By the Rivers of Babylon

by Nelson DeMille

  Talman was uncomfortable with Laskov’s sudden intimacy, both physical and emotional. He made a small movement to indicate that he’d rather not be held, but Laskov would not release his grip. This was a crossroads for Talman, and he thought he could make the decision better if Laskov were standing off a bit. The Israelis stood too close, not as close as the Arabs, but close enough. Too close for Talman’s comfort. “Well . . .” But Laskov’s nearness made him . . . what? He could feel the man’s warmth, his breath . . . he could feel something pass through Laskov’s fingers and into his body. “I really . . .” This was terribly awkward. The man’s face was less than half a meter from his. And he could . . . feel what Laskov was feeling. “I . . . think I’ll go home. . . . No. . . . I’ll come with you. Yes, damn it! It’s insane, you know . . . insane, really . . . but I’ll help you. Yes!”

  Laskov smiled slowly. Yes, he knew Talman as well as he thought he did. Even Talman could be moved. The dream was a nice touch. “Good.” He released Talman and stepped back. “Listen. I know an Air Force photo lab tech in Tel Aviv. We can pick him up on the way to the Citadel. He can make a storage dump look like a nude of Elizabeth Taylor if we want. He’ll do anything I say, with no questions asked.”

  Talman nodded and they began walking again, almost running, back to the taxi rank outside the Prime Minister’s office. They jumped into a cab. “Tel Aviv,” said Laskov, out of breath. “National emergency!”

  29

  Benjamin Dobkin took the hand of Shear-jashub. They stood on the mud quay that jutted into the Euphrates. The entire village of a few dozen persons stood at the foot of the quay and watched them quietly. The moon revealed the dust clouds on the opposite shore. On this shore, the wind blew, but most of the dust fell into the river. The river itself was choppy, and small waves lapped against the quay. It would not be an easy crossing, nor would it be an easy journey on the land. Dobkin looked back at the old man. “Carry him out onto the mud flats for the jackals, and in the morning go about your business.”

  The old man nodded politely. He didn’t need any instructions on how to survive. His village had survived for over two thousand years through episodes that were second to the European Holocaust only in scale. “May God go with you on your journey, Benjamin.”

  Dobkin was wearing the bloodstained tiger fatigues and the kheffiyah of the dead Ashbal. The man himself would soon be in the bellies of the jackals, but Dobkin couldn’t get out of his mind the troubled feeling that Rish would eventually come to this village to avenge Talib and would swiftly complete the job that two millennia of attrition had not completed. “Would your people want to come—to come home to Israel—if that could be arranged?”

  Shear-jashub looked at Dobkin. “Jerusalem?”

  “Yes. Jerusalem. Anywhere in Israel. Herzlya beach, if you want.” He could dimly understand what was going on in the old man’s mind. Israel to him was just a Biblical name, along with Judah and Zion. It was hardly a real place and had not much more meaning than Babylon had had to Dobkin two days before. “It’s a good place,” said Dobkin. “The land is good.” How the hell could he possibly bridge two millennia? Not only was the Hebrew different, but the concepts and values were worlds apart. “You may be in danger here.”

  “We are always in danger here.”

  What right did he have to hold out the promise of return to Jerusalem anyway? How could he deliver if they accepted? But he continued. “You have been in Babylon too long. It is time to go home.” He’d have to be insistent. They were like children, and they did not know how good it could be for them in Israel. And he did not like to see Jews living in subjugation. When he traveled and saw Jews in some countries keeping a low profile, it angered him and he wanted to scream to them, “Come home, you idiots! Come home and hold your heads up. There is a place for you now. We bought it for you with our blood.” He tightened his grip on the old rabbi’s hand. “Come home.”

