“Why?” asked Laskov. “You’re the hero of the hour after spiking that mortar attack. The government needs a hero now, and you’re all we’ve got.”
Mazar shrugged. “For the moment. I’ll get the ax when the dust settles. I told you that mortar attack was a setup. The same people who produced and directed that farce also brought you the hijacking. It was like this—if for some reason Rish’s Lear couldn’t get into position, then they were going to try to let the mortar thing succeed. But the Lear was set up, and someone—the Palestinians themselves, of course—tipped us about the mortars. Actually, I already knew about them.”
“So how are you responsible?” asked Laskov. “As head of Internal Security you did all you were supposed to do. It was . . . Hausner . . . and us. . . .”
“Only partially. You see, in order for the Lear to intercept the Concordes, it was necessary to have the exact time of departure. That information had to go to Rish at Cairo Airport, and that information could only have come from someone in Israel. Someone at the airport. A spy working in our country. That is my area of responsibility. And I can’t identify that spy. I don’t even have a clue.” He lit a cigarette. “Whoever it was had to call a contact from Lod and give him the new flight plan and departure time, not to mention the fact that you both think Rish had the primary tactical frequency. I checked with Cairo. They were cooperative. Rish and his group—under pseudonyms and posing as businessmen—filed a flight plan to Cyprus. But they changed it suddenly. Alexandria Air Traffic Control gave them a hard time about their request for an earlier departure, but I suspect a little baksheesh did the trick, as it will do the trick in all the Land of Islam. Anyway, the rest is history.”
Talman nodded. “That’s interesting, but as you say, history. What matters now is where Concorde 02 is.”
“That’s what matters to the state of Israel and her external intelligence people and her armed forces. What matters to me as head of Shin Beth is who the spy is. And what makes the job of finding him more difficult is that I have to pull in most of my agents and Arab informers.”
“Why?” asked Talmen.
“Because Isaac Burg, head of Mivtzan Elohim, knows one hell of a lot about Shin Beth. That’s why. And if they’ve got him, they are squeezing his nuts, and they could very well have not only his whole organization but mine as well.”
Laskov shook his head. “Absurd. He’d kill himself before he’d let them put him through the wringer.”
Mazar nodded. “He carried a gun. I only hope he has the time to use it.”
Talman ordered another gin. “How about Dobkin? He was actually in the Aman, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Dobkin was closely connected to Military Intelligence. In addition, he knew Cabinet secrets. The Foreign Minister knew . . . everything. And I don’t think he will blow his brains out for anyone.” Mazar looked down at the table, then stared at Laskov. “Miriam Bernstein was privy to all Cabinet information. I don’t think she would stand up well under torture. Do you?” He waited for an answer.
Talman turned to Laskov but could see nothing in his expression. The silence dragged out.
Finally, Mazar let out a long breath. “I’m speaking as an intelligence man of thirty years when I say I hope they’re all dead.” He paused. “Hausner is, I’m sure.”
No one spoke for several minutes. They sipped their drinks and watched the heat waves in the road. Laskov cleared his throat. “What do you have for us on Rish?”
Mazar opened his attaché case and took out a file. “This is insane. Neither of you have any intelligence experience, clearance, or need-to-know. Or common sense.” He handed Talman the file. “I don’t have any common sense, either.”
“We know that,” said Talman as he flipped through the file. “The strength of this country is its smallness. The flow of information has always been accomplished in a family-type atmosphere. There is nothing to keep privates from speaking directly to generals and heads of one service from helping the heads of others. But as we get older as a nation, I’m afraid we are going to get bureaucratized and compartmentalized like the rest of the world. You are only helping to delay that dangerous trend, Chaim.”
Mazar grunted. “You’re full of shit. We’ll all wind up in jail if this goes wrong.”
Laskov looked impatient. “Did you get any aerial photographs?”
“Yes,” said Mazar. “There are thousands of them from the American satellites and the SR-71 recon craft. Here are some suspect ones. The Americans are being very cooperative with the Aman. But I had a lot of trouble explaining what Shin Beth needed them for. Anyway, you can read these as well as any photo analyst, I suppose.”
