By the Rivers of Babylon

  There was a long pause. The Iraqi President seemed to be speaking to his aides. He finally spoke into the telephone. “That is classified information, I’m afraid.”

  The Prime Minister’s fingers tightened on the telephone and his knuckles went white. “Mr. President . . . what do you suggest?” He glanced at his watch.

  “Wait for the storm to end or at least wait until daylight.”

  “There may not be time.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister—it is the old question of risking lives to save lives. You tell me there are fifty Israelis under siege at Babylon, and you want me to risk an operation that could cost as many lives in accidents alone . . . not to mention money. . . . Anyway, we have no idea of what—if anything—is going on in Babylon.”

  “But you know that there is something going on there. Don’t you?”

  The Iraqi hesitated. “Yes. Something. We have just confirmed from our government office in Hillah that something is going on around the ruins of Babylon.”

  There was an immediate rustle of excitement in the room when the Iraqi made this admission.

  The Prime Minister leaned forward over the telephone. He saw no reason to play his cards carefully any longer. He spoke abruptly. “Then for God’s sake, send the Hillah garrison.”

  There was another long pause. When the voice came back it sounded almost apologetic, embarrassed. “The Hillah garrison is the 421st Battalion—your military intelligence will know them. They are a unit composed almost entirely of Palestinians. They fought against you in 1967 and 1973. The officers are Iraqi, but the men are refugees and sons of refugees. It would be unfair to put them in a position where their loyalties would be divided. You understand.”

  The Prime Minister understood. He looked around him. The people who were monitoring looked angry. A hard-line attitude was forming in the room. “Mr. President, could you speak to Hillah now—I’ll hold. Ask your government people there—or your loyal officers—to find out exactly what is happening in Babylon.”

  “There is unfortunately much difficulty with the land lines at the moment. The storm and the floods. We will raise them by radio and see what they can discover.”

  “I see.” The Prime Minister had no reason to believe that the Iraqi was lying about the land lines. He had one more card to play with the Iraqi. “Mr. President, my military people inform me that it is entirely possible to reach Babylon by river. An expedition from another garrison town on the Euphrates could be at Babylon within hours.”

  The Iraqi President’s voice came back, hard now and impatient. “Do you think the Euphrates is like your little River Jordan? This is a great, mighty river. This time of the year it wanders like a lost sheep across the plain—it joins with lakes and swamps and with many, many small streams which are now swelled in size and are mistaken for the river. There are many false rivers to get lost on tonight.”

  The Prime Minister already knew this. In fact Babylon itself was no longer on the modern Euphrates but on the ancient, narrower course of the river. Still, a modern army or river unit should be able to navigate it. The ancient Mesopotamians had mastered it. “Mr. President, we are all aware of the great tribulations your country goes through each spring, and we know that any other time of the year we could count on a quick and sure response to our request. We know that one of the reasons these . . .” he didn’t want to say terrorists, “. . . these guerillas picked your country was because of the inaccessibility of Babylon for these few weeks. However, Mr. President, I know that you will provide every assistance that is in your power to provide.”

  There was no answer.

  The Prime Minister was aware that the Iraqi had already had to swallow a lot of pride in admitting to potential disloyalties and the inability to move armed forces around the country, to say nothing of the fact that a Concorde could have been hijacked into the middle of the country without his knowledge. Added to that was the fact that a small private army of Palestinians was operating in his sovereign state. The Prime Minister sensed that the Iraqi President was, understandably, not in a good mood. The only thing left to do was to add insult to injury and try to provoke him into some sort of action. “Are you aware, Mr. President, that there is a Palestinian base camp in the Shamiyah Desert? That is probably where these Palestinians in Babylon come from.”

  Again, there was no answer.

  The Prime Minister looked around the table. A psy-warfare colonel, who had spent some time over the years studying the Iraqi President, scribbled a note and slid it down the table. The Prime Minister read it. As long as you’ve goaded him this far, finish it. Too late to be diplomatic. The Prime Minister nodded and spoke into the telephone. “Are your armed forces capable of mounting an expedition at this late hour, Mr. President?”

  There was still no response. Finally the President’s voice came back. He sounded very cold. “Yes. I will give the orders to mount a river expedition. But they will not disembark until dawn. That is the best I can do.”

  “That will be fine,” said the Prime Minister, knowing that it was anything but fine and yet not wanting to jeopardize what little he had gained.

  “What do you expect us to find there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, neither do we. For your sake, I hope there is something there. It will be somewhat embarrassing for you if there isn’t”

  “I know.” The Prime Minister paused. It was time for the big question. “Would you allow us to assist you? We can make this a joint operation.”

  There was not even a small pause this time. “That is absolutely out of the question.”

  There was no use arguing that point. “All right. Good luck to you.”

  The Iraqi let the silence drag, then he spoke softly. “Babylon. The Captivity. Strange.”

  “Yes. Strange.” You couldn’t make a political or diplomatic move in the Middle East without tripping over five thousand years of history and bad blood. That was something the Americans, for instance, never understood. Events that took place three millennia ago were brought up at international conferences as though they had taken place the week before last. Given all that, was there hope for any of them? “But not so strange.”

