On the Mountain of the Lord by Ray Bentley & Bodie Thoene

Author:Ray Bentley & Bodie Thoene
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Salem Books

The little café in the West Bank city of Nablus was on a narrow street lined with pottery shops, fruit stalls, and vendors in soccer balls and plastic toys. T-shirts, printed in black Arabic lettering on Hamas green, proclaimed: Nablus—City of Martyrs. At the far end of the shopping area a green-domed mosque loomed overhead, but the mosque was dwarfed in its turn by a hillside crammed with ten-story apartment blocks.

Inside the café, the air was layered with blue tobacco smoke and lazy conversation. The tables near the entry were more desirable and were in use, but the restaurant was mostly empty. In a back corner a couple shared a table with plates of roast chicken, rice, pita, and hummus.

“So, brother,” Rafa Husseini said. “Are you having trouble keeping track of your Dr. Garrison?”

“Not at all,” Faisal said, pushing back from the table. “How did your meetings with him go?”

Rafa shrugged. “Stupid of those Hamas oafs to let their tunnel be discovered. But Garrison is a typical, western unbeliever. He is ready to blame Israel for everything.”

“That attack near Damascus Gate was even worse than the tunnel,” Faisal complained. “Young, stupid hotheads! At least they directed their assaults against the police and not tourists. But it is unfortunate Garrison witnessed it.” He picked up the rubber tube of an argileh resting on the floor and took a long drag of smoke.

“Not necessarily,” Rafa argued. “Our goal here is to convince him to report that the Jewish settlements need to be abandoned and Palestinian sovereignty enacted. He must believe that nothing short of granting all our territorial demands will bring peace. To that end, all unrest is good. Take the Noble Sanctuary for example—nobody with any brains thinks the Jews would be stupid enough to rebuild their Temple. But just the rumor that they might sends thousands of rioters into the streets and millions of dollars of donations into our treasury.”

“Too many of our people want to live in peace with Israel,” Faisal complained. “They see the prosperity of the cursed Jews and wish to share it, instead of working toward taking it all.”

“What if Dr. Garrison experienced violent unrest even more closely?”

Faisal rubbed the amber-colored mouthpiece of the hookah on the sleeve of his jacket. “You don’t mean kill him?”

“Certainly not!” Rafa exclaimed. “That would be a disaster! He is, after all, an American, and we dare not risk angering their government—not the one in power now. But if Garrison experienced the seething anger of Palestinian unrest—if the random but unquenchable resentment against the Jewish treatment of Palestine were, shall we say, emphasized?”

“I think I know exactly how and when,” Faisal returned, nodding. He drew in, then aimed a precise arrow of smoke at the ceiling. “Leave it to me.”

“Be careful,” Rafa urged. “He must not be seriously injured.”

“Leave it to me,” Faisal repeated.

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