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distinctive knob of bone behind
     the ear. “‘
Whosoever fights in the way of God and is slain
,’” he murmured, quoting one of his favorite passages in the Qur’an, “‘
we shall bring him a mighty wage
.’” He slipped the pearl-handled Beretta from his breast pocket and pulled back the slide on the top of the barrel to chamber
     the first round, then warmed the tip of the barrel in the palm of his hand before pressing it to the spot immediately under
     the knob of bone. Holding the boy’s head against the car’s arm rest, he pulled the trigger. There was a hollow report, something
     like a husky cough, as the pistol sent the bullet drilling into the skull. The boy’s body jerked once before collapsing back
     into the seat.
    Moments later the two Mercedes, with the still warm body of the martyr on the floor in the back of the second car, were speeding
     west along Bedouin tracks toward the Gaza Strip. The Suzuki with Israelilicense plates and its two passengers, both carrying forged papers identifying them as Arabs from Abu Tor, a half Palestinian,
     half Jewish village outside of Jerusalem, headed north toward the main coastal highway. The Doctor planned to go to ground
     in Abu Tor. When things quieted down, he would make his way, tapping a long thin bamboo cane on the pavement before him, past
     the Israeli checkpoints to the safe house perched above the maze of streets in the Christian Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem
     and, God willing, begin the interrogation of the Rabbi.

THREE
    C ROUCHING BEHIND A PILE OF CINDER BLOCKS, YUSSUF ABU Saleh waited until the Israeli patrol completed its sweep along the road that separated the Jewish half of Abu Tor from the
     Palestinian half. From the Old City of Jerusalem beyond the Hinnom Valley—the
Gehenna
where people burned garbage in the time of the Islamic Messenger Jesus—a bell atop the Church of the Holy Sepulcher tolled
     the half hour. As the echo faded, Yussuf scaled the wall and dropped into the garden behind his father-in-law’s villa. A dog
     in one of the Jewish houses on the top of the hill bayed at the moon hanging over Mount Scopus. Several dogs in the Arab houses
     below barked back. The ancient saluki tied to a tree in the garden stood up and sniffed at the air, but sank back onto the
     grass when she recognized the intruder. Making his way across the garden to a trellis, Yussuf climbed through an old rose
     bush to the small balcony on the second floor. Inside the villa everything was dark. He scratched at the window. In the room
     a match flared, and then the wick of a candle burned brightly. An instant later the window was flung open and Yussuf found
     himself in the arms of his wife.
    “
Ahlan wa sahlan
,” Maali murmured into his neck, her lips pressed to his skin. “My house is your house.”
    “This is not the sentiment of your father,” Yussuf noted.
    “My father is a lawyer,” she whispered back. “He sees only the legal aspects of what you do. He has lost sight of who is right
     and who is wrong.” She discovered blood in the palm of his hand where a thorn had nicked the skin and kissed it away. Shrugging
     the thin straps ofher night dress off her shoulders, she drew the turtleneck over his head and pressed herself against his body. “My heart,
     my husband, welcome home to your bridal chamber, welcome to your marriage bed.”
    “You are wonderfully beautiful,” Yussuf declared. “Two weeks is a long time for lovers,”
    Maali led him to the brass bed and pulled him down on top of her. “It has been sixteen days and sixteen nights, my love, my
     heart. Where have you been to?”
    Yussuf ran his fingers through her jet black hair and looked down to see if the fire was still smoldering in the eyes he loved.
     “There are questions a wife does not ask,” he instructed her. He kissed her shoulder and her breast and her mouth. Then he
     sat up. “We have been married six months tonight. I have an anniversary gift for