Johnson remained unconvinced. “You’re using those numbers like statistics,” he said, “massaging them to fit the scenario. You’re not looking at the scenario to legitimize your numbers.”
“Still, with your permission, sir,” Warhaftig said. “It might be a good idea to set up communications with the field team in Beersheba. Simply as a precaution.”
Johnson looked at Warhaftig with a scowl. He glanced about the room. Everyone was staring at him. “Alright,” he said. “I guess it can’t hurt.”
The M113 Zelda armored personnel carrier (APC) rumbled along the narrow country road, within a stand of cypress trees that crowned the crooked hill. It was a bright blue dawn. Dew still lingered on the grasses shivering in the valley below. Only a pair of fences in perpetual race marked this bucolic place as the no man’s land between Israel and Lebanon.
Inside the APC, El Aqrab sat handcuffed by a pair of plastic manacles, lashed to the rear hatch. He rose and fell on every bump, each curve, swayed back and forth, trying to spare his wrists, and peered through a narrow slit in the external armor as a team of Special Forces from the Sayerot Mat'kal materialized from nowhere. They were dressed in camouflage, with real and artificial bushes sprouting from their clothes, like scarecrows. Their faces were painted black and green. They carried high-power assault rifles, some with telescopic sights.
As the last of the commandos scurried into view, Major Ilan Ben-Ami pulled himself up and out of the APC. He dropped lightly to the grass. Although Ben-Ami was almost forty-two, he had the toned physique and raw physical demeanor of a man half his age. His friendly, heart-shaped face was boyishly handsome. His eyes were a poignant sea blue. Without a word, he motioned to the Special Forces.
El Aqrab watched the men fan out around the APC and set up a perimeter. Within seconds, the area was secure. Only then did they unfasten his manacles. They pulled him to his feet. As he emerged from the APC, El Aqrab took a long deep breath. He felt the cold air fill his lungs with an exquisite agony. It was as though he were catching the dawn, inhaling it, like a fire-eater. This was the first sunrise he had seen in days. He smiled. They pushed him from the APC and down onto the grass below.
The Major strolled back to the Zelda. One of his men handed him the mouthpiece to the radio and he said to El Aqrab, “No tricks, you hear me? Just tell them where to find the bomb. That’s all. You have thirty seconds.”
El Aqrab looked to the east, at the bright red tendrils of dawn dragging across the earth. He took the mouthpiece in his hand. “Are you there?” he said.
“This is Eagle,” said Captain Rifkin.
“Proceed due west along the main tunnel. When you’ve gone approximately twenty meters, turn right up tunnel seventeen. You will notice a silver conduit above your head,” said El Aqrab. “Follow it for another fifteen meters until the tunnel ends. The device is hidden behind the cistern to your left. An aluminum attaché case.”
El Aqrab returned the microphone. Then he began to stretch his arms, one after the other, raising them high above his head. His shoulders were stiff; he felt a knot at the center of his back. He rolled his head and heard his neck crack. “It is a beautiful dawn, is it not, Major?” He ended the sentence with a smile.
The Major did not answer.
“Dawn is my favorite time of day,” continued El Aqrab. “When everything is just beginning, so full of promise. Most people like the twilight, but it only makes me sad.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the Major said. “Do you think I give a shit about what you like?”
Just then the radio crackled once again. “Eagle to Raven. We’re at tunnel seventeen. I can see the silver conduit. We’re going in,” said Rifkin.
Major Ben-Ami turned on his heels and strode away, leaving the prisoner under the watchful eye of a young corporal who stood there fingering the Zelda’s 30-caliber machine gun. El Aqrab sat on the grass. It felt wet and cold in his hands. The corporal shifted the machine gun to keep the Arab in his sights. El Aqrab looked up at him, and smiled, as if posing for a snapshot. The radio crackled and the Major reappeared.
“Eagle to Raven. We have the device. Do you copy? We have the device.”
“This is Raven. Is it hot?”
“That’s affirmative, Raven. We have a solid reading from all counters.”
“Press the red button,” said El Aqrab, “on the side of the panel, just to the right and below the fuel chamber.”
The Major repeated the instructions.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Captain Rifkin said.
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
El Aqrab climbed to his feet. He took a step closer to the APC. “Press it,” he repeated, “or the countdown will begin automatically. Do your men want to die?”
“You heard him, Eagle,” the Major said. He sheered the words off with clenched teeth. “Just do it. Press the button.”
There was a momentary pause. Then the radio crackled once again and Captain Rifkin said, “Affirmative. The button has been pressed. Do you copy? The button has been pressed.”
“We copy.” The Major turned to El Aqrab. “What now?” he asked.
El Aqrab shrugged. “Now? Now, you release me.”
Just then, a new sound overwhelmed the stillness of the valley. Four F16 Block 60s thundered overhead, followed trimly by six Apache helicopter gun-ships. They swept in from the south, circling the hilltop and the APC. The winter grasses billowed underneath.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the Major shouted above the din. “Orders,” he added, looking up. The choppers were coming down. They were landing all around them. “From the Prime Minister himself. You are to accompany me back to Tel Aviv.”
Major Ben-Ami pointed vaguely in El Aqrab’s direction and a young commando approached him from behind, swinging another pair of plastic handcuffs in his hands.
“I don’t think so,” said El Aqrab in Arabic.
“What’s that?” demanded the commando.
The radio coughed. “Raven, come in. Eagle to Raven.”
“What is it, Eagle?” the Major said.
“The device. It’s started working. It just went on, all of a sudden. It’s counting down, sir. Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight… ”
The Major turned and glowered at El Aqrab. He towered over him. “What kind of game is this?”
“I could provide you with the disarming sequence? Would you like that?”
The Major drew his sidearm. “So help me God, I’ll shoot you right here and now if anything happens, El Aqrab, believe me. What’s the fucking sequence?”
“No you won’t.” The Arab smiled, revealing his extended canines and a network of fine wrinkles round his eyes. Laugh lines. Barely visible. “You will withdraw or the bomb will explode, and Beersheba and everyone in southern Israel will die — like that.” He snapped his fingers for effect. “But if you pull back, I have instructed my associates to disarm the bomb remotely.”
“… forty-three, forty-two… ”
“Now go,” continued El Aqrab. “Go!” he shouted. “Before it’s too late.”
The Major turned without a word and hopped back up onto the APC. In a moment, the entire vehicle was covered with the Sayerot Mat’kal commandos. The armor plating bristled with their camouflage. The Zelda shuddered and began to move, slowly at first, like a giant hedgehog, bumping along the road, then picking up speed. In seconds it was hurtling down the narrow country lane at more than 50 mph, between the cypress trees, powered by its brand-new turbocharged 6V53T engine.
The helicopters gradually ascended, swung round, and started south. The F16s blew overhead, away. The bold roar of their movements faded, only to be replaced by yet another engine, another helicopter, swinging in low from somewhere to the north, from Lebanon. It was painted in jungle camouflage. It hurtled down across the hill, flared for a moment, and then descended, fashioning a bowl in the winter grasses with a furious wind. A moment later it was down.