  “Perhaps not.” The Iraqi paused. “You must not think we are unsympathetic. Terrorists do not do us any service, either. No responsible Arab government endorses what they have done.” He paused again, and the Israelis could hear a noise over the electronic speaker like a deep melancholy sigh. It was so Arabic, and at the same time so Jewish, that many people in the room were overcome with feelings of empathy, even kinship. The Iraqi President cleared his throat. “I must go.”

  “I’ll call you before dawn, Mr. President.”

  “Yes.”

  The phone went dead. The Prime Minister looked up. “Well, do we go in now or not?” He looked at the wall clock. There was a little over six hours until first light in Babylon. “Or do we wait for the Iraqis?” He lit a cigarette and the striking match sounded loud in the quiet room. “You understand this is the first dialogue an Israeli Prime Minister and an Iraqi President have ever had. Do we want to jeopardize what might come out of this? Do we want to jeopardize the whole climate of peace that launched those Concordes?” He looked around the room and tried to read the faces at the long table. Many of those faces had been at the Entebbe conferences, but this was much more complicated than the Entebbe situation, and that had taken days before a military solution was agreed upon.

  One by one the generals and the politicians got up. Each was allowed two minutes to present his views. The room seemed fairly evenly divided and the division was not along military and civilian lines. Fully half of the military cautioned restraint and fully half of the civilians were in favor of a military solution. If a vote were taken, the result would have been very close.

  Amos, Zevi, Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, now Acting Foreign Minister, stood. He pointed out that if Foreign Minister Ariel Weizman and Deputy Minister of Transportation Miriam Bernstei
n were present, they would vote for restraint.

  General Gur stood and quipped, “That might be true if they were present, Mr. Minister. But if they could send in a proxy vote from Babylon, I’m sure they would vote for an air attack without delay.” This brought the only laughter in an otherwise somber debate.

  There were those who still believed that Ahmed Rish was in control of the Israelis and that he would make his demands known very soon. This splinter group wanted to be prepared to negotiate when the terms of the ransom were announced.

  One of the ministers, Jonah Galili, stood. He reminded the conference that at the time of Entebbe two of the chief rabbis in Israel had interpreted the Halacha, the collection of legal precedents in Jewish religious tradition, as allowing for the exchange of terrorists for hostages.

  The Minister of Justice, Nathan Dan, himself a rabbi and a lawyer, jumped to his feet. “I take exception to that interpretation.”

  The Prime Minister slammed his hand on the table, causing his little pile of shredded paper to jump. “That’s enough. This is neither a Yeshiva nor a café in Tel Aviv. I’m not interested in ancient Halachas or ancient Hebrew or semantics. I’m interested in here and now. Laskov! Your turn. Two minutes.”

  Teddy Laskov stood at the end of the long table. He spoke in general terms, citing the classical military arguments for action, but he saw he was not making an impression. It was clear that the lack of resolution was based on the fear of mounting an airborne assault on Babylon and finding no one there but the wild beasts of the desert. In a parliamentary government, one fiasco like that could send the whole government and half the Knesset home to write their memoirs. If the government acted and they found the Concorde with the peace mission missing—or God forbid, all dead—then at least they could justify their attempt to the world on humanitarian grounds. But if he, Laskov was wrong—if the photo-analysts were wrong—if there was nothing there . . .

  Laskov decided to gamble. “I see what the problem is. All right, then. If I can prove conclusively that our people are at Babylon, can anyone then have any objection to going in there and getting them?”

  The Prime Minister stood. “That is the crux of it, General. If you can prove to me conclusively that our people are there, I will vote for going in.”

  Here was an out for everyone. If later events showed that they should have authorized a raid, they could explain their inaction to the Israeli people on the very solid grounds of faulty and incomplete intelligence. They could state categorically that they never knew that the peace mission was at Babylon. It was more than just an excuse. It was the truth.

  “And where do you propose to get this conclusive evidence, General?” asked the Prime Minister. “We really can’t accept another divine message, I’m afraid, unless we are all permitted to tune in.”

  Laskov ignored the scattered laughter. “Do I have full authority to act in your name?”

  “That’s rather a lot to ask.”

  “Until dawn.”

  “Well, you can’t do much damage in that short a time, I suppose. All right. In the meantime the airborne operation will be standing by on full alert. If you come back here before 5:30 A.M. and show me incontestable proof that at least the Concorde is at Babylon, then I’ll push the red button and we’ll all cross our fingers and hope for the best. However, if we hear from the Iraqis before then and they state that they have obtained intelligence that there is no one at Babylon, then whatever proof you bring me will be ipso facto no longer incontestable. In any case, after dawn, I will have to rely on the Iraqis to keep their word that they will send a force to Babylon. I don’t want our forces bumping into theirs, so 5:30 is the cutoff time for mounting an operation. Fair enough?”

  “I’d like to lead the fighter wing that goes in.”

