store at the Seventh Station of the Cross in support of Arab solidarity and joining the strike, though it is to Israel they owe their security.

The Anglican school filled with Palestinian Moslem students, presided over by an Arab bishop.

The array of yarmulkes in a religious store, featuring Mickey Mouse and Bart Simpson as skullcap designs. When it matters so much that a man wears one, does it matter not at all what is pictured on it?

Though dependent upon a Christian country, earlier this year the Israeli government had secretly sought to install Jewish settlers in the Christian Quarter, causing an unnecessary rift between the usually allied Christians and Jews. For what absurd purpose was that plan hatched?

Is there anywhere else in the world so inscrutable?

“Look who we got here,” said O'Hanrahan, eyeing the al-Wad Avenue from the heart of the Moslem Quarter: it was Colonel Westin and his countryman, the miniscule Mr. Underwood. “Try to duck down…”

“People you know?” asked the rabbi.

The colonel almost walked past O'Hanrahan and through the Damascus Gate, but then spied him, squinted to make sure, and took Mr. Underwood by the arm and led him to the table where the trio was sitting. “Well well well, if it isn't the intrepid Mr. O'Hanrahan! Clem told me you were in town and here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Underwood gave Lucy a special smile and she instinctively looked away.

Colonel Westin sucked air in quickly between clenched teeth. “Might we…” He paused as if the request was obvious. “You know? Have a word alone.”

Warily, Rabbi Hersch and Lucy stood when it became apparent that O'Hanrahan had no intention of politely removing himself. “Let's get you some decent halvah, little girl,” said Rabbi Hersch. “I know a place.”

Lucy grabbed another almond cookie and accompanied the rabbi.

Underwood and Colonel Westin sat in their vacated chairs. Colonel Westin folded his hands and shook his head. “Apparently, Mr. O'Hanrahan, you can't keep out of trouble.”

“I'm not aware I'm up to anything, Colonel.”

Underwood and the colonel exchanged sophisticated, smug looks as if a joke had been shared.

“Something funny about that?” O'Hanrahan asked.

“You see, I know what you're up to, professor,” Colonel Westin said confidently, sucking in air through his teeth. “Clem here didn't see it, but, uh, I filled him in. Your game is safe with me.” While Underwood gaped knowingly, Colonel Westin reached across and patted the professor's arm.

O'Hanrahan: “Figured me out, have you?”

“Miss Dantan and you. Oh I approve, at your age … heh-heh. I've made some calls to Chicago. You abscond with department funds and a young lady, then do the beaches of Italy and Greece. Her parents and the university report her missing to INTERPOL and of course she's with you in a little love nest. If it hadn't been for that ikon defacement thing your little vacation would never've been discovered, right? I've got it pegged scenariowise, don't I?”

O'Hanrahan led him on. “Welllll, you make it sound so … sordid.”

“As I said, heh-heh, at your age, sir! More power to you.”

Underwood beamed approval as well.

Colonel Westin: “What I wanted to speak to you about was this. It would help us at Customs—”

Underwood: “And at the State Department.”

Colonel Westin: “—if you would be so kind as not to associate with any more nefarious contacts, Mr. O'Hanrahan. You can imagine our concern.”

“What nefarious contacts do you mean, Colonel?”

Colonel Westin sucked air in through his teeth and shook his head, as if to scold him. “You know who we mean. Mustafa Waswasah in the El-Khodz Hotel.”

O'Hanrahan restrained his impatience. “He's not a dangerous man, Colonel. He trades in rare artifacts and antique texts. I've know him since Dead Sea Scroll days,” he added, remembering the black Mercedes that attempted to follow him.

Underwood had produced a pad and a pair of reading glasses and assumed an authoritative air. “We have it on good authority from our sources…”

Colonel Westin made a show of pretending to clear his throat.

“What?” whispered Underwood.

Colonel Westin kept forcing uh-hummmms until Underwood realized he was being warned not to reveal the sources.

“I didn't tell him who told us,” Underwood whispered back.

“Just don't say it out loud.”

“I wasn't gonna.”

“Well,” Underwood regrouped, “never mind where we heard this, but, uh, we understand there are some illegally acquired antiquities that have been fenced by Mr. Waswasah, namely some Roman coins.” Underwood sighed, gazing longingly upon the almond cookies with their light dusting of sugar.

