by Davis Bunn
Dov’s body floated amidst the vessel’s wreckage. Marc pulled him from the water and wrapped him in the dinghy’s anti-radar cover. Sandrine tried to help, but she was sobbing too hard to be much use. Marc started the motor and headed north, back toward Sharm el-Sheikh. Sandrine wrapped her arms around the shrouded body, her own body shaking as she wept.
By the time they approached landfall, Sandrine had recovered sufficiently to hand Marc her computer pad. She showed him how to read the built-in radar and GPS. He watched her unclasp a ceramic star from around her neck and break it open. She unfurled a bit of waterproof paper and typed the numbers into the pad. Instantly the screen lit up with a map of the waters and a fragment of land up to their north. She explained in sorrowful tension that they could not safely return to the Aqaba waters until daylight. Marc took the pad and told her to check on Bernard.
Three minutes later, Marc watched the screen as what could only be a trio of military vessels powered toward the blast site. He steered well east of them. A pair of high-powered lights flashed overhead, and the air was filled with the throbbing of marine diesels. He did not resume his northern course until the lights and the engines had vanished beyond the horizon.
Their destination was the Nabq Protected Area, a vast wildlife preserve that stretched inland from the point of land known as Ras Muhammad. The promontory separated the waters of the two gulfs, Suez and Aqaba, from the Red Sea proper. The first sign Marc had of their approaching destination was the smell, swampy and fetid. He powered down and entered the mangrove swamp at a crawl. Twenty minutes after wending his way through tight curves and clouds of mosquitoes, they pulled into a protected pool whose northern curve was a beach turned silver by the rising moon. Land crabs clattered a warning as Marc stepped into the tepid water and secured the dinghy. Somewhere in the distance a bird chirped its worry, then went still.
He checked on Bernard and was vastly relieved to see the man able to focus his eyes on Marc’s light. Marc set up a small butane stove and made tea, then soup. He spooned the liquid into the Swiss agent and pretended not to hear as Sandrine gave herself over to grief.
Bernard was the only one who slept. At dawn, Marc woke him with another cup of tea laced with honey. This time, Bernard was able to sit up and hold the mug himself. His nose still dripped a little blood, and his voice was muffled, like he was recovering from an overdose of Novocain. But Bernard was able to answer Marc’s questions, even chide him when Marc asked where they were. “How am I supposed to know that? Off the map, I suppose.” He swiped at a mosquito that had managed to burrow through the covering of repellent they all had smeared on every part of their bodies not covered. “It will be nice to breathe without bugs.”
“You’ll live,” Marc decided.
“Of course I will live. I am Swiss. We are very hard to . . .” Bernard glanced at the body in the metal shroud and the woman who sat with her back on a stunted palm, and did not finish. “How long do we stay here?”
“Until we get the rendezvous alert.”
Bernard watched Marc mix another packet of soup and bottled water and set it on to boil. “Our situation reminds me of a lesson I heard in training. ‘If the enemy is in range, so are you.’”
“I might have had the same instructor,” Marc recalled grimly. “A lesson I heard a lot was, ‘When the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is not your friend.’”
“Tracers work both ways,” Bernard recalled.
“Only trust a five-second fuse for three seconds.”
Sandrine spoke for the first time since daybreak. “If your attack is going extremely well, you are probably walking into an ambush.” She wiped her face. “Dov should have listened more carefully.” Her voice broke on the last word.
Marc took that as a signal and carried the first mug over to her. “Drink.”
“I’m not—”
“Drink.” He stood over her and waited until she had finished the soup. “More?”
“All right. But you first.”
He went back and poured another mug, drank it, then handed a third to Bernard.
The Swiss agent took it, drank half, then said to the mug, “Never tell a sergeant you don’t have anything to do.”
Marc refilled the mug. “If you see a bomb technician running away, follow him.”
Sandrine said, “Don’t draw enemy fire. It irritates the soldiers around you.”
Marc carried over another mug and pretended not to notice her tears. “My favorite is, ‘Bravery is being the only person who knows you’re afraid.’”
She wiped her face with the hand not holding the mug and said, “Our pad has started pinging. For real, not a soldier’s quote.”
Marc walked back to his gear and saw she was correct. “What does it mean?”
She set down the mug. “They have come to take Dov home.”
The computer pad’s mapping system was military grade, accurate down to inches. Which was important because the stream they were on meandered and cut back upon itself and narrowed down to where they could touch both banks. Even in the daylight Marc would have never made it out alone.
They emerged into open waters to discover an ancient dhow anchored in the shadows. The wooden vessel was perhaps sixty feet long and fitted with a single lateen sail, colored like toffee by age and hard use. A pair of young men in turbans and cutoffs cast circular nets in graceful motions as Marc powered toward them. The fishermen were joined by another man, this one wearing a sweat-stained skipper’s cap and a threadbare shirt over his sun-blasted chest. They reeled in the nets and were ready to grip the dinghy and heft Dov’s body onboard. They stowed the gear, deflated the dinghy, and quickly drew them all into the shelter of the dirty wheelhouse. The boat smelled of fish and bait and diesel and years of sweat. The sail was stowed as an ancient two-stroke engine chugged to life.
Once they were under way, the skipper pulled out a bulky satellite phone and pressed the speed dial. He spoke a single word, then handed Marc the phone.
The Mossad agent he knew as Chaver said, “Tell me what you think happened.”
“They off-loaded far out,” Marc replied, ready for the question, and liking the man’s terseness. “They probably used boats just like this one.”
“This is my thinking as well.”
“You need to get agents into Sinai.”