  Shear-jashub placed his free hand on Dobkin’s shoulder. “Aluf,” he began. “Have you come to lead us out of the Captivity? Or are you to be the unwitting instrument for our final destruction? Wait. Let me finish. In the Book it says, ‘Then rose up the chief of the fathers of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests, and the Levites, with all them whose spirit God had raised, to go up to build the house of the Lord which is Jerusalem.’ But God did not raise the spirit of my forefathers and they stayed. But let me tell you this, Benjamin. When this house of God of the returned exiles, the Second Temple, was also destroyed and the populace was dispersed and wandered the world, it was the Jews who had remained in Babylon who kept the flame of learning lit. Babylon, not Jerusalem, was the first city of Jewish learning and culture in those years. Israel will always need her exiles, Benjamin, in order to insure that there will always be someone left to carry on the Law and to return to Jerusalem if it is ever again destroyed.” He smiled and his shiny brown face wrinkled in the moonlight. “I hope the spirit of God moves you someday to build the Third Temple. And if you do, remember this—if Jerusalem falls again, then there are always the Jews of the Diaspora, and even us of the Captivity, to return and build the Fourth.” He squeezed Dobkin’s hand and shoulder, then gently pushed him away. “Go, Benjamin. Go and complete your work. And when it is done, then perhaps we will speak again of Jerusalem.”

  Dobkin turned quickly and walked to the end of the quay. He looked back over his shoulder and gave a half wave to the robed figures standing motionless in the moonlight. A sense of unreality came over him, not for the first time. The sights, sounds, and especially the smells of this place made it difficult for him to think rationally—to think like a twentieth century military man.

  Dobkin stared down into the Euphrates. An odd-looking craft called a gufa sat in the river. It was no more than a large round basket, coated with the famous bitumen of Babylon. It looked as if it had just been freshly coated with the slime. It may have been a few days or a few thousand years old. Dobkin lowered his big frame into it, and it sank almost to the gunwales. A young man named Chislon jumped in after him, apparently without worrying about the few centimeters of freeboard remaining. The gufa bobbed dangerously low in the water, but finally settled with about ten centimeters of freeboard on Chislon’s side and about five on Dobkin’s. Chislon took a long pole from the quay, cast away the mooring rope, and pushed off.

  * * *

  Dobkin guessed correctly that the gufa was never used when the Euphrates was at high flood as it was now. Within minutes his guess was confirmed when he noticed that the pole was no longer touching bottom no matter how far over Chislon leaned. Chislon looked up and smiled at him several times.

  The gufa picked up speed. Dobkin knew that they had to make a landfall on the opposite bank within two kilometers or they would overshoot the southern end of Babylon and he would have to backtrack on foot. He didn’t feel strong enough for that. He smiled at the young man who was trying to look very calm, but Dobkin could see that he was scared.

  Another possibility that had nagged at Dobkin’s mind was to go on to Hillah. They might help in Hillah. He could go directly to the Hillah garrison and explain the situation. They would call Baghdad. But the Hillah garrison or the local government people must know that something was going on in Babylon. Why, then, weren’t they investigating? He thought about it. The Jews had never completely trusted any outside group to show them charity or give them aid. They expected treachery and were not often disappointed. No, he should not go to Hillah. He should go to the guest house or the museum and get his hands on a telephone and call Israel. That was where he could expect help. That was where there were people who cared if he and the rest lived or died—cared very much, in fact.

  * * *

  The Sherji blew over the water and what it lacked in sand, it made up for in velocity. The gufa bobbed and swayed and waves splashed over the gunwales on all sides. The round craft began to spin around like a top, and Dobkin was becoming nauseous. His groin ached and his thigh was on fire. He put his head over
the side and vomited up his meal of hot lemon tea and an unidentifiable fish that was called masgouf.

  He felt better and leaned over the side and washed his face in the river. Chislon looked a little unwell also, he noticed.

  Dobkin could see a few lights on the far bank and pointed to them.

  “Kweirish,” said Chislon.

  Dobkin was certain now that the young man was clearly worried about the weather. Westerners always had an inordinate faith in native guides, but the truth of the matter was that natives rarely or never did the things that Western adventurers expected they did as part of their routine. Undoubtedly, Chislon had never before had any reason to cross the Euphrates at full flood in the middle of the night when the Sherji was blowing.

