The Zondon: Terrorists and Aliens (an International Suspense Thriller)

  Chapter 44

  He was awakened by a knock on the door. It was Moshe.

  'There's a Rabbi Gilman who lives in the old city, in the Jewish Quarter. I'm going near there myself. I can drop you off at the Damascus Gate, but you'll have to walk it from there. I'll draw you a map.'

  After a quick breakfast and an hour's drive, Moshe left Gil off with written instructions and a wish of good luck. Then Gil set off walking.

  He walked down the straight road, as indicated, crossed the Via Dolorosa and went farther down, turned right and then left again here -- or was it farther down? -- or should it have been that first narrow street? The hand drawn map only showed a left turn -- well -- all right, turn here. They all probably led to the same place.

  So he tried this one and soon realised he was in the wrong neighbourhood. He retraced his steps back again.

  He was tired. There was a stall selling Turkish coffee, and there were tables to sit at. Arab men were sitting about. Some of them looked no different from the people he'd been with all day yesterday. He was used to being with scum now. He was beginning to feel like scum himself.

  That's all right. He'd find his brother, take him home where he belonged, have a good hot bath to wash off the scummy feeling, and then blast his eardrums with some good punk rock, and maybe watch a few documentary videos (those ones the people at BBC refused to even look at) to get his head back into the groove. Then he'd forget that these last two days had even happened.

  He had a few Shekels that Moshe Glasser had given him, so he ordered his coffee and sat down.

  His coffee arrived.

  Some Arab men came and sat at his table conversing with one another in Arabic.

  Their coffee arrived.

  One of them suddenly took notice of Gil.

  'You're a visitor to the Holy City?'

  'Yes sir.'

  'On a holy pilgrimage?'

  'No,' responded Gil. 'Only to look for my brother. I'd never come here on a pilgrimage.'

  'No? Why?'

  'No peace! No solitude!'

  'I know, I know,' said the man sympathetically. 'That's how we all feel. Jerusalem was a peaceful city once -- maybe not what you call peaceful, but much more peaceful than this. The Turks ruled, and it was a holy place for the Muslims. The Christians had their part of the city, maybe some go on holy walks down the Via Dolorosa, but mostly they stay in the Christian Quarter and the Armenian Quarter. The Jews, they stay in the Jewish Quarter and create no problems -- a small peace loving community then. But next, the Zionist movement started -- Aiiiy! Then things changed!

  'Do you know about Zionism?' he asked suddenly, but didn't wait for an answer.

  'Zionism is the enemy of Allah! Zionism controls the west and brings moral degradation. They corrupted the young minds. Do you read?'

  Gil nodded.

  'Read The Protocols of Zion! It's all there!'

  Gil agreed. It was all there. He had read it already. Hitler said it was all there. Stanovitch said it was all there. They were Aryan. This gentleman looked far less Aryan than them. This was getting crazy!

  The man continued. 'The Zionists began sending Jews to the Holy Land saying it was theirs from Bible times. Yes, maybe it was, but they became apostate, and Allah took it away from them for attempting to kill the prophet Isa. Now, they have no part in the Holy Land.

  'Aiiiy! The Jews! They should have never been allowed to migrate to the Holy Land! Now the war is on, the Intifada. It wont cease until every Jew is thrown out and this land given back to the rightful people, the Palestinians!'

  Even the ones who agree with you about Zionism? thought Gil. Two reasons for not answering him out loud were, he didn't have the chance to get one word in edgewise, and second, he would have found himself disagreeing with himself, as confused as he was now.

  Now, the man was going on about West Bank settlements.

  '...Do you know about the Bar Kochba settlement?' (Actually his host had mentioned something about that last night. 'Fanatics', he had called them) 'Of course you don't! You're from the west, where the media is controlled by the Zionists...' and he went on talking about the violent fanatics that lived there, and how they had uprooted a Palestinian community that had lived there peacefully for hundreds of years, just to occupy Bible lands.

