By the Rivers of Babylon

  He looked up at the sky and wondered if the wind would throw up enough earth to blot out the full moon.

  25

  Teddy Laskov stood at the end of a long table in a long, plain room. The wind rattled the window panes and shutters. Full-length portraits of Theodor Herzl and Chaim Weizmann hung on the wall. On another wall was a color photograph of Israel taken by the American astronaut, Wally Schirra, from an Apollo spacecraft. The conference table and the floor around it were cluttered with attaché cases. The Prime Minister sat staring at the two interlopers. The room was as quiet as anyone ever remembered it to be during a combined session of the Cabinet, the Chiefs of Staff, and the National Security Committee.

  The Prime Minister spoke. “Babylon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not the pyramids along the Nile, now, General? Babylon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just a hunch? A feeling? A divine inspiration?”

  “Sort of.” Laskov licked his lips. In lsrael it was still possible to go right to the top if you screamed and yelled at the aides and lackeys long enough. In any event, the Prime Minister’s provisional office in Jerusalem was small enough for the man himself to have heard Laskov screaming at the portal. Laskov glanced at Talman standing next to him. The man was trying to look very dignified—very British—although it was obvious that he was uneasy and not quite certain of his right to he there. Laskov spoke again to break the silence. “Some of the electronic data that we have—radar sightings, radio transmissions, and that sort of thing—points, I think, to Iraq.”

  “Really? And where did you get that information, General?”

  Laskov shrugged. There was a lot of mouth-to-ear whispering in the long room. Laskov waited and looked over the heads of the assembly. The small red-tiled building had seen a lot of history. It had originally housed the Knights of the Order of the Temple. During World War II, the British used the building to intern German civilians who were suspected of Nazi espionage or sympathies. Jacob Hausner had sent his share of Germans there, but Laskov was not aware of this. After the war the building was a British military headquarters during the Mandate period. Coincidentally, Laskov had been questioned in the very next room as a suspected member of the underground Israeli Air Force. Now he was here again, and the dryness in his mouth reminded him of the kind of life he had led. Some people would call it exciting and romantic. He called it worrisome and dangerous. Why didn’t he accept his forced retirement and fade away? Let the government worry about the whereabouts of the peace mission. He might have done that if Miriam weren’t among the missing.

  “All right, General,” said the Prime Minister. “We’ll come back to the question of your sources of information later.” The Prime Minister put a handkerchief into the open collar of his sport shirt and wiped his neck. He was a tall, thin man with nervous habits, one of which—tearing pieces of paper—he was engaged in at the moment. “Well, what do you propose we do with your information—or should I say, inspiration?”

  Laskov spoke loudly and clearly. “I propose that we send a low-level reconnaissance craft to Babylon now—tonight. Take pictures and make visual sightings, if possible. If they’re there, we’ll try to show them our colors, fly low, give them hope. Behind the recon craft should be an airborne strike force—the F-14’s for preparatory fires and behind them C-130’s with commandos, if there’s a place where they can land, or C-130’s with airborne troops if they can’t land. Maybe troop helicopters instead. That’s for the army to worry about. If the recon craft can confirm their presence, then the strike force goes in.”

  The Prime Minister tapped a pencil on the table. “Would you object violently if I called the King of Jordan and told him I was sending an air armada over his sovereign kingdom?” There was a lot of laughter, and the Prime Minister paused with the timing of an accomplished performer. He leaned forward. “Surely you wouldn’t be too hard on me if I called the President of Iraq and told him, by the by, that I was invading his country—shooting up Babylon, for old time’s sake?”

  Laskov waited for the laughter to subside. The Prime Minister had an acerbic sense of humor, but after he had his fun with Knesset members or generals, he became more attentive and was actually more open-minded than the average politician. “Mr. Prime Minister, surely a contingency plan of this sort exists. Where did we expect to find the peace mission? On Herzlya beach? And what did we intend to do when we found them?”