  The Prime Minister sat down and shook his head. “What incredible balls. You’re not even in the armed forces any longer. Why did I just give you the full authority of my office? I must be insane.”

  “Please.”

  There was a stillness in the room. The Prime Minister seemed to be lost in thought for a long time, then he rose again and looked at Laskov. “If you convince me to go, then I’d like it very much if you would lead the fighter wing. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather send,” he said ambiguously.

  Laskov saluted, turned, and strode briskly into the hall. Talman followed quickly.

  Talman spoke in a low voice as they walked past people in the crowded hall. “What the hell kind of information could you possibly obtain in so short a time?”

  Laskov shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  They stepped outside and passed through the columned façade, through an iron gate, and into the street. They both walked in silence. Jerusalem was quiet except for the hot, dry wind. The night, in spite of the heat, was spectacular in the way that only Jerusalem can be in the spring. The air was sweet with the smell of blossoms and the sky was crystal clear. The waxing moon was nearly full overhead. Its light was yellow and warm. Flowers, vines, and trees grew in all the empty spaces as in a country village. The street itself was paved with ancient stone and the houses could have been anywhere from twenty to two thousand years old. It didn’t seem to matter in Jerusalem. Everything was ageless and ancient at the same time.

  Talman spoke. “What the hell did you say it for, then? There was an outside chance they would have voted to go. Now you’ve given them an out.”

  “They would never have voted to go.”

  Talman looked at Laskov in the weak light. “Are you having doubts?”

  Laskov stopped abruptly. “I have absolutely no doubts. They are in Babylon, Itzhak. I know it.” He hesitated, then said, “I can hear them.”

  “That’s nonsense. You Russians are incurable mystics.”

  Laskov nodded. “That’s true.”

  Talman reasserted his old authority. “I insist on knowing what you had in mind when you said you’d bring conclusive proof.”

  Laskov began walking again. “Let’s suppose that you wanted to get a message to a high-level recon craft. How would you do it without a radio?”

  Talman thought a moment. “You mean a photographic message? Well, I’d make a big sign on the ground—you know. Or if that were impossible, or if the craft were very high and it was dark or overcast—or if there was a sandstorm, then I’d—I’d create a heat source, I suppose. But we saw those heat sources. They are not conclusive.”

  “They would be if one of them were in the shape of the Star of David.”

  “But there was no such shape.”

  “But there was.”

  “There wasn’t.”

  Laskov seemed to be speaking to himself as he walked. “With all that brain power, I’m surprised no one thought of it. But that’s an arcane field—high-level infrared reconnaissance, I mean. Maybe they have a star waiting to be ignited if they see an aircraft. They don’t understand that if they lit it, it could be photographed from an aircraft for some time after it burned out. Dobkin and Burg should have thought of that. But I’m being too critical. It may very well be that there is no kerosene left, or for one reason or another they could not do it, or the kerosene was critical to make bombs. And why would they think anyone would make a recon over Babylon? I mean, why—”

  Talman interrupted him. “Teddy, the point is that they did not ignite a Star of David or a message that said, ‘Here we are folks!’ or anything of the sort. Maybe they had no time before . . .” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, there is no such sign or mark.”

  “If there were . . . ?”

  “I’d be convinced. And so would most people.”

  “Well, then we’ll have to look at the pictures that Air Force Intelligence didn’t think were worth sending over to the Prime Minister. I’m sure we’ll see the residual heat from a burning kerosene Star of David. It’s just a matter of knowing what you’re looking for—then you’ll see it.”

  Talman stopped suddenly. His voice was low, a
lmost a whisper. “Are you insane?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you mean you would actually try to alter one of those photos?”

  “Do you believe they are—or were—in Babylon?”

  Talman believed it, but he didn’t know why. “Yes.”

  “Do the ends justify the means?”

  “No.”

  “If your wife were there—or your daughters—would you think differently?”

  Talman knew about Laskov and Miriam Bernstein. “No.”

  Laskov nodded. Talman was not lying. He’d spent too many years among the British. Emotions played little or no part in his decision-making process. That was a good trait most of the time. But Laskov thought he should be a little more Jewish sometimes. “Will you promise to forget what I just said and go get some sleep?”

  “No. In fact I feel it’s my duty to place you under arrest.”

  Laskov put his big hands on Talman’s arms. “They’re dying in Babylon, Itzhak. I know it. The Russians are mystics and the Russian Jews are the worst of the lot. I can see them, I tell you. Last night I saw them in a dream. I saw Miriam Bernstein playing a zither—a harp—and crying by a stream. It was only before, in the café, that I understood what that meant. Do you think I’d lie to you about that? No. Of course you don’t. Itzhak, let me help them. Let me do what I must do. Forget what I told you. When you were my commander, you looked the other way for me once or twice—yes, yes, I know you did—don’t be flustered. Go home. Go home and sleep until noon, and when you wake up it will all be over. It will be a national celebration—or, yes, a tragedy—maybe even war. But what choice is there? Let me do this. I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. But let me walk away now.” He grasped Talman’s arms tightly at his sides.