tassles of a tallit katan dangling from beneath his jacket; the other tall and tanned, his hair crew-cut almost down to the scalp, his arms and neck thick with knotted muscle. All three wore black yarmulkes on their heads.
'What about the cameras?' asked the pale man as they walked, nodding at the security monitors bolted at regular intervals along the street.
'Forget them,' said Har-Zion, waving a hand dis-missively, a certain stiffness to the movement as though his roll-neck sweater, which came up almost to the level of his jawline, was a little too tight for him. 'I've got friends in the David control centre. They'll turn a blind eye.'
'But what if—'
'Forget them,' repeated Har-Zion, firmer this time. 'Everything's been taken care of.'
He threw the man a glance, his granite-grey eyes narrowed slightly as if to say 'I don't want you here if you're afraid', then looked to the front again.
The three of them strode onwards, following the stepped slope of David Street down towards the Jewish quarter before swinging left into one of the souks that thrust deep into the heart of the Muslim part of the city. Walls of shuttered shop-fronts stretched away to either side of them, grey and uniform, their metal plates scrawled with Arabic graffiti, interspersed here and there with the odd word or phrase in English: FATAH, HAMAS, FUCK OFF JEWS. They passed a Coptic priest hurrying up to prayers in the Holy Sepulchre, and a pair of tourists, male, drunk, struggling to locate their hostel in the maze of narrow streets. Otherwise they were alone.
A bell clanked the hour, the sound echoing dully across the rooftops.
'I hope we are fucking seen,' growled the crew-cut man as they went, patting his Uzi. 'It's our city. Screw the Arabs.'
Har-Zion smiled faintly but said nothing, just pointed them down a narrow alley flanked by high stone walls. They passed a courtyard full of rubbish, a wooden door behind which they could hear the faint babble of a television, and the gateway of a small mosque before emerging into an empty cobbled street that ran perpendicular to the one they had just descended. To the right it disappeared beneath a series of low stone arches, running down towards the Western Wall; to the left it inclined upwards in the direction of the Via Dolorosa and the Damascus Gate. A sign in front of them read AL-WAD ROAD.
Har-Zion checked both ways, then dropped to his haunches – again with that tightness of movement, as if something was somehow constricting him – and unzipped his holdall, producing two crowbars, which he handed to his companions, and a canister of spray paint, which he kept for himself.
'Let's get started.'
He led them over to a tall, shabby-looking building – a typical old-city house with chunky stone façade, wooden doorway and arched windows, grilled and shuttered.
'You're sure it's empty?' asked the pale man nervously.
Again Har-Zion gave him that piercing, grey-eyed stare. 'This is no place for a nebbish, Schmuely.'
The smaller man blinked and lowered his head, ashamed.
'Let's get to work,' said Har-Zion.
He shook the canister, the clack of ball-bearings echoing down the street, and began to spray, drawing a crude seven-branched menorah onto the walls to either side of the doorway, the paint dripping in places so that in the uncertain light it looked as if a huge claw was scratching into the stone, causing it to bleed. His companions began working their crowbars into the gap between the door and its jamb, easing them in about two inches, levering them back to widen the crack and forcing them in further until the door-bolt gave with a sharp splintering sound. They looked up and down the street, then stepped into the dark interior. Har-Zion finished spraying the second menorah, picked up the leather holdall and followed them in, pushing the door to behind him.
They had heard about the house from a friend in the Jerusalem police. Its Arab owners were away on 'umra and had left the place empty,
'What about the cameras?' asked the pale man as they walked, nodding at the security monitors bolted at regular intervals along the street.
'Forget them,' said Har-Zion, waving a hand dis-missively, a certain stiffness to the movement as though his roll-neck sweater, which came up almost to the level of his jawline, was a little too tight for him. 'I've got friends in the David control centre. They'll turn a blind eye.'
'But what if—'
'Forget them,' repeated Har-Zion, firmer this time. 'Everything's been taken care of.'
He threw the man a glance, his granite-grey eyes narrowed slightly as if to say 'I don't want you here if you're afraid', then looked to the front again.
The three of them strode onwards, following the stepped slope of David Street down towards the Jewish quarter before swinging left into one of the souks that thrust deep into the heart of the Muslim part of the city. Walls of shuttered shop-fronts stretched away to either side of them, grey and uniform, their metal plates scrawled with Arabic graffiti, interspersed here and there with the odd word or phrase in English: FATAH, HAMAS, FUCK OFF JEWS. They passed a Coptic priest hurrying up to prayers in the Holy Sepulchre, and a pair of tourists, male, drunk, struggling to locate their hostel in the maze of narrow streets. Otherwise they were alone.
A bell clanked the hour, the sound echoing dully across the rooftops.
'I hope we are fucking seen,' growled the crew-cut man as they went, patting his Uzi. 'It's our city. Screw the Arabs.'
Har-Zion smiled faintly but said nothing, just pointed them down a narrow alley flanked by high stone walls. They passed a courtyard full of rubbish, a wooden door behind which they could hear the faint babble of a television, and the gateway of a small mosque before emerging into an empty cobbled street that ran perpendicular to the one they had just descended. To the right it disappeared beneath a series of low stone arches, running down towards the Western Wall; to the left it inclined upwards in the direction of the Via Dolorosa and the Damascus Gate. A sign in front of them read AL-WAD ROAD.
Har-Zion checked both ways, then dropped to his haunches – again with that tightness of movement, as if something was somehow constricting him – and unzipped his holdall, producing two crowbars, which he handed to his companions, and a canister of spray paint, which he kept for himself.
'Let's get started.'
He led them over to a tall, shabby-looking building – a typical old-city house with chunky stone façade, wooden doorway and arched windows, grilled and shuttered.
'You're sure it's empty?' asked the pale man nervously.
Again Har-Zion gave him that piercing, grey-eyed stare. 'This is no place for a nebbish, Schmuely.'
The smaller man blinked and lowered his head, ashamed.
'Let's get to work,' said Har-Zion.
He shook the canister, the clack of ball-bearings echoing down the street, and began to spray, drawing a crude seven-branched menorah onto the walls to either side of the doorway, the paint dripping in places so that in the uncertain light it looked as if a huge claw was scratching into the stone, causing it to bleed. His companions began working their crowbars into the gap between the door and its jamb, easing them in about two inches, levering them back to widen the crack and forcing them in further until the door-bolt gave with a sharp splintering sound. They looked up and down the street, then stepped into the dark interior. Har-Zion finished spraying the second menorah, picked up the leather holdall and followed them in, pushing the door to behind him.
They had heard about the house from a friend in the Jerusalem police. Its Arab owners were away on 'umra and had left the place empty,
Similar Books