  The Prime Minister settled back in his chair. His expression darkened. “Actually, rescue plans do exist. But Iraq is on that list of countries not friendly enough to get full cooperation from . . . and potentially unfriendly enough to declare war on us, I might add.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Prime Minister, but like all generals, I don’t understand politics.”

  “Like all generals, you understand politics damn well, and you don’t want to be bothered with them. Don’t play the innocent with me, Laskov. You know the situation with Iraq. Now, the first thing I must do is place a call to Baghdad.”

  Laskov nodded his head enough to acknowledge the deserved rebuke, but he wasn’t willing to concede the whole point. “Mr. Prime Minister,” he said, his voice filled with emotion, “since when have we left the safety of Israeli citizens to foreign governments?”

  “When they are in foreign lands, General Laskov.”

  “Uganda.”

  “A different time, a different place.”

  “The same old cutthroats.” He took a deep breath. “Look, sir, the West German commandos did it in Somalia. We did it in Uganda—and we can do it again in Babylon.”

  The Prime Minister made a sound of exasperation. “I really must call first, if you don’t mind.” He leaned forward. “Anyway, if they are in Babylon, we have no idea of their condition. Dead? Alive? Captive? Really, General, I’m meeting you more than halfway on this. We’ve been in session for thirty hours and we’re damned tired—and you come busting into this meeting yelling Babylon, and we give you the damned floor. Any other government would have had you thrown out on your ass—or worse.” He took a sip from a cup of coffee.

  The sound of the wind filled the quiet room, and the shutters began clattering again. The Prime Minister raised his voice over the noise. “But what you say makes sense. And I believe in God and I believe that He has whispered in your ear, Teddy Laskov—although why you and not me is a great mystery. Anyway, we will call the President of Iraq at once and then he will send a recon craft and his air force people will call us after they’ve interpreted the data from the craft. All right?”

  “No, sir. Too much wasted time.”

  The Prime Minister rose. “Damn you, Laskov—get out of here before I call you back to active duty and put you on permanent latrine detail.” He turned to Talman. “Do you have anything to say before you both leave, General?”

  Talman swallowed and his mustache quivered. He took a deep breath and his voice escaped with the exhale. “Well, sir, I think that we should really do the reconnaissance ourselves, you know—I mean, we are rather good at it and the Iraqis may not be as accomplished, you see, and we have no direct data link with them and these things do get fouled up and at least we can ask the American SR-71 to take a high-level photo in the meantime—they won’t go down low, but maybe they can get a clear shot and—”

  The Prime Minister held up his hand. “Hold on.” He turned to the members of the Joint Chiefs who were becoming fidgety. He beckoned to them, and they crowded around the Prime Minister’s chair and spoke in whispers. The Prime Minister looked up. “Thank you, gentlemen. We’ll handle it from here. Thank you. Yes, you may leave. Please.”

  Laskov walked slowly behind Talman toward the door. It felt strange—worse than strange—reflected Laskov, to be asked to leave a room when state secrets were about to be discussed. That was one of the consequences of leaving the halls of power. Your need-to-know was limited to monthly memos in the mail telling you what was being taken off the classified list. In exchange for t
he loss of power you got tranquillity and peace of mind. And boredom. Laskov reached the door and turned. He didn’t know what the Joint Chiefs were whispering about, but he was somewhat eased to see that they, rather than the Cabinet, had the Prime Minister’s ear. He felt obligated to deliver a parting shot. “They are in Babylon and they are alive. I can feel it. We have no right to play it safe. Whatever you decide to do must be based on their welfare and the long-range welfare of this nation. Don’t make a decision based on your own immediate career goals.”

  Somebody—Laskov didn’t see who—called out, “That’s easy to say when your own career is finished, General.”

  Laskov turned and left.

  The Prime Minister waited until Laskov and Talman were out of hearing range. “I don’t know where Laskov got his information on this, and as you just reminded me, we don’t know where Chaim Mazar got his information, either. But if Mazar is correct about our American air attaché—Richardson—then the Americans owe us one, I think.” He looked at the color photograph on the wall—a gift from the Americans. “Yes, we can ask them to make a special SR-71 flight over the Euphrates for us. Then we can see if Laskov is correct.” He took a sip of coffee. “Apparently there is an angel or some other celestial entity flying around whispering in the ears of certain people. Has anyone here received a piece of intelligence in this manner? No? Well, we are not among the chosen, then. Ten-minute break, ladies and gentlemen.”