  Dobkin looked at both banks as they spun past him. On the east bank, great masses of dust veiled the land and blotted out the moon. He knew that this meant the last act would be unfolding on the hill long before the moon set.

  The river bent below Kweirish and the gufa gathered more speed as it came out of its turn. The small craft was caught in the high-velocity water between narrowing banks. Chislon continued to feel for the bottom with the pole and almost caused the craft to be swamped as he leaned farther over the side.

  Dobkin tried to estimate when their course would intersect the far shore. Ahead, the river made a turn westward, and if the gufa didn’t sink first, they might make landfall there. That should put them in the vicinity of the southernmost wall of the city. He would have to backtrack at least two kilometers to the Ishtar Gate and guest house. He wondered what he was going to do if he got there.

  * * *

  “Disasters and victories are very closely related,” observed Hausner.

  Burg stuffed a few cigarette stubs into his pipe and lit it as only a nicotine addict can light tobacco in a driving wind.

  Both men huddled in what was left of the trenches on the east slope. Sand drifted into the cut in the earth, bringing it slowly and inexorably back up to grade level.

  “Where is Kaplan?” asked Burg, for the second time.

  How Burg knew that Kaplan was gone was anyone’s guess, thought Hausner. Maybe Naomi Haber. Burg had his followers. “You know, not too far from here, at a place called Kut, a whole British army was besieged by the Turks during the First World War.” He lit a full cigarette. “The British Expeditionary Force came from India and landed on the Persian Gulf at the mouths of the Tigris and Euphrates. They were going to wrest ancient Mesopotamia from the Turk. The Arab populace—the desert Arabs and the marsh Arabs—were like vultures. After every clash between the two armies, they would strip the dead and finish off the wounded. They harassed both armies and killed stragglers for their clothes and equipment. There’s a lesson there and the lesson is, don’t go out on the mud flats. If we do and the Ashbals don’t get us, marauding Arabs will.”

  Burg pulled a scarf closer around his face and stuck his pipe into a fold and drew on it. He looked at Hausner. “I absolutely agree with you there. We’ll tell the Foreign Minister that story later. Meanwhile, where is Kaplan?”

  “This story has another part and another lesson to be learned, Isaac.”

  Burg exhaled his smoke on a sigh of resignation. “All right.”

  “Well, after a large battle with the Turks, the British had to hole up at this town called Kut. They had outrun their supplies. The Turks laid siege to the town, and the siege lasted for months. The relieving British force actually got within a kilometer of Kut, but the Turks drove them back again and again. The British in Kut finally had to surrender when their supplies ran out. One of the most severe criticisms of the British commander—this was stated in the War Office report—concerned his lack of forays and sallies from Kut into the encircling Turkish ranks. The report called for an end to static defenses and recommended mobile and fluid defenses. No more walls. Fire and maneuver. Military science has accepted that now. Why don’t you?”

  Burg forced a laugh. “I hardly see the parallel in your parable. Where is Kaplan? Downslope?”

  “There is a parallel, and it is that good tactics are good tactics whether it is at Kut, Khartoum, or Babylon. And speaking of Khartoum, Burg, don’t forget that the British relief force was only one day late in arriving there. But that didn’t make General Gordon and his men and the civilians any less dead. If outside help does not reach us in the next few hours, we will suffer the same fate, Burg. While we sit here and no one is trying to hack us to pieces we lull ourselves into a false sense of security. But when that slope comes alive with screaming, bloodthirsty Ashbals, we will all be saying, ‘Why didn’t we try this?’ or, ‘Why didn’t we try that?’ Well, I’m telling you now, Burg that any desperate method to buy more time is worth the risk.”

  “Where did he go? The Ishtar Gate?”

  “No. Only down to the outer city wall. That will be the route they take.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “All field problems have only a finite number of solutions.”

  “I’m going to get you a job at the War College when we get back.”

  Hausner lay back against the side of the trench and closed his eyes as he smoked.

  “When are we trying Bernstein and Aronson? Before or after your court-martial?”