“Roman coins,” O'Hanrahan repeated.

“Yes,” said the colonel, “not to say that his entire enterprise is illegal but he does claim trade in numismatics of an ancient time frame, I understand, and some of these objects clearly are not from the source he purports. We're not sure where he gets them, but when the Israeli government finds his source, well, there'll be consequences. We wanted to make sure you didn't get taken in.”

“Gee thanks, gentlemen, for the warning.”

“Those cookies,” said Underwood, “are pretty good, aren't they?”

O'Hanrahan wasn't moved to offer one.

The colonel stood up and Underwood did the same, and O'Hanrahan fought not to dwell on the Laurel-and-Hardy couple they made. “Keep your nose clean, Mr. O'Hanrahan,” the colonel concluded, “and let us know if any other Islamic groups attempt to contact you. You do know that many of these antiquities dealers and Islamic merchants who make so much money from the academic black market have connections to terrorist cells and counterestablishment units—it's just best to steer clear.”

“Greece is one thing,” said Clem Underwood, running a hand through the sparse, carefully arrayed hair on top of his head. O'Hanrahan focused on the ring on his right hand, a black stone with a familiar insignia. Lucy had said she had seen it before, but as he squinted at it, O'Hanrahan was sure he had seen it recently too. “… but Jerusalem is another kettle of fish altogether,” Underwood concluded uneasily, before asking, “Mr. O'Hanrahan, can I have a cookie?”

“They sell them inside,” O'Hanrahan motioned to the ancient archway and the Palestinian tea-shop within.

“I'm gonna get some of these, John,” said Underwood, sidling past and into the store. This left Colonel Westin and O'Hanrahan together.

O'Hanrahan decided he'd make things interesting.

“Colonel Westin,” O'Hanrahan said confidentially. “I made a little call this morning to Athens. And there is no Clem Underwood that works for the mission in Greece, not in Athens, not in Thessalonika. The embassy was very thorough. Not in Treasury, not in Customs, not in State—nowhere.”

Colonel Westin didn't flinch. “I know that,” he snapped.

“You, Colonel, on the other hand, are indeed registered with the U.S. Customs office, so I feel I can trust you. Who is this Underwood guy?”

“We're, uh, still looking into that, professor,” he said, as if discussing a secret wartime mission. “I think we'd best not talk about it at this juncture timewise—”

O'Hanrahan hid a smile. This guy didn't have a clue. This was the first he had heard of Underwood's false identity.

“Right,” said Colonel Westin, obviously flustered. “This will all go into the official file concerning this matter, Mr. O'Hanrahan … sssh, here he comes.”

“Got your cookies, Mr. Underwood?” O'Hanrahan asked in a tone verging on mockery.

“Uh-hm,” he said, his mouth full of one.

Colonel Westin and Underwood moved along through the Damascus Gate, Underwood taking two steps for every one of the colonel's, and O'Hanrahan reached for one of the almond cookies himself.

The rabbi returned with Lucy.

“Who were those guys?” asked Rabbi Hersch.

“The tall one is some colonel put out to pasture, some poor diplomatic service bureaucrat; I checked him out. He's worried I'm going to smuggle out antiquities. The short one is pretending to be with the State Department and he's hooked up with the colonel for some reason.”

Lucy reached for a cookie. “Did you notice the insignia on the ring?”

O'Hanrahan nodded. “Yep. Sharp eyes, Sister Lucy. I've seen it before too.”

The rabbi scowled. “Too many people are interested in us lately. This isn't good.” Rabbi Hersch stared intently at his friend. “You up to something I should know about?”

O'Hanrahan smiled back placidly, no sign that he'd been offered a million deutsche marks and, alternately, a
harim
in Teheran that very day to betray Lucy and Mordechai, who stood before him in perfect trust. “No,” he said, lightly laughing. “Are you?”

A
UGUST
7
TH

Hours passed with O'Hanrahan breathing the familiar mold and dust of a fine library. He decided he deserved a break.

O'Hanrahan had not done what he was about to do in some time, but the temptation was irresistible. He backtracked a few aisles to the Prophets and the
pesharim,
the commentaries. A whole two shelves for Ezekiel, ditto for Jeremiah and Isaiah. Then the minor prophets. Waiting for him on the shelf was
Habakkuk: The Great Commentaries.