“After forty years, I hope so,” said Laskov. He took a stack of photos from Mazar and glanced at the top one. A grease-pencil notation in the margin gave longitude and latitude. The photo was of the Sinai tip. “Lots of cloud cover this time of year.”
“It’s spring,” said Mazar, unnecessarily. “Anyway, they’re mostly of Egypt, the Sudan, and Libya. I take it you still suspect points east?”
“We do,” said Laskov. “Rish is Iraqi, isn’t he?”
Mazar smiled. “I wish it were that easy. Rish’s group is almost all Palestinian. They are the wanderers of Islam, like the Jews were the wanderers of the world. Ironic. They could be anywhere from Morocco to Iraq.”
Laskov was only half listening. He was looking at a series of high-angle photos taken of the Tigris and Euphrates. They were taken at a height of twenty-five kilometers by the SR-71 recon craft at seven A.M. that morning. There was another series of the Shamiyah Desert in Iraq. The sun was low and cast elongated and distorted shadows over the land. He glanced at Mazar. “Were there any photos of Iraq taken at noon?”
Mazar looked in his notebook. “Only satellite photos. At 12:17. No more recon craft photos scheduled by the Americans until late afternoon tomorrow.”
“Get me the satellite photos, then,” said Laskov.
“I’ll try.” Mazar stood. “I’ve committed a court-martial offense but I don’t feel so bad about it.” He closed his empty attaché case. “Let me know if you receive a divine message. Meanwhile, I must look for our traitor.”
Talman looked up from Rish’s psychological profile and background dossier. “Have you questioned the three Palestinian mortar men?”
“Yes,” said Mazar. “They really don’t know anything, of course. At least they thought that they didn’t. But we were able to interpret little things that seemed irrelevant to them. You know the procedure.”
“Learn anything?” asked Talman.
“I’m convinced it was Rish who set them up, poor bastards. There are a few other clues, but I have to run them down before I can draw any conclusions. I’ll keep you both informed.”
Laskov stood and took Mazar’s hand. “Thank you. You’re a fool to do this.”
“Yes.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “You owe me. And I’ll be around to collect someday.”
“How about right now?” Laskov scrawled something on a wet cocktail napkin. “Here’s your payment.” He handed Mazar the wet paper.
Mazar looked at it and his eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“No. That’s your job. To be sure.”
Mazar put the napkin in his shirt pocket and walked quickly into the square toward St. George’s, where he hailed a cab.
18
The Lear jet came in low, but not too low.
“Let’s shoot it down,” suggested Brin.
Hausner shook his head. “We’ve agreed to a truce until sundown, and we can well use the break. So don’t mess it up, Brin.”
“Bullshit. They wouldn’t attack in the daylight, anyway. They didn’t give us any break.”
Dobkin looked up from a range card he was drawing. “That’s not completely true. They could be sniping all day and causing other unpleasantness. I don’t like having to accept a truce any more than you do, son, but let’s be realistic.” He went back to the
card. He drew in rises and depressions in the slope in front of him. A gunner using that position at night or in other times of limited visibility should be able to place effective fire downrange by using the information written and drawn on the range card in relation to aiming stakes placed directly in front of the firing position. He handed it to Brin. “Here.”
“I don’t need it, General. I have the starlight scope.”
“The batteries are almost gone. Also the lens could get broken.”
“God forbid,” said Hausner. “That’s our early warning and best weapon, all in one.”
“That’s why I’m handling it,” said Brin. He took the range card reluctantly.
Naomi Haber sat against the packed earth parapet with a towel wrapped around her head in the style of a kheffiyah. “You’re very modest.”
Brin ignored her.
Dobkin looked at her. The towel hid her long black hair and covered her forehead. She looked familiar now. “Your last name is Haber, isn’t it?”
She looked at him warily. “Yes.”
