There was another attack later that afternoon, a young Arab from East Jerusalem, a kitchen knife, the busy Central Bus Station on the Jaffa Road. This time, the Arab did not survive. He was shot by an armed civilian, but not before stabbing two women, both septuagenarians. One expired on the way to Hadassah; the other, in the trauma center as Natalie was applying pressure to a chest wound. Afterward, on the television in the staff lounge, she watched the leader of the Palestinian Authority telling his people that it was their national duty to kill as many Jews as possible. “Slit their throats,” he was saying, “stab them in their evil hearts. Every drop of blood shed for Jerusalem is holy.”
Evening brought a respite of quiet. Natalie and Ayelet had dinner together in a restaurant in the hospital’s gleaming shopping mall. They spoke of mundane subjects, men, movies, the sex life of a nymphomaniacal nurse from the childbirth center, anything but the horror they had witnessed that day. They were interrupted by yet another crisis; four victims of a head-on collision were on their way to the emergency room. Natalie saw to the youngest, a religious girl of fourteen, originally from Cape Town, who lived in an English-speaking community in Beit Shemesh. She had suffered numerous lacerations but no broken bones or internal injuries. Her father, however, was not so fortunate. Natalie was present when the child was told of his death.
Exhausted, she stretched out on a bed in the staff lounge for a few hours’ sleep, and in her dreams she was chased by a mob of hooded men with knives. She woke with a start and squinted at her mobile phone. It was seven fifteen. Rising, she swallowed a cup of black coffee with sugar, made a halfhearted attempt to put her hair in order, and headed back to the emergency room to see what horror the last two hours of her shift would bring. It remained quiet until 8:55, when Ayelet was notified of another stabbing.
“How many?” asked Natalie.
Ayelet held up two fingers.
“Where?”
“Netanya.”
“Netanya? You’re sure it was Netanya?”
Ayelet nodded grimly. Natalie quickly dialed the number for her parents’ apartment. Her father answered instantly, as though he were sitting next to the phone, waiting for her call.
“Papa,” she said, closing her eyes with relief.
“Yes, of course. What’s wrong, darling?”
She could hear the sound of a French morning television program in the background. She was about to tell him to switch to Channel 1 but stopped herself. Her parents didn’t need to know that their little French sanctuary by the sea was no longer safe.
“And Mama?” asked Natalie. “She’s well?”
“She’s right here. Would you like to speak to her?”
“It’s not necessary. I love you, Papa.”
Natalie hung up the phone. It was nine o’clock exactly. Ayelet had given up her seat in the corral for the next shift supervisor, Dr. Marc Geller, a freckled, ginger-haired Scot.
“I want to stay,” said Natalie.
Marc Geller pointed toward the door. “I’ll see you in three days.”
Natalie collected her belongings from the staff room and, numbed by fatigue, rode a shuttle to the satellite parking lot. An armed security guard wearing a khaki vest walked her to her car. So this is what it means to be Jewish in the twenty-first century, she thought as she slid behind the wheel. Chased from France by a rising tide of anti-Semitism, Natalie and her parents had come to the Jewish homeland, only to face a wave of brutal stabbings by young men bred and indoctrinated to hate. For the moment, Israel was not safe for the Jews. And if not Israel, where? We are, she thought, starting the engine, a people on the edge.
Her apartment was a short distance from the hospital in Rehavia, a costly neighborhood in an increasingly costly city. She inched her way through the morning traffic along Ramban Street, turned left into Ibn Ezra Street, and eased into an empty space along the curb. Her apartment building was around the corner on Elkharizi Street, a tiny alleyway scarcely wide enough for cars. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of pine and bougainvillea. Natalie walked swiftly; even in Rehavia, an entirely Jewish neighborhood, she no longer felt safe. She passed through the gate, entered the foyer, and climbed the stairs to her flat. As she reached her door, her phone began to chime. She checked the caller ID before answering. It was her parents’ number in Netanya.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all,” said a confident male voice in French.
Natalie checked the caller ID again. “Who is this?”
“Don’t worry,” said the voice. “Your parents are fine.”
“Are you in their apartment?”
“No.”
“Then how are you using their phone?”
“I’m not. It’s just a little trick we use to make sure you didn’t send us straight to voice mail.”
“We?”
“My name is Uzi Navot. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’m the chief of something called the—”
“I know who you are.”
“That’s good. Because we know who you are, too, Natalie.”
“Why are you calling?” she demanded.
“You sound like one of us,” he said with a laugh.
“A spy?”
“An Israeli.”
“I am an Israeli.”
“Not anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen carefully, Natalie. I want you to hang up the phone and go inside your apartment. There’s a woman waiting there. Don’t be afraid, she works for me. She’s taken the liberty of packing a bag for you.”
“Why?”
The connection went dead. Natalie stood for a moment wondering what to do. Then she drew her keys from her handbag, opened the door, and went inside.
17
JEZREEL VALLEY, ISRAEL
THE WOMAN SEATED AT THE kitchen table didn’t look much like a spy. She was small, smaller than Natalie, and wore an expression that fell somewhere between boredom and grief. She had helped herself to a cup of tea. Next to it was a mobile phone, and next to the phone was Natalie’s passport, which had been hidden in a manila envelope in the bottom drawer of her bedside table. The envelope had also contained three letters of an intensely personal nature, written by a man Natalie had known at university in France. She had always regretted not burning them, never more so than at that moment.
“Open it,” said the woman with a glance toward Natalie’s stylish carry-on suitcase. It bore the bar-coded, stickered traces of her last trip to Paris, Air France instead of El Al, the preferred airline of French-Jewish exiles. Natalie tugged at the zipper and peered inside. It had been hastily and carelessly packed—a pair of trousers, two blouses, a cotton pullover sweater, a single pair of underwear. What kind of woman, she thought, packed one pair of panties?
“How long am I going to be away?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
The woman only sipped her tea.
“No makeup? No deodorant? No shampoo? Where am I going? Syria?”
There was a silence. Then the woman said, “Pack whatever you need. But don’t take too long. He’s very anxious to meet you. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”
“Who? Uzi Navot?”
“No,” she answered, smiling for the first time. “The man you’re going to meet is much more important than Uzi Navot.”
“I have to be back at work in three days.”
“Yes, we know. Nine o’clock.” She held out her hand. “Your phone.”
“But—”