  26

  The Sherji swept across Babylon, carrying tons of dust and sand with it. Trenches and foxholes that had been laboriously dug into the clay were filled to the brim in minutes. Man-traps were covered and early warning devices blown away. The pit containing the remaining stores of Molotov cocktails was covered with sand, and the aluminum reflectors and crude sunshields flew away with the wind. Many of the palm fronds on the roof of the shepherds’ hut blew off and sand began raining in on the wounded. Weapons had to be wrapped in plastic or clothing to protect their moving parts. Men and women pulled clothing around their faces like desert Bedouins and walked bent into the dustladen wind.

  Only the Concorde stood upright on the hill, enduring yet another indignity with the same haughty indifference it had shown since the beginning of its ordeal. The wind screamed through its torn skin and left deposits of dirt throughout its interior.

  Hausner and Burg looked in on the wounded and spoke to the rabbi and Beth Abrams. Most of the wounded were stable, explained Rabbi Levin, but infection and other complications would kill most of them if they did not receive medical care soon.

  Hausner and Burg left the hut and began walking the perimeter again. Burg shouted into Hausner’s ear. “I know the Arabs. They’ll take this wind as an omen to attack.”

  Hausner shouted back. “I should think they’d take it as an omen to get the hell out of here.” He looked up at the sky. The moon was near its zenith and would begin to set soon. The dust clouds nearly obscured the moonlight. Occasionally, the dust would rise high enough to actually blot out the moon itself, and for a few seconds there would be almost complete darkness across the hilltop. It occurred to Hausner, as he looked down the east slope, that the Ashbals could be ten meters away and no one would see or hear them.

  Burg pulled a T-shirt closer around his face. “Even if by some miracle someone knows where we are, a rescue is impossible under these circumstances.”

  Hausner was more interested in the subject of being overrun. “Unless we put out some sort of listening posts we are going to be taken by surprise.”

  “It’s suicide to send anyone down there.”

  It felt odd sharing authority, thought Hausner. Not odd, actually—annoying. “All the same, Field Marshal, I’m sending at least one man—or woman—downslope. In fact, I may go myself.”

  Burg wondered if that wouldn’t be a good idea. He remained silent.

  As they turned west across the flat hill, the wind pushed them so that they had to strain in order not to be forced into a run. At the first position they came to, overlooking the river, they found what appeared to be two women sleeping in the remains of a foxhole. A blue El Al blanket lay over them and sand drifted over the blanket and their partially exposed limbs.

  Hausner was reminded of Dobkin’s lecture on the similarity between buried cities and people under shrouds. He stared down at the two restless forms. There was little chance of an Ashbal attack up this slope. In fact, there might not be any Ashbals left on the west slope. And if there were, could they negotiate the slope in the wind? But that was irrelevant. As soon as he had seen the two sleeping figures, Hausner’s heart had made a small flutter. On all his inspections, he, like a million officers and sergeants-of-the-guard before him, had hoped that he would never see a guard asleep. Sleep, natural and innocent in civilian life, was a capital offense for a man or guard in probably every army in the world.

  Hausner crouched down beside the two figures and cleared his throat. He hoped they would jump up so he could pass it off lightly, but neither seemed to be aware of his presence. He felt Burg’s eyes on him. The two were unmistakably sleeping. He reached out and pulled back the blanket. Esther Aronson. He pulled it back further. Miriam.

  One of the two sleeping women had the duty. The other was legitimately sleeping. One would live to share the fate of them all, the other might be shot within the next hour. “Miriam.” Neither figure moved.

  Burg moved around into Hausner’s view and crouched down also. He gently picked up the AK-47 lying near the two women. Hausner knew this was prescribed military procedure, and he also knew that the situation was going downhill fast.