“Well, no wonder you teamed up with Davy Crockett here.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” He turned to Hausner. “This girl used to be on the Army match-shooting team.”
Brin looked honestly surprised. “Why didn’t you mention that?”
She stood up and turned to Dobkin. “General . . . I . . . I mean, I just volunteered to be his assistant . . . his runner. Well, maybe I came to this position because I knew there was a rifle and scope here. But . . . shooting at targets and shooting at human beings are worlds apart, aren’t they? I don’t think—”
Dobkin looked sympathetic and began to speak. “Jacob—”
Hausner stood and grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Look, young lady, not one of my men is anywhere near the marksman that Brin is, and no one else on this hill came forward when I asked if anyone had this kind of training. You kept information from me, and by God, you’ll answer for it! But for now, consider yourself a sniper. When you see one of those young buck Ashbals coming up the hill tonight, think of what he’s going to do to you if he makes it to the top.”
The girl turned away and stared down the hill.
Brin looked embarrassed. “I’ll take care of it, boss.”
“Do that,” said Hausner. He walked away in the direction of the Concorde. Dobkin followed.
* * *
The work had not let up all morning, but now at midday, when the sun was at its hottest, most of the people were stopping for a break as they did in Israel and throughout the Middle East. They sat under the Concorde, the big delta wings protecting them from the blinding sunlight.
The garbage disposal unit on board gave up the previous day’s partially eaten meal, and it was being reheated on aluminum sheets over fires of thorn. Liquids of all types were stored separately in a hole dug under the aircraft. There were bottles of sweet wine from the luggage and cans of juices and drink mixers from the galley. The extra baggage allowance had enabled everyone to bring a lot of packaged Israeli foods as gifts or for personal consumption. Still, the tremendous work load had resulted in big appetites.
Yaakov Leiber was put in charge of the stores by Hausner, and he seemed to be functioning well. Hausner put his hand on the little man’s shoulder. “What’s the situation, Steward?”
Leiber forced a smile. “We can eat and drink like kings . . . for one day.”
“What can we do for, let’s say, two more days?”
“We can go hungry and thirsty . . . but survive.”
“Three days?”
“Very thirsty.”
Hausner nodded. If the physical labor continued and the heat kept up, dehydration would begin setting in within three days. Maybe a lot sooner. Then no one would be able to think rationally. All thoughts would be of water. That would be the end, even if the defenses held. How many sieges had ended like that? Water. Food was not the problem. Humans could go for weeks on almost nothing. Besides, there was an abundance of lizards and scorpions. He’d heard jackals the night before. They could be snared with bait . . . the buried Arabs. . . . To hell with Rabbi Levin.
Leiber was speaking to him. “I’ve measured the water tanks carefully. There’s enough for half a liter a day per person.”
“Not enough.”
“No, sir.” He looked at the ground and kicked a clump of clay. “We could dig.”
Hausner called to Dobkin, who was near the shepherds’ hut. “Is this a tell or isn’t it?”
“I’m certain it is,” he called back. “A crumbled citadel. Covered with dust and debris.” He came closer. “Why?”
“I want to dig for water,” said Hausner.
Dobkin shook his head. “You’d find some interesting things down there, but not water. Not until you reached the level of the Euphrates.” He walked up to Hausner and Leiber. “Why don’t we send a water party down the slope?”
Hausner shook his head. “They have sentries, as you know.”
“Tonight. It can be done if they don’t attack up the river slope. I’ll lead the party.”
“You’re going to make a telephone call from the guest house tonight.”
Dobkin laughed. “I don’t have a local coin.”
Hausner smiled back.