  Quite obviously, Gil thought, the said Bar Kochba settlement was the group with the direct links to world Zionism. Everyone else he had met up to now were not linked so directly and were not in on the agenda. Now things were beginning to make just a little bit more sense.

  The only words Gil was able to get in were an agreement that the Jews were indeed scum. But, he thought, I sat with some of them last night and agreed with them that you were scum.

  Speaking of which -- he managed to get some more words in by their corners:

  'Didn't they pave the roads? What about health services? And the...?'

  'Hah! I'd rather live on a muddy dirt road that belongs to me than someone else's paved road!'

  And on and on he went.

  Finally, after his words had dwindled down to a trickle, Gil showed the man his map and asked him the way to go.

  Again, he was off. After several straight stretches, some in opposite directions, and a few circles (the story of the last two days) he finally arrived at what appeared to be the address.

  It was the right place, but Rabbi Gilman passed away last year, they told him. He had a son who sells vegetables at the Machaneh Yehuda Market. He obtained directions how to get to there, and again he was off.

  From the Jaffa Gate, he would be directly facing Jaffa Road. That would take him straight through the centre of the New City, and into the Machaneh Yehuda Market. He sells vegetables, so look for the vegetable section.

  So, again, he started off walking.

  His head was full of voices: that of the young secular Jew, the bearded Orthodox Jew, Danny Miller, Moshe Glasser and his neighbours, the Arab man, why did they all sound alike? Why did he agree with them all?

  Okay, he was tired. He never had the chance and let anything sink in and fall into the right box before he heard yet another voice. Then, he lost his passport, his money, Ed's address, he was left forlorn, and at the mercy of his stated enemy, the Jews. They gave him supper and a bed to sleep in, and more confusing voices. Then he got lost, and heard the voice of a Palestinian, who sounded exactly like theirs.

  But these were the people he hated -- or was supposed to hate! Were they not all the scum of humanity? Why did they all sound alike? Why had they all said bits and pieces of what he had preached himself from his his soap box?

  The only difference was he was a white Aryan, and had the right to say all those things. They were the scum of humanity whom he had always said those words about! Then why were they all saying the same things with equal conviction, if not more so?

  Hate.

  Gill hated them. They hated one another. If they only knew what he was, they'd hate him!

  Suddenly his own right to hate seemed less unique.

  But he didn't want to think about that right now. He just wanted to find Ed, drag him back to England, kicking if he had to, and then settle down in a hot bath tub, turn up his punk rock and heavy metal until the neighbours screamed and...

  He was so worked up he didn't even notice how tired and hungry he was. Now it began to hit him.

  He was at the Machaneh Yehuda Market, but the place was so big. Where was the vegetable section?

  He noticed that he was near the coach station. He had come full circle.

  Now, he was wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles. Everyone looked as though they were hard at work as they were supposed to be. The butchers were busy chopping their meat. A man was carrying a crate of cabbage (that must be the vegetable section over there then). No one subverting the system, fomenting unrest or corrupting young minds. All were making an honest living selling produce -- probably the most basic and legitimate commerci
al enterprise since the dawn of civilisation.

  But they were all Jews -- except for one boy walking happily down the aisle towards him wearing a skull cap who looked more Arab.

  Now, the vegetable section...

  'You, sir,' it was the boy.

  'Huh? What do you want, kid?'

  'You Gilbert Durant?'

  'Huh? Er -- yes, I'm Gilbert Durant! Who are you?'

  'Ibrahim Zalman.'

  'Are you Jewish or Palestinian?'

  'No, no. I'm Afghanistan. I'm Tajik boy. Come.'

  I'm in a strange place where I don't know a soul, and this kid knows my name!

  They boy seemed to be radiating just the opposite of what he had been hearing from his acquaintances of the last two days; love for everyone he saw. He had taken him by the hand and they were walking out of the market, back the way he had come, and then down a street to the left.

  Gil's better senses would have resisted. Other senses told him this was probably some sort of angelic being, and he'd better go along. His body obeyed the latter.

