“Jerusalem of Gold,” he sings from the ground. “And of bronze and…”
Alex and Cobi pick it up immediately.
“Fuck,” the captain says. “Why didn’t you do that right away?”
Cobi puts his hands down, a relief in itself. “Because we were pissing in our pants you would kill us on the spot, that’s why.”
“A likely outcome too,” the captain says. “You got room for seven more in this boat?”
“Walk in the park,” Alex says, grinning. “It’s a fucking Cadillac.”
96
FOR TWENTY YEARS, SINCE the arrival of General Tawfik Ali, the former Twyford Oliver, uniformly known to his tank crews as Ticky Pasha, the command structure of the armored forces of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan has flourished as an independent military fiefdom. While the infantry and air force answer to the minister of defense, Royal Jordanian Armored Command reports directly to the monarch. The relationship between the king and General Ali is considered so unshakeable that only a year earlier a cable to Whitehall from MI6’s resident in Amman summarized it succinctly: “Were General Ali to resign, the king would fall—and he knows it.”
Like intelligence agencies the world over, MI6 totally gets the past, sometimes comprehends the present, but never even remotely foretells the future. Washington, London, Moscow, and Beijing would be better off hiring fortune tellers. Always and inevitably, the future is complicated—and nowhere is this more true than in the Middle East.
In a desert encampment twenty kilometers outside Amman, the capital, the king is on a visit to the sheikhs of the Bedouin tribes that make up his principal support, the backbone of his army. They are his shield against the growing Palestinian threat within Jordan. Until recently, 70% of the country’s population; now, with their numbers swollen by refugees from the pan-Arab campaign to wipe out the Palestinians of the West Bank, the monarch has little choice but to enforce his rule with the sword if he is not to add his name to the list of fallen Arab monarchs. Just as in 1970, when his father ordered the slaughter of Palestinians in Jordan, the current king is determined to do what he must to survive. Of course, if there were some way to deport them all, the task would be easier. But the Palestinians have nowhere to go, certainly not in the Arab world, where they are considered troublemakers. Either they are dealt with now or by sheer numbers they will soon enough depose the monarchy and declare a Palestinian state.
While the British-educated king sits drinking Turkish coffee on a tennis-court-size oriental rug in the vast royal tent, an aide enters to inform him that Ticky Pasha has arrived, presumably to discuss solving Jordan’s Palestinian problem for all time.
Within an hour, the two meet in one of seven smaller tents in which the king will sleep that night. Three of the tents are occupied by royal lookalikes. The Jordanian monarch is determined to die of old age.
“Your majesty,” General Ali says, speaking the English of Sandhurst and Oxford, of country houses and Whitehall. It is a language they share. Though the British officer is fluent in Arabic, the two always speak English in private. “Your majesty, I ask you to forgive this sudden interruption, but a matter has arisen of great urgency.”
“Ticky, please. There is no need to apologize for what is always a pleasurable meeting.”
“This one may not be so pleasurable,” the Englishman says. “Your highness, I have given to you personally and to the kingdom over which you rule almost twenty years of devoted service. I have dedicated my life’s work to the creation and development of the finest armored corps in the Arab world, a force which has permitted you to conquer all of al Kuds.” He uses the Arabic name for Jerusalem: al Kuds, the Holy. “As a Muslim, I have wept with joy to see the Mosque of Omar and the Al-Aksa once more in Hashemite hands.”
“And as one Muslim to another, I commend your very essential part in causing this to come about. In the annals of Islam, your name will be remembered in glory.”
“Your highness, I am now apprised that tanks under my command are to be the vanguard in an invasion of the city of Tel Aviv. Sire, these are weapons designed to destroy military targets, other tanks, armed infantry. Aside from a handful of probably inoperable Chariots that may quickly be swept aside, there are no military targets in the city of Tel Aviv. I am instructed that the targets of my armored corps are to be civilians.”
“Jews.”
“Your highness, they are unarmed. Women and children.”
The monarch smiles. “My dear Ticky, surely as a Muslim you are aware that I am now guardian of the holy sites. My family is descended directly from the Prophet. My first responsibility is to Islam.” He nods in affirmation. “First and last.”
“Your highness, Jews and Christians are protected peoples. They may not be harmed so long as they do not take up arms against Islam. Even should they reject Allah they are dhimmi, who under conditions well defined in Shari’a law may live freely amongst us. The Prophet is himself known to have commanded that women and children and unarmed men must under all circumstances be protected from harm.”
“The Prophet stated as well, Arabia is Muslim for all time.’”
“Is this then Arabia, your majesty?”
“Ticky, is not my lineage that of the first family of Arabia?” General Tawfik Ali is now sixty-two years old, his children grown. One is a professor of Arabic at Yale University in the United States, the other proprietor of a London boutique catering to Middle Eastern women visiting England or living in the West; her designs are both modest, in that they cover the arms and legs, and stylish, adaptations of the current trends out of Paris and New York. Ten years a widower, the former Twyford Oliver, holder of a CBE that was never publically announced, has been dreading this moment since he became a Muslim and committed himself to the Hashemites and to their kingdom.
“Your majesty has many times seen the film Lawrence of Arabia.’”
“Many times we have seen it together. It is a tribute to the perfect wisdom of my antecedent, King Abdullah.”
“Indeed. But it describes as well the imperfect Englishman who swore him allegiance.”
“Only the Prophet is perfect.”
“Indeed. But the imperfection of Lawrence is not one I wish to emulate. My faults are great, probably countless. You will recall that at a certain point in the film, the Englishman Lawrence, seething with vengeance, instructs his troops: ‘No prisoners.’”
The king listens but does not speak.
“Your majesty, though like Lawrence I was born an Englishman, I am not that man.”
“Ticky, I have one fifth column in my country, the Palestinians. Do you suggest I tolerate another?”
“Sire, I respectfully suggest your majesty await the outcome of international attempts to resettle elsewhere the residents of Tel Aviv.”
“Yes, of course, that would be the proper path,” the king says. “But these are Jews. They rise like the phoenix bird. Their air force has been wiped out and suddenly they appear with three Super Hornets and destroy the pride of the Egyptian navy. Their armed forces are in tatters, most of them prisoners in desert camps. Yet they develop the missile capability which takes out not one but five Syrian Sukhois, as formidable a warplane as exists. Give them another month, another week, perhaps only a day, and they will grow an offensive capability neither you nor I can imagine. Ticky, my beloved mentor, my old friend, these are Jews. They must be destroyed.”