Legends

“Huh. So. Detectives, they say Minh not even Minh’s name, she illegal immigrant from Taiwan named Chun-chiao. Business picked up when Daily News ran name Xing’s Mandolin on page two even though they spelled Xing ‘Zing.’ I admit it, whole thing leave bad taste in my mouth. Velly upsetting.”

Martin assumed Tsou was referring to Minh’s death. “Yeah, very,” he agreed.

Tsou, however, seemed to be more concerned with Minh’s false identity than her death. “Cannot believe anyone anymore these days, huh, yin shi? Minh not Minh. Maybe you not Matin.”

“Maybe the Daily News was right,” Martin said, “maybe your real name is Tsou Zing with a ‘Z.’“

“Maybe,” Tsou agreed with a sour laugh. “Who can say?”

With Rabbi Ben Zion and Martin strolling along in the lead and the two Kastner sisters bringing up the rear, the group of thirty or so ultranationalist orthodox settlers, the men sporting tzitzit and embroidered yarmulkes, the women in ankle-length skirts and long sleeved blouses and head scarves, made their way down the road toward the Cave of Machpela to greet the Sabbath at the holy site where the Patriarch Abraham was said to be buried. Two policemen wearing blue uniforms and blue baseball caps, along with half a dozen of the younger settlers, walked on either side of the group, rifles or Uzis slung over their shoulders.

The sun had disappeared behind the hills and the darkness was starting to blot out the twilight between the buildings. Instinctively, the murky dusk left Martin feeling queasy. Agents who worked the field liked daylight because they could see danger coming, and night-time because they could hide from it; the penumbra between the two offered none of the advantages of either. The massive fortress-like structure built over the sacred cave loomed ahead like a ship adrift in a fog.

“What do the Palestinians here think of your pilgrimages to the shrine?” Martin asked the rabbi, all the while inspecting the spaces between the Palestinian houses off to the right for any telltale sign of activity. Martin tensed as a shard of light ricocheted off a roof; as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he realized it was nothing more than a lingering sliver of sunlight glinting off the solar heating panels atop a three-story building.

“The Palestinians,” the rabbi replied, waving toward the surrounding houses, “say we’re walking on their toes.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

The rabbi shrugged. “Look, it’s not as if we’re being unreasonable. Those of us who believe the Lord God gave this land to Abraham and his descendants for eternity are willing to let the Palestinians remain here as long as they accept that the land is ours.”

“What about the others?”

“They can emigrate.”

“That doesn’t leave them—or you, for that matter—much room for maneuver.”

“It’s easy for visitors to come here from the outside and criticize, Mr. Odum, and then fly back to the safety of their country, their city, their homes …”

“My home,” Martin ventured, “turns out to be less safe than I thought.” He made a mental note to get more details of the death of Stella’s father. He wondered if there had been an autopsy.

“You’re talking about crime in the streets. It’s nothing compared to what we have to put up with here.”

“I was talking about exploding honey—”

“Come again—I must be missing something.”

“Private joke.”

Eyeing potential danger areas, Martin spotted a spark in an alley-way between two Palestinian homes to his right and uphill from the group of settlers walking toward the cave. Suddenly flames erupted and a blazing tire, thick black smoke billowing from it, started rolling downhill toward them. As the settlers scattered to get out of its path, the short hollow cough of a high-powered rifle resounded through the neighborhood and a spurt of dust materialized in the road immediately ahead of Martin. His old reflexes kicked in—he figured out what was going on in an instant. The tire was the diversion; the rifle shot had come from the other side of the road, probably from the top of the cement cistern a hundred and fifty yards away on a small rise. The two policemen and the settlers armed with weapons had reacted instinctively and were charging uphill in the direction of the alleyway where the tire had come from. One of the policemen was shouting into a walkie-talkie. Back at Kiryat Arba, a siren, its pitch rising as it whimpered into life, began shrieking across the countryside.