Dobkin looked down at the ground and then at the Euphrates below them. “They would put the mud and slime into wooden forms and lay them in the sun,” he said, apropos of nothing. His voice became distant. “The brickyards would stretch to the horizons in every direction. The sun would bake the bricks and they would use slime from the Euphrates for mortar. They would press designs into the brick. Lions and mythical beasts. And the kings would press their cuneiform inscriptions into each brick. NEBUCHADNEZZAR, KING OF BABYLON, SON OF NABOPOLASSAR, KING OF BABYLON, AM I. Over and over again. And sometimes they would fire-glaze the brick with reds and blues, yellows and greens. They built one of the most beautiful and colorful cities that man has ever seen. It sat like an iridescent pearl in the green silk of the Euphrates valley.” Dobkin kicked at the brown dirt, then walked a few paces. He stared west across the endless mud flats into the sinking sun, as it burned reddish-yellow, still high on the horizon. “And they captured Israel and led Israel away to live by the rivers of Babylon. Right here, Jacob. A Jew stood right here and laid brick with slime to strengthen this citadel against Cyrus of Persia. Over twenty-five hundred years ago. But Cyrus took Babylon, and one of his first acts was to let the Jews go. Why? Who knows? But they went. Back to Israel. And they found Jerusalem in ruins. But they returned to it. That’s what’s important.” He looked up and seemed to come out of his reverie. “But what’s more important to us is that not all of them returned.”
“What do you mean?”
“There may still be Jews of the Captivity living by the rivers of Babylon.”
“Are you serious?” asked Hausner.
Leiber seemed a little confused by Dobkin. He stood a few meters off and listened politely.
“I’m serious,” replied Dobkin. “Unless they’ve been moved to Baghdad by the Iraqi government, which is a distinct possibility. I’m talking about the Iraqi Jews who we’ve been trying to get the hell out of here. About five hundred of them all together. That was to be one of the points in the peace proposal.”
“Do you think they’re still here?”
“They’ve been here for twenty-five hundred years. Let’s hope they still are. Their main village was on the opposite bank of the Euphrates. A place called Ummah. About two kilometers downstream. Almost across from Kweirish, the Arab village that we saw.”
“Would they help?”
“Ah. That’s the question. What is a Jew? Who is a Jew? Why did the ancestors of these Jews choose to stay in sinful Babylon? Who knows? They have remained Jews after all these years, cut off from the mainstream of Judaism. We know that much. Though God knows what kind of Hebrew they speak . . . if any.” He opened his tunic. “But they’ll know this.” He pulled out a silver Star
of David.
Leiber spoke. “I wonder if they know we’re here.”
Hausner put his hand on Leiber’s shoulder. “You can be sure. Steward, that everyone knows we’re here except the people who count—the Israeli and the Iraqi governments.” He patted Leiber’s shoulder. “But they’ll find us soon. Now, I want you to comb every centimeter of this place and find more supplies.”
Leiber nodded and moved off.
Dobkin spoke. “From what I saw this morning, I don’t think I can make it to the Ishtar Gate alone at night. The terrain is bad and unfamiliar, there are deep unmarked excavations all over, and there will be sentries along the way, I’m sure.”
“Then, what do you propose?”
“The land on the other side of the Euphrates is flat and presumably without Palestinians. I’ll go down there tonight—with a water party if you want. They’ll collect some of the Euphrates—I’ll swim it.”
“The sentries,” said Hausner.
Dobkin shrugged. “Once the shooting starts on the east side of the hill, the sentries on the river bank won’t hear much or even care about much. By two or three in the morning, they will be cold and tired and thanking their stars they’re not part of the assault. I could make it.”
Hausner looked doubtful. “And if you make it across the river and then down to this village of Jews, then what? What do you expect to find there?”
Dobkin didn’t know what to expect. Even if they had a communal farm vehicle of some sort, the roads were impassable. There was certainly no telephone. A donkey would take days to get to Baghdad. Hillah was a possibility, but then he’d have to recross the river. A boat maybe. A motorized boat could get upriver to Baghdad in five or six hours. An unmotorized boat could be downriver to Hillah in less than an hour. Then what? Hello, I’m General Dobkin of the Israeli Army and . . .
“What are you smiling at?” asked Hausner.
“A private joke. Listen, I didn’t just remember about this village. I thought of it the moment I knew we were in Babylon. But do we want to drag these people into this? Don’t they have enough problems?”