  After another turn, they were in a whole network of narrow lanes, and the only people about were Orthodox Jews with long beards and ear locks.

  This is no place for a Tajik boy from Afghanistan.

  Was this any place for Gil? He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

  Next, they were going up the steps of a building towards a door that had something in Hebrew, and underneath, in small letters, 'Eliyahu Gilderman Memorial Yeshiva'.

  Gilderman! That's the name. Not Gilman, Gilderman!

  But how could he be here all a sudden? Wasn't he lost?

  They were met at the door by an old white bearded rabbi.

  'Mr. Durant! Come in! We've been expecting you. Avraham, take his coat. You look worn. Sit down and Rivka will get you something to eat.'

  This was too surreal!

  He sat down. The room was full of people walking about, getting things for him.

  The rabbi also sat down.

  Something about this was far different from the other places he had been in the last two days.

  Gil finally spoke. 'It's a bit unusual, I must say.'

  'What's so unusual?'

  'For one thing, a Afghan boy living with a Jewish rabbi.'

  'And, perhaps the fact you, of all people, are here in the most Jewish of all Jewish homes?'

  Gil hadn't wanted to bring that up just yet. He hated to think what would have happened had he told his other hosts what he was.

  Before he could bring himself to comment the rabbi said, 'But we can always find something to be thankful for, even in the worst of situations. If it weren't for the Nazis, we'd have no Jewish state!'

  Gil was stunned.

  Now, the grandson, Rabbi Yakov walked in.

  'What news do you bring me of my brother?' he asked. Despite the full beard, Gil could pick out identical features.

  'I was only with him rather briefly, and I can't say it was a very pleasant meeting. What about my brother?'

  The elder rabbi answered, 'He is on his way. He should be here any moment.'

  Then the younger, 'And what's the latest on Dr. Stanovitch?'

  'You know Stanovitch?'

  'I know him very well. He did his best to recruit me into leading the Bar Kochba settlement as it was being launched.'

  'The Bar Kochba settlement! Is that Stanovitch's thing?' exclaimed Gil. If everything else today was no more than a delirious menagerie of human nature, it was now clear that the force behind everything he had been taught to hate was none other than Stanovitch, the very one who taught him to hate it.

  'I'm afraid so,' said Yakov. 'Where did you hear about it?'

  'From an Arab in the old city while I was going about in circles trying to find this place.'

  The elder rabbi spoke up. 'You were walking circles in the Old City looking for an address in Mea Shearim?'

  'I lost the address. In fact, I lost my bag, my passport, my money, I had to sleep with some West Bank settlers who took me in.'

  'Oi veh! Poor Nazi boy has to sleep with West Bank settlers!' said Rabbi Simcha, as though being stuck with West Bank settlers were worse than being a 'Nazi boy'.

  'What's worse, I found them no different from good white working class blokes in East London.'

  Just then, Rosa, Ed and Nitaya arrived.

  Far from grabbing Ed and dragging him to the airport, Gil settled for giving him a wave and a 'Hey, what's up Bro'.

  After some small talk, more introductions, and such, they returned to the business of putting food into Gil's stomach.

  'So, Dr. Stanovitch still holds the reins on my brother,' said Rabbi Yakov.

  'I'm afraid so. I can only say he doesn't have the reins on me any more. Not after today,' said Gil.

  Rosa objected. 'No, Gil, I'm afraid he still does.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Until you deal with a few things in your past, Stanovitch will always have a handle on you.'

  'Like what?'

  'For one thing, by joining with the Nazis, you took on yourself the guilt for the deaths of six million Jews, and about that many gypsies and other ethnic groups. To break free from Stanovitch, you have to deal with your gilt in that matter, and release the hate that has built up inside you.'

  Gil's trained tongue almost launched into an argument denying that the holocaust ever happened, but just as the words were reaching his throat, he looked at Rabbi Simcha, who was nodding sadly. A tear was beginning to trickle down his face.

  'There were a lot of us there,' he said. 'They just aren't there any more.'

