Bloodline by Alan Gold Read Free Book Online Page A

inquisitive mind it always seemed as though her grandfather and her mother were trying to hide something from her.
    Miriam reentered with a tray of tea and chocolate cookies and set it down on the coffee table.
    â€œI think I can make up for your disappointment in me. I have a gift for you. I think it’s very old, but I’m not sure it’s anything important . . .”
    â€œOh, yes?” Shalman said with a raised eyebrow.
    Yael drew the object from her coat pocket and placed it unceremoniouslyon the table, wrapped as it was in a bandage taken casually from the hospital. Shalman wrinkled his nose as if fearing the swaddled object might be some macabre hospital souvenir or practical joke—a severed finger, or worse . . .
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked quizzically.
    â€œNot sure. Probably nothing. Something for your collection of historical tidbits. Maybe just a peace offering,” replied Yael with a smile.
    Shalman gingerly began to unwrap the object, his curiosity piqued. Yael turned her gaze to the window and unconsciously changed topic.
    â€œSo I thought we might go out for lunch. I can make time. Beautiful day outside . . .”
    Shalman suddenly cut her off. “Where did you get this?”
    Yael turned back to see the small object unwrapped on the table and Shalman’s eyes wide and staring at her.
    â€œIt was in the hands of a Palestinian kid who tried to blow up the Haredi at the Kotel. The police shot him, arm and leg, and—”
    â€œWhere?” Shalman cut her off sharply. “Where did he find it?”
    â€œHe tried to explode a bomb underground, near to the entrance to Warren’s Shaft—King David’s tunnel.”
    Shalman leapt to his feet, holding the object tenderly in his hands, retreating to his desk to examine the stone more carefully. Yael continued the story, although she doubted that her grandfather was still listening.
    â€œOnly the detonator cap went off, thank God. But it must have brought down some masonry. Anyway, he was brought in unconscious for me to operate on, and I found that in his hand.”
    Shalman studied the object methodically yet held it like a newly delivered granddaughter. He read the inscription, turned it over, turned it back again to reread. Then he viewed the sides, then the reverse, then the obverse; then he reread the inscription, then he turned it over and then over again.
    Yael realized that she’d been holding her breath and was surprised at herself. She wanted to ask what he was thinking, but knew to keep silent.
    Finally Shalman looked up at her and smiled. “You have . . .” He couldn’t continue. She was surprised by the emotion in his voice.
    Holding the object, he stood from his desk and walked over to his library, taking one book, then another, flicking over some pages but not really looking. Instead, energized, he walked to the window and continued to look at the object that the Palestinian boy had grasped with a handful of dirt just before he blacked out.
    Yael sat there in fascination, wondering whether it was her grandfather’s usual sense of exaggeration or something else.
    â€œWell?” she asked after what seemed like minutes of silence.
    Instead of answering, Shalman bellowed, “Miriam!”
    Suddenly the door flew open. “Fetch Mordecai. And Zvi. And Sheila. And fetch Mustafa . . . he’d be fascinated by this. And . . . oh, hell. Fetch everybody! Now! Immediately! Go! I don’t care if they’re in a meeting. Go! You’re still there. Why? Go!”
    â€œWhat?” asked Yael.
    Shalman shrugged, suddenly coy. “What do you think it is?”
    â€œDon’t play games, Shalman.”
    â€œNo game. I want to know. What do you think it is?”
    â€œIf you don’t tell me what it is, I’ll take it to the Bible Museum.”
    â€œDon’t even joke! Treasure hunters and