“I was informed there might be petrol,” Alex says in Arabic.
“But surely first a shave?”
Alex feels his face. An Egyptian staff officer would always be clean-shaven. “Why not?”
“Hair as well, Excellency? You will be satisfied. Abu-Yunis works clean.”
Alex glances in the large mirror opposite to see the last customer’s bald pate move out the door. “Just the shave, thank you.” He takes a seat in the chair and immediately his face is covered with a hot towel. The sensation is at the same time one of luxury and paranoia—it feels so very good, but he cannot see.
“You drive west, excellency?”
“Ow mff jmmd o?”
The towel is removed.
“How did you know?”
Abu-Yunis spreads lather over Alex’s face with a brush so soft it might be a caress. “Excellency, here Abu-Yunis is barber, gas station, grocer, also building supplies. Therefore he must know everything.”
“I’m glad someone does.”
The barber begins shaving Alex’s cheek. His touch is light. The straight razor seems barely to graze his face.
“His excellency passed several Syrian bases, then. There is gas available there, or did the colonel not know? Excellency is a colonel?”
“I must have missed the bases. Colonel, yes.”
“Colonel, I am Abu-Yunis. Please hold still—my blade is sharp. You travel to Tel Aviv?”
“To the front. That is correct.”
Abu-Yunis pauses, the razor poised at Alex’s throat. “To Tel Aviv?”
“For the final attack, yes.”
Suddenly the barber is no longer speaking Arabic. “Why would an Egyptian officer in need of gas pass such military bases?”
“Is that Hebrew?” Alex returns in Arabic. “Regretfully, I do not speak it.”
Nevertheless Abu-Yunis continues the same way. “If the colonel is an Egyptian, then Abu-Yunis is just a barber.” He moves the razor slowly over Alex’s throat.
Alex has no choice. “You’re not just a barber?” he replies in Hebrew.
“Until one month ago, Abu-Yunis was a proud citizen of Israel. He voted. He had freedom of speech and movement. His children studied in good schools. He could not be arrested without just cause. Neither as an Arab nor a Christian did harm come to him.”
“And?”
The barber shrugs. “From time to time Abu-Yunis assisted his government.” He has finished the shave. With the still-warm towel, he carefully wipes the rest of the lather from Alex’s face.
“What do I owe you, Abu-Yunis? Aside from my life?”
“To get to Tel-Aviv as quickly as possible. To tell your people that when the time comes the Christian citizens of this area will cut the invaders’ throats as I have not cut yours.” He laughs. “Also, next time to send a spy whose Egyptian accent is more… practiced.”
“My mother grew up in Alexandria. She taught me.”
“Just so. This is why we call it mother tongue. In speech the child emulates her who gave him life.”
Alex cannot suppress the smile. “Sometimes not only in speech.” The barber smiles as well. “I can spare five gallons.”
63
ON THE SCREEN BEHIND Damian Smith, Muslims and Jews clash at UN Plaza, a wedge of mounted New York police forcing them apart as the newscaster reads from his teleprompter. “Earlier today, a march down New York’s Fifth Avenue to the UN by pro-Israel demonstrators culminated in violence with a counter-demonstration by Muslims and their sympathizers. Police reported seven injured before order was restored.”
The screen goes to Connie Blunt aboard CV Star of Bethlehem with a tall sixty-year-old in a khaki officer’s hat, black t-shirt, and jeans. He is smoking a cigar.
“Meanwhile, some five thousand miles away, Connie Blunt joins us aboard the Christian Vessel Star of Bethlehem, en route to Tel Aviv and possible interception by the Egyptian Navy. Connie, tell us what morale is like aboard the flotilla.”
The sound of “Amazing Grace” rises and then is reduced by the control room so that Blunt can be heard.
“Damian, moments ago spontaneous hymn singing broke out here aboard the CV Star of Bethlehem, and I’m told it’s spread to the other ships. It’s hard to believe the Egyptian Navy will make good on its threats, but there’s no knowing. The crew has been doing lifeboat drills since we left Marseilles.”
“Connie, how long before you enter Israeli waters—or Islamic waters, as they’re now called?”
“Damian, that’s a very good question. Here with me on the Star of Bethlehem is its captain, retired US Navy Commander Franklin D. Levine, known aboard as Captain Frank. Captain Frank, are we sailing into danger?”
“Well, Connie,” the captain says in a voice heavy with command gravel. “Your people probably know more than we do about that. All I do know is that we’ve been told the Egyptian Navy has warned they’ll fire on us if we enter Israeli waters.”
“I believe they’re calling it Islamic waters now.”
“They can call it dog (bleep) for all I care,” the captain says. “We’re on course for Israel, not some other place.”
“Are you questioning the outcome of the war, captain? It seems to be well accepted, at least among the diplomatic commu—”
“You know the story of Abe Lincoln and the farmer?”
“Abe Lincoln?”
“Yeah, used to be president, and a better one than we got now. Abe asks the farmer, ‘How many legs has a cow?’ The farmer says, ‘Why, four.’ Abe says, ‘Well, if we call her tail a leg, then how many?’ The farmer says, ‘Five.’ ‘No, sir,’ Ol’ Abe says. ‘Just calling the tail a leg don’t make it one.’ This ship and the five in our wake are bound for Tel Aviv, Israel. Far as I can see, the Arabs can shove any other name for the Jewish State up their (bleep).”
“Be that as it may, captain, the Egyptian Navy seems to disagree. Will they fire on us, do you think?”
Captain Frank is not doing a very good job of concealing his impatience. His tanned face creases unpleasantly. “That’s not known at this time.”
“Captain, when will we know?”
The creases deepen. “When will we know if the Egyptian Navy is going to fire on us?”
“Yes, when?”
Captain Frank looks up to the cloudless sky, as if seeking divine aid in dealing with this idiot. “About a second after they do.”
Blunt is oblivious. “And when do you suppose we’ll be crossing from international waters into formerly Israeli, now Islamic, waters?”
“Miss, you see that green stuff?”
Blunt shades her eyes to follow his finger.
“The wet stuff,” Captain Frank says.
“The ocean?”
“Yeah, the Mediterranean Sea. Do you happen to see any lines out there, with markers and flags? Any buoys?”
“No.”
“That’s because there aren’t any.”
“Captain, I’m not sure I understand.”
“When the shooting starts—that’s when we crossed the line. That’s when we know.”
“Yes, but can you—”
“From our position and from what I’m informed of theirs, and assuming they’re making twenty knots, two hours.”
“Thank you, Captain Franklin D. Levine, commander of the six vessels that make up this aid flotilla on course for Tel Aviv. This is Connie Blunt, aboard the Christian Vessel Star of Bethlehem, somewhere in the Mediterranean.”
“Thank you, Connie. And this is as good a time as any to tell our viewers CNN offered to evacuate Connie, producer Terry Santiago, and cameraman Buddy Walsh by helicopter. Each refused. Stay safe, gang!”