One day, some people came from the Jewish Agency. She and the old couple, along with many others, traveled across war-ravaged Europe for weeks in crowded railroad cars that gave her nightmares. They boarded a boat and went to sea. At Haifa, the boat was turned away by the British. The boat attempted to unload the people further up the coast at night. A fierce battle broke out on the beach between the Jews, who were trying to secure the beachhead, and the Arabs, who didn’t want the boat to unload. Eventually, British soldiers broke up the fight and the boat sailed away. She never knew where it went because she had been one of the people who had been landed on the beach before the fight. The old couple, whose name she could not remember, disappeared—dead on the beach or still on the boat.
Another Jewish couple picked her up from the beach and told the British soldiers that her name was Miriam Bernstein and that she was their child. She had strayed from their house and gotten caught in the fighting. Yes, she was born in Palestine. She remembered that the young couple were very poor liars, but the British soldiers just looked at her and walked away.
The Bernsteins had taken her to a new kibbutz outside Tel Aviv. When the British left Palestine, the Arabs raided the settlement. Her new father went to defend the kibbutz and never returned. As the years passed, she discovered that her older stepbrother, Yosef, was also an adopted refugee. She found nothing unusual about that because she imagined that most children in the world—or in her world—came from the camps and rubble of Europe. Yosef Bernstein had seen what she had seen, and more. Like her, he knew neither his real parents nor his real name, his nationality nor his age. They became young lovers and eventually married. During the Yom Kippur War, their only son, Eliahu, was killed in action.
Miriam Bernstein had taken an early interest in private peace groups and had cultivated the good will of the local Arab communities. Her kibbutz, like most, was hawkish, and she felt increasingly isolated from her friends and neighbors. Only Yosef had understood, but it was not easy for him, a fighter pilot, to have a dovish wife.
After the 1973 War her party appointed her to a vacant seat in the Knesset in recognition of her popularity with the Israeli Arabs and with the women’s peace movement.
She quickly came to the attention of Prime Minister Meir and the two became personal friends. When Mrs. Meir resigned in 1974, it was understood that Miriam Bernstein was her voice in the Knesset. With Mrs. Meir’s backing, she rose quickly to a deputy minister’s post. Long after the grand old woman no longer sat in the wings of the Knesset, Miriam Bernstein held on to her seat and her post through one government crisis after another. On the surface, it appeared—and she believed—that she survived every Cabinet shuffle because she was exceedingly good at whatever she did. Her enemies said that she survived at least in part because of her striking good looks. In fact, she survived in the high-mortality world of parliamentary politics because she was an instinctive survivor. She was not consciously aware of this side of her character, and if she were ever confronted with a synopsis of her political machinations or a list of the people she had politically eliminated, she would not have recognized that it was Miriam Bernstein who had done those things.
Whenever she thought back on Mrs. Meir’s help and support, it was always the small things that stood out, such as the times the Prime Minister took her back to her apartment after an all-night Cabinet session and made her coffee. Then there was the time the Cabinet requested that she adopt a Hebrew name in keeping with government policy for office holders. Mrs. Meir—formerly Mrs. Meyerson—understood her reluctance to sever the only thread she had with the past and supported her resistance to the change.
There were people who thought that Miriam Bernstein was being groomed to fill Mrs. Meir’s old job someday, but Miriam Bernstein denied any such ambitions. Still, it had been said that Mrs. Meir was appointed Prime Minister because she didn’t want the job. The Israelis liked to put people in power who didn’t want power. It was safer.
Now she held a job that she coveted more than Prime Minister: Peace Delegate. It was a job that hadn’t existed a few months before, but she always knew it would exist someday.
There was much to do in New York, and there was personal business to attend to there, also. Yosef had been missing for three years now. She wondered if she could find out something about his fate from the Arabs when she got to New York.
Jabari noticed a small disturbance outside and instinctively put his hand in his pocket.