  The part of Gil that now felt deprived of the chance to debate, gave in to his other half, which saw his present situation as a refreshing pool of cool water to a weary and thirsty soul. Through the course of that afternoon, and late into the night, with the help of Rosa and the rabbi, Gil's Nazi self continued to weaken. What discussion there was, was for the benefit of his intellect, to help him come to terms with the real world.

  The next morning, he was ready for the crystal.

  Chapter 45

  The mother of wars was set to begin. Joseph had done his part. The only thing left now was for the signal rocket to flare and the rest would happen automatically. Now, he was waiting to board the El-Al flight to Jerusalem.

  At this very moment, troops in military bases all over Eastern Iraq were getting ready for the night journey to the border of Kuwait. Serbian troops were already being moved towards Kosovo. Cells in various cities of America were gathering for an all night vigil and already computers were logging on to the Internet and then surfing to the Reuters website. Strategy rooms in Baghdad and Belgrade had their teletype machines ticking out Reuters news as it was being reported.

  Twelve noon, launch time in North Korea would be three in the morning GMT, and about 10:00 p.m. New York. Of course they wouldn't get news of the launch until a bit later. Agencies would begin breaking the story, that central Tokyo has been nuked, at the earliest, an hour or so after the fact. No one would know where it came from just yet, only the operatives of Operation Nostradamus. They would take it as an 'all systems go' signal. There job would be just beginning. Some of them would be going to their death for Allah's sake, crashing their hijacked planes into buildings. Others would be making ready to launch invasions into neighbouring countries and territories.

  As for Joseph, his job in the initial stage of Operation Nostradamus was finished. Now it was time to start on his next assignment. Of course, when the mother of wars was in full swing, he would need to be at the controls in his office in Zurich. It would take a few days for the war to pick up steam, so he had time to make a stop in Jerusalem.

  Now, he knew from Aziz, and further communication from Dr. Stanovitch who the enemy was. The three who carried the message from Kabul for Operation Pigslaughter were Ernest Magawan, Tan May Lin and Ibrahim Zalman. With their S.A. passports, they were the Walkers, and wit
h their Canadian, the Joneses. They were in Jerusalem, and Les Armstrong was with them. Also a member of their company, was a Hispanic American lady named Rosa Gonzales. The Nazi boy's twin brother, Ed Durant and his girlfriend were also with them.

  Why did everybody have a twin?

  The Nazi boy himself had been mysteriously silent. Stanovitch suggested the possibility of his showing up in Jerusalem as well, but given his strong feelings for his cause, Joseph rather doubted it. If he did show up, he was desperately wanted by Stanovitch for some important work in his turf -- another phase of Operation Nostradamus. But how would Joseph give him that message if he did meet him? Was it usual to courier a message to a Nazi through a Jew?

  Otherwise, Joseph's mission was seek and destroy. These people, by virtue of their existence, were a threat to the plan.

  The only disturbing part was that there was a chance they could be trying to contact Joseph's own family. What was he to do if he found that they were all teamed up together? Kill them all?

  If it came to that, Joseph supposed he could do it. He didn't like everything he was required to do, but he did it. It was all for a higher cause.

  The boarding call came, and Joseph got into the queue for business class passengers.

  * * *

  Obviously, the addition of one more to the number of awakened Zondon affected the clarity with which Ibrahim remembered his dreams. He woke one morning, knowing he had dreamed the exact images of Zizz's words, and expecting that he would instantly forget it all.

  But surprises of surprises -- he remembered it!

  It still wasn't the whole thing. But now he could perceive that the final third of Zizz's story contained the actual details of their mission, and before he could grasp that, all seven Zondon must be awakened and ready to go.

  The following is the closest English translation of the second part of Zizz's story:

  Zokdraheen was among the most beautiful and knowledgeable of all the Glaat. He was large, almost to the stature of some of the smaller Gleamon. His ship, likewise, had to be large to contain him. With his size came also sharpness of vision, and great cranial capacity. The amount of knowledge that it took to fill his brain, naturally made him a perpetual seeker of truth.