The Caliphate, André Gallo [best books to read ever .TXT] 📗

“The confrontation that we are calling for does not know Socratic debates, Platonic ideals, or Aristotelian diplomacy. But it knows the dialogues of assassination, bombing, and destruction. Islamic governments have never and will never be established through peaceful solutions and cooperative councils. They are established as they always have been, by pen and gun, by word and bullet, by tongue and teeth.”

     Al Khalil trusted that, even if they couldn’t understand the meaning of Socratic debate, they did understand the rest.

***

The convoy had to stop for three roadblocks and it was late in the day when they reached Taba, an Egyptian resort where his Hamas contact had told him the control checks were not always as thorough. Rather than try to face the Israeli security gauntlet that night, they stayed at a hotel. They left early the next day and walked across the border, vehicles not being allowed through.

     Father Benoit said that they were on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He explained their vow of silence, and that they came from six monasteries in Belgium.

     “I come from the Monastery of Orval. Maybe you have heard of it.”

     “Orval beer? How about St. Sixtus beer? Why is it so expensive?” the Israeli guard examining the pile of passports asked, smiling.

     Surprised by the guard’s question, al Khalil, whose research on his cover had not been sufficiently thorough, replied, “Our Trappist monasteries started making beer in the nineteenth century. Since we don’t eat meat, it’s a welcome addition to our diet. In those days, it was much safer to drink beer than water. We also make cheese. Beer and cheese give us the income we need to live and to maintain the monastery, a little bit like your kibbutzes, I imagine.”

     “What about St. Sixtus beer? Why so expensive?”

    “I suppose the price is simply a reflection of the supply and demand.”

     The guard looked up at al Khalil speculatively.

     “I suppose. It’s famous even here. I’m not a kibbutzim, but you’re right. It sounds very similar. Are you visiting anyone in Israel? You’re not importing any beer are you?”

     “No, we don’t travel with beer bottles. We’ll definitely stop to visit our Trappist brothers at Latrun. And, of course, Jerusalem. And, if we have time, other sites with religious significance. But Jerusalem is our first priority of course.”

     “I notice that your passports are not all Belgian or Dutch. Why?”

    Al Khalil again was surprised. Though he did not easily become anxious, he felt a fresh prickle of sweat. This seemed an unusual depth for a screening. The questions, although not hostile, were precise and insistent under the cover of social chit-chat. The guard was obviously trying to lull him into complacency, to lower his guard. But no Jew would ever be smart enough. He found the interrogation offensive, especially considering the source.

     His body tightened. He fought to keep his composure. With exaggerated slowness, he said, “Right. The six Belgian and Dutch monasteries sponsoring this trip each has an exchange program with other monasteries all over the world, wherever we have brothers. As you can tell, we have nationals from South America and from Canada, Australia, and so on.”

     Tariq had carefully asked his Saudi contact to produce passports from non-Muslim countries, in order to keep Israeli security concerns to a minimum.

     The Israeli inspector was friendly enough but was obviously following a well-structured set of questions. Unfortunately, the guard knew more about Belgian beers than al Khalil had anticipated.

     They were through in two hours, walked out, and saw their Israeli transportation: another bus. One was driven by Hussein, who had arrived earlier by himself through Tel Aviv airport with an alias Sri Lankan passport. His cover was that of an agent to provide transportation, hotel accommodations, and coordinate the group’s travel and logistics. They were on the road for forty-five minutes when Hussein alerted Tariq that he thought a car was following them—at a discreet distance, but nevertheless following them.

    “If that car is still there before we make the next turn toward Ashdod, let’s go toward Jerusalem instead. I don’t want to have to abort this early in the game.”

     Tariq looked at his map and gave Hussein directions.

     “We don’t have a choice until the main road turns west and becomes Route 25. If we still have a tail by then, continue straight north and stay on number 90. That way, we also avoid going by Dimona. If they have suspicions now, driving by Dimona is not going to help. We’ll go to Jerusalem, just as I told the border inspector was our intention. We can spend a day there. I’ll have to change the timing with Hamas. They expect to transfer the weapons tonight at the Ashqelon Crusader Castle, where they’re hidden. It will delay the final attack by twenty-four or forty-eight hours. You can tell Rashid and Karim in Gaza.”

     The Israeli follow-on car let them go after they passed the branch—off to Route 25. Al Khalil looked at the desolate landscape of the Dead Sea: a green-blue lake surrounded by tortured salt and limestone formations. The road went through washed out yellowish rocky terrain. He looked to his left, to the West, and saw what must be Masada, now a four-hundred-meter-high publicity icon on which the myth of the Jewish nation had been founded. He turned away in disgust.

40. Herzlia, Israel

“Can I use the car to go to Tel Aviv?” Kella asked. “I need to buy lighter clothes. It’s hotter here than I’m used to in Paris. Besides, I should probably buy a new dress for the investiture in Jerusalem. What do you wear to a knighting?”

     Alexandria, her stepmother, replied, “There are excellent shops on Dizengoff. But I do need the car this morning. Ezra is coming in about half an hour. He