Miriam Bernstein seemed not to notice. She was caught up in what she was saying. “The people have elected a government ready to exchange concessions for solid guarantees, Abdel. We have shown the world that we will not go under. Sadat was one of the first modern Arab leaders to understand that. When he came to Jerusalem he was following in the footsteps of countless others who have come to Jerusalem since the beginning of recorded time to find peace, and yet he shattered a precedent of thirty years’ standing.” She leaned forward. “We have fought well and have won the respect of many nations. The enemy is no longer at the gate. The long siege is ended. The people are in a mood to talk.”
Jabari nodded. “I hope so.” He looked over her shoulder at the crowd gathered in the street as she continued to talk. He felt her hand over his. “And you, Abdel? If they founded a new Palestine, would you go?”
Jabari stared straight ahead for a long moment. “I am an elected member of the Knesset. I don’t think I would be welcome in any new Palestine.” He held up his mangled hand. “But even so, I might take that chance. Who knows—I might be reunited with my family there.”
Miriam Bernstein was sorry she had asked the question. “Well, we will all have decisions to make in the future. What’s important now is that we are going to New York to discuss a lasting peace.”
Jabari nodded. “Yes. And we must strike now while the mood is in the air. I have this fear that something will happen to break the spell. An incident. A misunderstanding.” He leaned forward. “All the stars—social, historical, economic, military, and political—are aligned for peace in the Holy Land as they have not been in millennia. And it’s spring. So it can’t hurt to talk. Right?” He stood. “But I wish we were in New York already and the Conference were under way.” He looked into the street. “I think our planes are coming in. Let’s have a look.”
People from the café were hurrying into the street. Approaching Lod Airport from the north were two Concordes. As the first aircraft began its descent, the crowd could see the blue Star of David against the white tail. There was some scattered applause from the mixed Arab and Jewish crowd.
Miriam Bernstein shielded her eyes as the Concorde dropped lower and approached from out of the sun. Beyond the airfield, the Samarian hills rose up off the plain. She noticed that new almond blossoms had come out during the night and the hills were smudged with pink and white clouds. The rocky foothills were softly green and carpeted with brilliant red anemones, cream-colored lupins, and yellow daisies. The yearly miracle of rebirth had returned, and along with the wildflowers brought into bloom by the Hamseen, peace was breaking out in the Holy Land.
Or so it seemed.
* * *
Tom Richardson and Teddy Laskov left the café in Herzlya and got into Richardson’s yellow Corvette. They hit the heavy Friday traffic of Tel Aviv and the car slowed to a crawl. At a traffic light a block from The Citadel, Laskov opened the door. “I’ll walk from here, Tom. Thanks.”
Richardson looked over. “O.K. I’ll try to see you before you scramble.”
Laskov put one foot out of the door, then felt Richardson’s hand on his shoulder. He looked back at Richardson.
Richardson regarded him for a long second. “Listen, don’t get trigger-happy up there. We don’t want any incidents.”
Laskov stared back with cold, dark eyes. His brows came together. He spoke loudly, above the noise of Tel Aviv’s traffic. “Neither do we, Tom. But the best we’ve got are going to be on board those birds. If anything that looks military gets o
n my radar screen, and if it’s in missile range, so help me, I’ll knock it out of the goddamn sky. I’m not putting up with any fly-bys, reconnaissance, or harassment horseshit from anyone. Not today.” Laskov slid his big bulk out of the low-slung car and moved as if he were heading for a barroom brawl.
The light was green, and Richardson edged ahead. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. At King Saul Boulevard, he made a right turn. Laskov, big and burly, was still in his mind’s eye. He could actually see the great burden on the man’s broad shoulders. There wasn’t a top military commander in the world who didn’t wonder if he was going to be the fool to start World War III. The old warrior, Laskov, liked to bellow, but Richardson knew that if and when a quick, tactical decision had to be made, Laskov would make the right one.
Richardson turned onto Hayarkon Street and stopped in front of the American Embassy. He finger-combed his damp hair in the rear view mirror. The day had gotten off to a bad start.
