In the Sancta Sanctorum.
In the whole world there is no holier place.
His father had nearly wept as he described the great Day of Atonement. “The Sabbath of Sabbaths,” he had called it. As a boy, Ari remembered, he had sweated through the long warm holy day without a bath, without a morsel of food or a sip of water, listening to the keening prayers of his father and the others in the massive cubical shadows inside the synagogue. He was not permitted to put on his shoes. One Yom Kippur afternoon he had stared endlessly at a television screen that showed only a still picture of flowers and a flaming candle; and at the breath of evening he had shot out of the house up a sand hill to get fresh air into his lungs.
Now, however, his father’s every word was important. “Yom Kippur is the day of cleansing, when all Israel makes atonement for sin, when we fast and mortify ourselves before Ha-Shem because of our impurity.”
“And the blood, the altar, the priest?”
“That was in the days of the Temple,” his father explained. “Two goats were selected to bear the sin of the people. One goat was l’Adonai, for the Lord, and the other l’Azazel—for the Devil. The blood of the Lord’s goat, slaughtered by the priest, was taken solemnly into the temple and sprinkled upon the ark within the veil. Only the high priest was permitted in the Holy of Holies. Then he laid hands on the other goat—the scapegoat—to transfer upon its head the sin of Israel. A red cord was tied around the goat’s head and it was led away to a place of shame in the desert, the place Duda’el, where it was thrown from a cliff.”
“We don’t do these things now.”
“Ah, no,” the old man nodded. “Without the Temple, there is no altar, no sacrifice. So, as Rambam taught, until the Temple is rebuilt, the atonement must be made on the altar of every Jewish heart. It is why, on the Day of Atonement, we sing kol nidre in the synagogue.” Ari was well acquainted with the ancient song that implored God to forgive unfulfilled vows.
“Will the Temple ever be rebuilt?”
Even in the dim light of the study, Ari could see his father’s eyes darken. “Not by human means. We cannot rebuild it. It is death for any Jew to set foot on the Temple Mount.”
“Why?”
“Because, as Torah says, only a high priest of Israel may stand in the qodesh qodeshim—the Holy of Holies. Any Jew impertinent enough to walk there is guilty of the grossest sacrilege.”
“But one day…?”
“One day, son. One day. Ha-Shem Himself will redeem the Temple Mount. As Malachi the prophet wrote, the priests shall be purified and offer sacrifice once again in righteousness. But beforehand will come a time of trouble, the chevlay sh’l Moshiach, the birth pains of the Messiah. The ten days between the New Year and the Day of Atonement.
“Then the Messiah will bring in Ba ha-Olam—the world to come—and the righteous will sit down together to study Torah forever.”
Ari’s father looked thoughtful for a long while and then, abruptly, blinked at the study window. “It’s dawn.” Almost automatically, he bent to the bureau and removed from a drawer his box of phylacteries and the velvet pillow that held his skullcap and tallit, the worn prayer shawl he had used since boyhood. He stood, hesitated, and offered them to Ari. A silent invitation. After a moment, Ari took them from his father and followed his lead as the older man put on another tallit and phylacteries.
Through the window, the first sun glimmered from the eastern hills.
Lion Gate Street, Old City, Jerusalem, 0945h
The shopkeeper could not take his eyes off Nasir’s gun. The shopkeeper’s wet, warm smell filled the shop as the sun struck at the corrugated tin awning. Nasir had followed him into the shop before giving him a chance to open the shutter door; he felt sweat irrigating his own back, but he wanted the man to stew a little longer.
“What did you tell the Israeli police?” he asked finally.
“When?”
“Please.”
The shopkeeper suffered in the heat. “Let me turn on the fan. It’s so hot.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“I told them nothing.”
“What did you tell the police?”
Nasir’s voice did not change. He simply smiled insistently. The shopkeeper glanced from the gun in Nasir’s hand to the fan on the ceiling and wiped his face repeatedly with his forearm. At last his eyes blinked hard as if he were about to faint.
“What did you tell them?” Nasir repeated.
“I told them only what I knew. Only that I knew Talal Bukmun. That he was my mother’s lodger.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. They already knew…”
“They already knew what?”
“That he was a weapons dealer. I told them nothing they did not already know.”
“What did they say to you?”
“What did they say to me?”
“It’s going to be very hot in here after I leave and lock the shutter behind me. From the outside.”
The shopkeeper, not a quick man, considered this and replied. “They told me to say nothing to anyone.”
“About what?”
“They said they would shut down my shop, intern me.”
“They told you to say nothing to anyone about what?”
“Please. They are watching me. Perhaps listening…”
“I am watching you, too. And listening.”
“I would not betray Talal.”
“You would betray your mother for a shekel. What did they want to know?”
“They asked me if I knew a man named Ayoub.”
“Who?”
“Nasir, I think it was. Nasir al-Ayoub.”
“Do you know such a man?”
“No. I don’t know him.”
“Why did they ask you about Nasir al-Ayoub?”
“They say he killed Talal.”
“You know that I am Nasir al-Ayoub.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me. They showed you my picture.”
The shopkeeper blinked at the sweat in his eyes, as if willing himself not to see.
Nasir