  He looked closely at Burg but could not read anything in his face. The man had assumed his inscrutable expression. Was Burg willing to let it go? Hausner wondered if he himself would let it go if he were alone, as he usually was. Of course he would. Hausner put his hand on Miriam’s shoulder and shook her. “Miriam.” He noticed that his voice was tremulous and his hand was shaking. “Miriam!” He was suddenly angry—angry at having to be put in this position—angry at having another dilemma thrown at him by fate. “Miriam, God damn you!”

  She sat up quickly. “Oh!”

  Burg moved in and grabbed her arm. “What are your hours for guard?” he demanded suddenly.

  She was still half-asleep. “What? Oh! Guard. Midnight to two—four to dawn. Why?” She looked around bewildered and saw Hausner, then saw Esther Aronson sleeping next to her. She understood.

  Burg looked at his watch quickly. It was a quarter after twelve. “Did Esther Aronson wake you for duty?” he asked loudly. “Well?”

  She stared hard at Hausner, who looked away.

  “Did she wake you for duty?” repeated Burg as he shook her.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I place you under arrest for sleeping on duty. I must warn you that this is a capital offense, Mrs. Bernstein.”

  Miriam rose to her feet and stood in the wind. Her hair and clothes billowed and sand pelted her face. “I see.” She straightened up and looked at Burg. “Of course, I understand. I’ve endangered the lives of everyone else and I must pay for it.”

  “That’s correct,” said Burg. He turned to Hausner. “Isn’t it?”

  Hausner fought back an impulse to knock Burg over the side of the glacis. He looked down at the sleeping Esther Aronson, then at Miriam. His unpopularity, past and present, was due largely to what people called his Teutonic discipline. That had never bothered him in the least. In the civilization that he lived in, there were always people who stepped in to soften his tyranny. Now he had met a man who was either calling his bluff or, in fact, really wanted to shoot Miriam Bernstein as an example to the others. It was incredible, but anything was possible here. Hadn’t they made threatening noises about shooting him?

  “Isn’t that correct?” Burg repeated. “Isn’t that correct—that Miriam Bernstein must pay for jeopardizing the lives of close to fifty men and women?”

  Hausner stared at Miriam, clothed in darkness and dust, a s
carf held up to her face like a lost child. “Yes,” he said. “We must try her—in the morning.”

  “Now,” said Burg. “There may be no morning for us. Discipline in the field must be sure and swift. That’s how it’s done. Now.”

  Hausner moved close to Burg. “In the morning.”

  * * *

  General Dobkin lay on the straw pallet in a mud hut. The wind came in through the closed shutters and deposited fine sand over his body. The oil lamp flickered but stayed lit. The man lying next to him stirred, then groaned. Dobkin could tell he was awake. He spoke to the man in passable Arabic. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” asked the man.

  Dobkin had been told that the man had been taken out of the river also. He was shoeless and shirtless, but wore what looked like tiger fatigue pants. Dobkin had been asked by the old man, whose name was Shear-jashub, if this injured man was also a Jew. Dobkin had lied and said he did not know. He was fairly certain now that the man he was speaking to was an Ashbal, but he could not be positive. Shear-jashub, who was a rabbi in the older sense of the word—an unordained teacher, a master—had asked Dobkin if there was any reason why the injured man should not be cared for or should not be placed in the hut of the Aluf. Dobkin had told the rabbi that there was no reason why these things should not be done.

  Now, he regarded the man for a long time before he spoke. “I am a fisherman whose dhow overturned in the wind and I was injured. These Jews found me and helped me.”

  The man lay on his side and faced Dobkin. The oil lamp flickered across his face and Dobkin almost gasped when he saw it. He kept his eyes fixed on the grotesque man’s eyes. The mutilation, he noticed, was old and scarred, not a part of his recent injuries. He saw that the Ashbal—he was sure of it now—was sizing him up: his haircut, his hands, his bare arms, which lay outside the blanket. Dobkin’s boots were off and lying in a shadow, and the man seemed not to see them, but Dobkin could tell that he’d seen enough to know he was not a Euphrates fisherman.