Through the car’s sun roof, he could see two white Concordes overhead. The bright sunlight gave them an ethereal glow. One was in a holding pattern, heading out to sea. The other was heading in the opposite direction as it began its final descent to Lod. For a split second, the aircraft seemed to cross paths and their delta wings formed the Star of David.
* * *
Sabah Khabbani chewed slowly on a piece of pita bread as he stood looking through his field glasses at Lod Airport. He shifted the glasses. Below, on the Plain of Sharon, the plowed earth was a rich chocolate. Between the cultivated fields, the Rose of Sharon and the lilies of the valley flowered as they had done since long before Solomon. A distinctive grey area marked Ramla Military Prison where so many of his brothers were wasting away their lives. To the south, the rocky Judean hills, brown a few days before, had turned red and white, yellow and blue, as wildflowers blossomed. Around him, the Jerusalem pines, part of the reforestation program, swayed as the Hamseen came over the crest. The old Palestine of his boyhood had been beautiful in a wild way. He had to admit the Jews had improved on it. Still . . .
Khabbani removed his strapless old watch from his pocket and looked at it. In less than one hour, the VIP lounge should be full. Any time between then and takeoff was all right, according to his instructions. Khabbani considered. The terminal was actually a little beyond the maximum effective range of his mortars, but if the Hamseen held, he could reach it. If he did not reach the terminal, the rounds would fall short and land in the parking ramp where the Concordes would be. It didn’t matter. It was only necessary to cause an incident and have the flight canceled. Khabbani wasn’t sure he liked this thing he was doing. He shrugged.
One of his men gave a low call. Khabbani looked to where the man was pointing. Two Concordes, traveling in trail, were heading for Lod from the north. Khabbani studied them in his field glasses. Such beautiful aircraft. He had read that they each held 113,000 kilograms of fuel. A quarter-million kilograms together. That would make an explosion that they would feel in Jerusalem.
3
The city of Lod, the ancient Lydda, baked in the early spring heat wave. The first Hamseen of the year was unusually early. The scorching, dry, Sirocco-like desert wind from the east blew across the city with increasing strength. The Hamseen would last a few days, then the weather would become balmy. According to Arab tradition, there were fifty such dog days a year—the Arabic word Hamseen meaning fifty. The only Hamseen that was welcome was the first, for with it, the wildflowers of the Judean and Samarian hills and fields opened and the air was thick with sweet scents.
At Lod International Airport, the tarmac shimmered. On the ramps, where the air liners were parked, an unusually large contingent of Israeli soldiers stood with their weapons slung. In the passenger terminal, security men in nondescript clothing and wearing sunglasses stood with newspapers held in front of them.
Throughout the day, sherut taxis and private cars, carrying well-dressed men and women, pulled up to the doors of the main terminal. The occupants were quickly ushered inside the terminal and into the VIP lounge or the El Al Security office on the top floor.
At the far end of the field stood a cluster of military huts. Commandos in camouflage fatigues stood in various degrees of alertness. Behind the huts, a squadron of twelve American-made F-14 Tomcats stood on the concrete hardstands. Mechanics and armorers worked on the fighters and spoke to pilots and flight officers.
The road coming down from Jerusalem wound through Lod and the ancient Moslem quarter of Ramla on the way to Lod International Airport. Since morning, the inhabitants of Lod and Ramla had noticed the unusually heavy civilian and military traffic. In the past, such activity had been a prelude to yet another crisis. This time it was different.
In Lod, the Greek Orthodox Church of St. George was filled with Christian Arabs and other native Christians of indeterminate Crusader and Byzantine ancestry. No special service was being conducted, but people had come, drawn out of a sense of wanting to be in a special place with others—of wanting to participate in some small way in events that were to touch their lives.
In the city’s synagogues, men sat in small groups hours before the sundown service and spoke in quiet voices. In the market square, near St. George’s, Jewish women shopped for the Sabbath meal among the pitched stalls. There seemed to be a touch of lightheartedness in the bargaining and purchasing, more so than on a usual Friday afternoon, and people tarried in the market place much longer than was necessary to complete their business.
