“So looky here. I gonna make you a one-time only offer. Everyone doubles his quota and the US of A will match it, so that means we’ll have this problem settled in a New York minute. And, speaking of that city, if you agree right now, for a limited time only, I’ll throw in getting the NYPD to cancel every one of your people’s parking tickets, I don’t care going back how long. No more hassles. That’s by way of being a joke, guys, but I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: if you don’t have it already, you get most favored nation status for five whole years. That means zero customs duty on most imports to the US of A, which ought to mean quite a lot if your economy is in the toilet, which most of y’all’s is. Also, any of you want to meet a special movie star on your next visit to our fine country, I can fix that—just so you keep my role in it on the QT. What do you say, guys? Let’s start from the top. Albania, a hundred people—you wanna go to two hundred? What’s two hundred people?”
Albania goes to two hundred, Argentina doubles to three thousand, Australia to a hundred thousand, and so on right down the line to Zambia, which agrees to fifty Jews. China and Russia are left for last. Because Taiwan has now agreed to accept four thousand, Beijing signs on for ten times that. Russia, however, isn’t budging. Never mind that so many Israelis were until recently Russian engineers, doctors, and scientists trained in Russian schools and familiar with Russian ways. “Russia,” its prime minister tells the president, “has too many Jews already. And always will.”
With the problem mostly solved, the president needs only to consult with Flo Spier on the best timing for the announcement. She believes it will very helpful to get the new Israeli PM to Washington for a joint statement. Trouble is, communication with what the press is calling the “interim” or “ad hoc” government of Israel is proving difficult.
Less so for an Israeli agent deep in the national security apparatus, who communicates the results of the teleconference—code, shmode—to Yigal Lev via a radio link with CV Star of Bethlehem.
“Well, that’s settled,” Yigal tells Misha. “Where do you prefer, Albania or Zambia?”
“I like it here,” Misha says.
“So do I,” Yigal says. “The State of Israel isn’t going anywhere, not in whole, not in parts.”
“Except forward.”
“Except forward,” Yigal says.
“And then I’ll have my favorite cigars again,” Misha says.
95
THE THREE IMPOSTERS ARE now close enough to Tel Aviv to imagine the sound of early morning traffic and the sight of exhaust smoke rising over the city. But the morning is silent and the air is clear.
Abed drives slowly; the last thing they need is to come upon an Israeli patrol at speed.
A shout in Arabic from somewhere ahead splits the predawn silence. “Hands in the air!”
Each of the three thinks the same thing at the same time: shit. There is no knowing the uniform of whoever is speaking.
“Slowly exit the vehicle, carefully put down your weapons, then move to the front of the vehicle, one man at a time.”
When they do, there is a further command.
“Place your hands on your heads.”
A half dozen soldiers appear before them out of the morning mists.
Cobi laughs. “Don’t shoot,” he says in Hebrew. “We’re playing for the same team.”
“Shut up—not a word!” An IDF captain comes up from behind them, his Tavor leveled at their heads. At this distance, a single burst will decapitate all of them in the time it takes to complete one word of explanation.
A sergeant motions to two soldiers behind him. “Check to the rear, a hundred meters.”
“There’s an Egyptian forward checkpoint about a kilom—”
The lieutenant swings his rifle butt. Abed goes down. “Your mother’s cunt! I said shut up.”
The sun is fully up now. One of the squad lights the butt of a cigarette. That is what it has come to: saving butts, relighting them for a last puff. Another squats in the dirt. Time passes with immeasurable slowness, like a clock whose hands have been weighted.
Abed’s head is bleeding, staining through the black-and-white-checked cotton of his kaffiyeh. But he stays down.
Cobi tries to read the captain’s insignia: Golani Infantry, but no other identifying marks. He wears brown parachutist boots. The two do not go together. Even Golani who graduate jump school do not wear brown boots. Golani troopers and paratroopers get into fist-fights over who is tougher. Or they did. Cobi busies himself with solving this puzzle, thinking maybe this is a borrowed uniform, or borrowed boots. Or maybe it is all simply a bad dream. He had enough of them in the cave waiting for Abed to return.
Abed is like the brown boots. A Bedouin, even one who hides his own IDF uniform, should have turned him in for bounty—that was the rap on Bedouin. Why is this one different? Who was to say as soon he got Cobi out of the cave he wouldn’t shoot him in the back? But he didn’t. Cobi thinks: good Bedouin, bad Bedouin. Just like Jews.
Meanwhile, the captain searches the Cadillac.
“An Egyptian officer’s uniform,” he says, with no hint of surprise. “Which one of you belongs to it?”
Alex wiggles a finger at the top of his head: permission to speak? She does not wish want to get hit in the face with a rifle butt. Such a pretty face when it is all fixed up.
The lieutenant nods.
“Liberated from the enemy, captain.”
“Sure.”
It is clear to all three what the captain is thinking: a decision must be made. In Ghetto Tel Aviv there is no room for prisoners, nor anything to feed them. Every calorie that goes to them will not be available to his soldiers. And it is growing light. A reconnaissance patrol on open ground in full daylight might be picked off at any moment. Enemy helicopters are everywhere.
The two soldiers return.
One of them, an Ethiopian whose European face seems to have been soaked in coffee, spits to his side. “Clear to the rear,” he announces. “But that’s just a hundred meters. For all we know they could be in front of us.”
The squatting soldier stands. He knows this much: either they go back with prisoners or they go back without them, but they need to go back now. As though magnetized, the others in the squad take a few steps closer to the three, Alex and Cobi standing, Abed still on the ground.
The captain approaches, peering closely at Alex, whose eyes still bear traces of makeup, his lips a bit too plummy. “Why do you look like a girl?”
“My late mother asked the same question,” Alex says. The joke falls flat. “Look, under the seat is my IDF ID.”
“Easily forged,” the captain says. “Is that eye shadow?”
“Liner,” Alex says. “Estée Lauder.”
“But you’re not a girl.”
Cobi can take no more of this. If something doesn’t happen, they are all going to be executed by their own forces two kilometers from Tel Aviv. “He’s not a girl—he’s a fucking cross-dresser, and a damn fine one at that. Look, Captain, isn’t there any way to prove who we are?”
“You mean prove you’re not Hebrew-speaking enemy agents attempting to cross into Tel Aviv? Let me think. No, I don’t reckon you can.”
Oddly, it begins with Abed.