The Nylon Hand of God

by Steven Hartov

  Itzik paused for effect. “Yes. Luckily,” he said at last, and Benni’s shoulders slumped in relief.

  Blackstone was a highly secret project of the Mossad, though as chief of AMAN’s SpecOps, Itzik was privy to it and had once sent Baum to a coordinating session between the services. As the Soviet republics began to crumble, the Israelis feared that nuclear warheads might be “lost” in the shuffle. A Kazhak Jew and former artillery officer, who had emigrated to Israel, had been reinserted back into his homeland, tasked with seeking out the inadequately guarded missiles. Wherever and whenever he dared, he had managed to insert a small microchip into the guidance circuitries of the warheads. The chips were dormant and would remain so until activated by lasers from American satellites. They would then reflect a weak homing signal.

  “They were going to get their hands on one eventually,” said Itzik. “But at least this lot’s detectable, if we ever decide to repeat Osirak.” He meant the Israeli raid on Baghdad’s nuclear reactor, condemned by the world at the time and blessed ex post facto by the Allied Coalition when the winds of Desert Storm began to blow.

  Benni said nothing. That would be someone else’s problem now.

  “I have to get back to the office,” Itzik said, but as he turned he gestured at Eytan, Simona, and their son. “His flight back to Africa is first thing tomorrow. And he had better be on it.”

  “I am not his baby-sitter, Itzik,” Benni protested.

  “No.” The general looked down at him darkly. “You’re his Svengali.”

  He began to walk toward the northwestern corner of the forecourt, where another wide flight of stone stairs led up into the Arab Quarter, through a maze of winding stalls, and out Damascus Gate, a short stroll to headquarters. Benni signaled to his own family, a plea for a moment more of patience. Yosh and Amos, resplendent in their pilot and paratrooper uniforms, were crushing Ruth between them, as Maya laughed and tried to pull them apart. The Baums had made no move to approach Benni and Itzik. They did not care much for Benni’s boss.

  Benni caught up with the general, whose long strides made that a challenge.

  “You’re sure you want to join Eckstein,” Itzik said disapprovingly as his boots clicked on the stones.

  “Yes.”

  “Africa is not the Côte d’Azur.”

  “He needs me there.”

  “I shouldn’t let you.” Itzik sighed. “You two are dangerous together.”

  “And apart.” Benni smiled.

  As they reached the foot of the stairway, a pair of passing recruits saluted the general in mock formality. He ignored them as he began to climb.

  “You’ll have to sign the long form,” he warned. “Put off the pension.”

  “I’ll sign.”

  “And you’ll have to wrap up the Moonlight and Tango files.”

  “Done.”

  Itzik ascended in earnest now, taking two steps at a time. Benni slowed and stopped, watching the tall man’s back.

  “And what about your retirement party?” the general called, though he did not turn or wait for a reply. He strode through the security gate, past the elderly pocketbook and parcel inspectors in their rumpled fatigues, and he disappeared into the Old City.

  Benni put his hands into the pockets of his leather coat and slowly turned away. He stood for a moment, regarding the black-clad Hasids davening at the foot of the high wall. He looked up at the rooftops of the northern quarter, where Israeli flags whipped in the wind and rifle-toting troops strolled along the parapets. He turned his gaze to the southern stone ramp that led up to the Temple Mount, where a line of kaffiyeh-swathed men rose toward the Al Aksa Mosque.

  He might be growing older, but the Middle East was not. It plodded on, perhaps making some progress, two steps forward, one step back. Here and there a lonely flag of truce, a brief cool handshake, a reluctant kiss. Yet, like a stubborn marriage, essentially unchanged.

  He began to descend the stairs, breathed in the perfume of Jerusalem pines, smiled slightly, and whispered:

  “It will have to wait.”