In Ramla, the square in front of the Great Mosque, Jami-el-Kebir, was crowded long before the Muezzin called the faithful to prayer.
The Arab market was as crowded, but noisier than the one in Lod. The Arabs, lingerers by nature, seemed more so as the market and streets filled with every manner of conveyance, from Land Rovers and Buicks to Arabian stallions and camels.
In Ramla Military Prison, Palestinian terrorists were able to hope that at least some of them might soon be free men.
The mood of Lod and Ramla was like that of the rest of Israel and the rest of the Middle East. Here in this part of the world, virtually every powerful, historical force had met at one time or another and had used the terrain as a battleground. Trying to live in peace in this area, said one proverb, was like trying to sleep in the middle of a crossroad. Thousands of armies, millions of men, had marched over this small spot on the map known as the Holy Land. But more than just armies had met in those seemingly desolate hills and deserts. Ideologies and faiths had met, clashed, and left a legacy of blood. Nearly every culture in the East and West was represented by ruins, standing like gravestones over the countryside, or buried like corpses beneath it. It was difficult to dig in modern Israel without uncovering the ruins—and, mingled with the ruins, the bones.
Ramla and Lod typified the agonizing history of the ancient land; the divisiveness and the unity of modern Israel. They reflected the mood of the complex, multireligious state. Hope without celebration. Despair without weeping.
* * *
El Al’s Security Chief, Jacob Hausner, dropped the ornate French telephone receiver back into its cradle. He turned to his young assistant, Matti Yadin. “When are these bastards going to stop bothering me?”
“Which bastards, Chief?” asked Yadin.
Hausner brushed a speck from the top of his satinwood Louis XV desk. He had decorated his office out of his own funds, and he liked to keep it neat. He walked over to the big picture window that overlooked the aircraft parking ramp and opened the heavy velvet drapes. Fabric-fading sunlight poured in. “All of them.” He waved his arm to indicate the world at large. “That was The Citadel. They’re a little concerned.”
“I don’t blame them.”
Hausner regarded Yadin coolly for a second.
Yadin smiled, then looked at his boss with an expression of sympathy. It was a tough job at the best of times. For the past few weeks it had been hell for everyone in Security. He studied Hausner’s profile as the man stared out the window, lost i
n thought.
Jacob Hausner was a child of the Fifth Aliya, the fifth wave of immigration to Palestine. This Aliya had been made up mostly of German Jews who had left their old homeland to return to their more ancient one after Hitler came to power in 1933. They were a lucky or, perhaps, farsighted group. They had all escaped the holocaust in Europe while it was still possible to do so. They were also an affluent, well-educated group, and they had brought with them much-needed capital and skills. Many of them had settled around the older German colony in the seaport of Haifa, and they prospered. Hausner’s early years were typical of the rich German Jews in Haifa during the prewar period.
When World War II broke out, Hausner, just seventeen, had joined MI-6, British Secret Intelligence Service. Being trained by the British in that occupation, he approached it in much the same fashion as his teachers—with the attitude of a dilettante. But also like so many British spies with this attitude, he was exceedingly good at his job. If he considered it only as a necessary wartime hobby, so much the better. He was a rich young man who looked and acted like anything but a spy, which was the idea.
Outside of Haifa, he easily passed as a German. The job called for a lot of party going and social climbing among the German colonies in Cairo and Istanbul, and Hausner was good at it. His mind grasped the most intricate details of that strange and shady business of leading two lives, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Chopin, Mozart, and Sachertorten.
Hausner had joined a private British flying club in a fit of boredom before the war and had become one of the few licensed civilian pilots in Palestine. Between intelligence assignments, he pestered the British to let him log hours in Spitfires and Hurricanes so that he could keep his skills sharp.
After the war, he went to Europe and bought scrapped warplanes for the illegal Haganah Air Force. He had bought the first British Spitfire that General Laskov had flown in, but neither man was aware of the fact.
By the Rivers of Babylon Page 4