A masterpiece. One edition in Hebrew, one in English, explicating the prophets and the commentaries, the commentaries on the commentaries, the
midrash.
Habakkuk in the Bible wrote three little chapters, and yet the author of this commentary was able to spin 450 pages out of it in the tradition of the best Jewish scholarship, where the original text comes to be less important than the play of an associative mind freely ranging over the material.

For centuries Jew and Gentile alike have opened their Bibles to the
Book of Habakkuk,
that great dialogue between God and his prophet, captive of the Chaldeans. Yes, we deserve your scorn, O Lord, but must it be at the hands of the Chaldeans who are so much more evil? How often this must have been remembered as the Jews suffered in later times at the hands of Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Roman Catholics, Moslems, Nazis—
But the Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him,
which wasn't exactly the sought-for policy. O'Hanrahan turned the pages, skimmed a paragraph or two. The prose of this book was always immensely readable, learned. As in the best scholarly works, half the battle was in the choice of subject.
Habakkuk
was perfect. A small book, a minor prophet, about whom most people were content with what had been said.

Mordechai Hersch! How did you do it? You genius! You old bastard! Where did you find the patience, the discipline? If only God could have permitted me
one
of these to my name …

(You were given more than enough intellect to write one.)

I know, I know, thought O'Hanrahan, as he thumbed through the index. Look at the footnotes: every minor inflection of Hebrew tense is observed. Very important in prophetic scriptures—is God's wrath in the conditional or future perfect? Look at these acknowledgments … O'Hanrahan closed the book and held it reverently, the intellectual's modern equivalent of a relic. Thou shalt not covet thy colleague's work of scholarship, he told himself. Look at the About the Author:
Mordechai Israel Hersch teaches Hebrew and Comparative Religion at Hebrew University; he was made Rosen Professor
etc. etc., lists of awards and accolades, honorary degrees.
He is also the author of “The Azhkenazim of Prussia, 1880–1900.”
His first book, not brilliant but thorough and worthy of notice, remembered O'Hanrahan.
New Revelations from Qumran,
his book following his work on the Dead Sea Scrolls. I spent double the time on the
Thanksgiving Hymn,
thought O'Hanrahan bitterly, and yet I didn't write a thing.
Not the Messiah,
a pamphlet diatribe directed against Jews for Jesus in the early 1970s, which stirred up worldwide attention—Mordechai! I even envy your follies!
Mr. Hersch is at work on his long-awaited biography and commentary on Flavius Josephus, the First-Century Jewish historian,
the paragraph concluded.

O'Hanrahan closed his eyes.
Habakkuk
3:19,
The Lord is my strength; He makes my feet like hinds' feet, He makes me tread upon my high places.
Mordechai, you have trod upon the high places! I have stumbled and slipped … no, not even stumbled.

O'Hanrahan replaced Rabbi Hersch's book on the shelf.

No, not even stumbled, continued O'Hanrahan, I stayed at the bottom of the slope, never attempting an arduous climb. O'Hanrahan down in the valley, O'Hanrahan in
amousia,
the void in which no muses venture, buying drinks at the bar, holding forth to whomever would listen, pissing it away, talking it away, each night, each opportunity for study and serious accomplishment, all those evenings while Mordechai Hersch was writing, you, Paddy, were performing—you wanted an audience, you wanted to be the ringmaster.

(So you both got what you worked for.)

Right. O'Hanrahan the Clown, and Mordechai the Scholar. Enough of the library today. A stiff drink was what he needed.

(
Habakkuk
2:16.
Drink, yourself, and stagger!
)

After a few quick shots in the King David hotel barroom, O'Hanrahan made his way to Rabbi Hersch's office and knocked on the closed door. The rabbi called out that he would be a minute, he was finishing up with two students. During the rabbi's travels there had accrued a backlog of thesis advisees seeking appointments, phone messages, correspondence, and department memoranda that Morey had allowed to stay taped to his door. O'Hanrahan scanned the Hebrew, practicing. Then he came upon a note that said:
Philip Beaufoix, returning your call, 11:30
A.M.
6/8/90.
Two days ago.