  Hausner had had enough of humility and deference. It didn’t suit him. He didn’t like sharing anything, least of all his authority. He sat up quickly and tapped Burg on the chest, “Don’t push me, Isaac, or it will be you in the dock, not me. If it goes to a vote, they will pick the genuine bastard to lead them out of the wilderness, not the ersatz bastard like you or the statesman like Weizman. They can trust a real bastard to drive them on. They know they can’t trust you or Weizman to make unpopular decisions or to enforce them. So back off. I’ll be out of your way—and out of your life—soon enough.”

  Burg stared down into the glowing bowl of his pipe. “I don’t trust you, Jacob. Anyone who thinks victories and disasters are very closely related is the kind of man who calls for another card when he already has twenty points on the black-jack table. That’s not the way we play it in intelligence. We accept minimum gains in exchange for minimum losses. We never go for the big gain if there’s a chance of a big loss. That’s the way all armies, intelligence services, and foreign ministries play the game today. You’re the last of the big gamblers. But you shouldn’t do it with other people’s lives. Even the life of one man—Moshe Kaplan—a brave man—shouldn’t be gambled away—thrown away—on the outside chance that the loss of his life may do us some good.”

  “You know damn well that one life is considered a small risk. By the rules of your own damn game theory, that was an acceptable loss for a possibly large gain.”

  “It’s very subjective, I suppose. I don’t consider the loss of one life a small loss.”

  “You’re a damned hypocrite, Burg. You’ve done worse than this in your lifetime. And don’t pretend that you weren’t glad I asked Dobkin to go. That mission is almost certain death, you know, and you didn’t seem so goddamned upset about that.”

  “That was different. Dobkin is a professional. A man like that knows that a time like this comes at least once in his life.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier for him or any easier for me. Do you think I enjoyed sending either of them down there?”

  “I didn’t say that. Lower your voice. I’m only playing Devil’s Advocate here.”

  “I don’t need any more devils or their advocates, Burg. I do what I think I have to do. And I hope to God that the people in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv forget about their game plan theories, because if they’re not willing to take that big gamble on us, if and when they find out where we are, then we are all dead.”

  Burg looked off downslope and spoke in an offhand manner. “Well, better dead than that we should be the cause of another war or that our rescue should jeopardize the Peace Conference.”

  Hausner saw it all in a flash of insight. Burg was willing to sacrifice them all for wha
t he thought was a higher good. He would rather they die bravely—and quietly—than see them used as an instrument to put Israel in a difficult position. It was a matter of degree, if you thought about it. He, Hausner, was willing to sacrifice Kaplan, himself, or anyone else for higher goals. But where did the sacrifice stop? If Israel were being overrun, would she refuse to use her atomic weapons “for the sake of humanity and the higher good”? Did anyone, nation or citizen, have the right to say, “Higher good, my ass. I deserve to live and I’ll kill anyone who tries to put an end to my life”?

  But people did make sacrifices for higher goals; Kaplan was doing that now. Kaplan, lying so very alone in the dark—he could count his remaining time on earth in minutes. And Burg was willing to let them all—including himself—die rather than force Israel to make a decision.

  Hausner thought about it. He was willing to sacrifice his life. But that was because fate had put him in a position where to continue to live might be worse than dying. And he had put Kaplan in that position. Kaplan could never have lived a normal life after refusing Hausner’s kind of invitation to lay down his life. But it wasn’t the lives or the deaths that bothered him, he realized. It was the principle of aggressive intervention that was at stake. The Jews of Israel couldn’t let themselves slip into that passive role that had been the cause of the death of European Jewry.

  It went against Hausner’s personality to accept Burg’s argument. If he, Hausner, were asked directly by the Prime Minister, he would say, “Damn right I want you to blast your way in here and get us. What the hell is taking you so long?” Certainly Burg believed that, too. Burg was only playing Devil’s Advocate again. Burg was speaking like the Foreign Minister—and Miriam—would speak. Burg, the spy, had many personalities and spoke many tongues. But if Burg really believed what he said, then Burg was wrong. Burg would have to be watched. Burg might have to go.