“We can’t. The new Egyptian government is run by the Muslim Brotherhood. They have not declared that Israel is now an enemy, but they also have not called us their friend. Which means there is great friction within the new regime. We cannot trust them with this knowledge. There is too much risk they would alert our enemy. We have warned our allies within the Egyptian military. For the moment, that is all we can do.”
Marc had been expecting this. “I may have an idea.”
“I am listening.”
Marc described what he had spent the night working on. When he was done, Chaver was silent for a long moment, then decided, “It is a good plan.”
“There are a lot of rough edges.”
“Of course there are. But some friends of mine can help smooth them out. You understand what I am saying?”
“We are allies,” Marc said. “I trust you.”
“Correct. Now let me speak with Sandrine.”
She sat in the skipper’s padded chair, watching the day with leaden eyes. She listened for a moment, spoke harshly, listened some more, then argued with the dark insistence of a subordinate trying to convince a superior to change his mind. Marc knew the sound all too well. And so he was ready when she handed him back the phone and said one word in English. “Please.”
Chaver said, “She wants to stay. I cannot assess her state. She and Dov were more than agents, you understand?”
“She was an enormous help, before and after the incident,” Marc said, holding her gaze.
“You can truly count on her?”
“Absolutely. What’s more, I need her.”
“Revenge can cost the lives of more good agents.”
“She is not after revenge,” Marc said. “She’s a professional who knows the lives of thousands depend on her keeping it together.”
Her features went through a rugged change as she wrenched herself free of the fog. Sandrine nodded.
Marc heard the man sigh. “Give her back the phone,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-Three
They pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton’s beach, and one of the dhow’s crew jumped out to hold it steady. Sandrine, ever the professional despite her loss, had her laugh and chatter ready. Her face paint long wiped away, she was dressed once more in a flowery beach shirt over a one-piece swimsuit, and carried a beach basket and flippers and goggles. She flirted with the young man as he helped her down. She waded to the shore, calling back to Marc.
Bernard caught him as he started over the gunnel and pleaded, “Let me come.”
“We’ve been through—”
“I’m recovered. Feeling fine.”
The man did not look fine. Fresh blood had clotted his ear. His gaze still floated slightly. His features were pasty. Marc said as gently as he could, “We’re heading into Indian country. You know what that means?”
“I am not afraid of enemy fire.”
“This isn’t about fear. This is about operating at a hundred and ten percent.” He clasped the man’s shoulder. “Go and report in. Your best effort is making sure our new Israeli friends do their job.”
He jumped into the water before Bernard could protest further. The sea was too warm to be refreshing. At the first glimpse of the hotel, Marc’s body released the floodgates and allowed the exhaustion to take hold. The bruises to his chest had not ached until that moment. Or the weariness in his legs. Or the sore back. Or the scratchy eyes. And the headache. He was assaulted by fatigue.
A dark-haired figure came racing down the beach, out into the water, her face filled with emotions she did not bother to hide. She waded out to him, impatient that she could not get there any faster. “Oh, Marc.”
And suddenly his weariness meant nothing.
Marc showered and ate a meal on the room’s balcony, talking with Kitra as he dined. They spared only a few moments for the personal. They both heard the silent clock ticking. The complete conversation would have to wait. But just the few things they shared was enough. That she had worried about him. That she hadn’t slept. That she had feared he was gone, and she had lost the chance to tell him . . .
Marc was sorry when she didn’t finish the sentence. But at the same time, he knew he needed to be sharp and tightly alert. If she had completed the thought, he would have been unable to stow his emotions away. And just then he had to set all those things aside.
He finished his meal, saw Kitra off, and lay down. His last thought before drifting away was an electric determination to finish this assignment and move on to tomorrow. It had been a long time since that word had held any meaning beyond the usual marking of time. He carried the smile with him into sleep.
Following his instructions, Kitra and Rhana with Amin and Sandrine put the plans in motion while Marc slept. When Kitra awoke him at two the next morning, everything was ready. His body ached with a need for more rest. But a stretching routine and another meal and shower had him as ready as he could possibly be.
Two late-model Mercedes were pulled up at the hotel entrance when he arrived in the lobby before daybreak. Their drivers smiled effusive greetings as the five filed through the hotel entrance. The aim was to once again establish tourist bona fides by traveling to central Sinai’s premier destination, joining the hordes that rose early to watch the sunrise over the desert mountains. Rhana and Kitra and Sandrine all conversed with the easy gaiety of old friends as they stowed the picnic hampers and backpacks. The sleepy doorman and the two bellhops on all-night duty smiled and waved them off on the familiar trek of many who stayed at the hotel.
The roads were not empty. The Middle Eastern world did not run on the same clock as the West. Traffic was light, yet they weren’t the only nice cars headed north in the predawn dark.
Beyond the airport, the road was black and the night swallowed them. Occasionally they passed Bedouins leading camels or donkeys along the relatively smooth verge. Trucks rumbled past, flashing their lights and honking their horns, almost as if the drivers were using both to stay awake.
Amin and Sandrine rode in the first vehicle. Kitra and Marc occupied the second car’s rear seat while Rhana traveled up front on the passenger side. Marc waited until the older woman dozed off to lean over and say, “You can’t know what it meant to have you meet me like you did.”
She slipped her hand into his. “We have only now, this moment, for me to offer you my apology.” Her gaze sparked in the car’s dim lights as she glanced forward. Rhana still slept. “These words of mine must be spoken. Will you not interrupt, please?”
“All right, Kitra.”
“I was wrong to ask you to join me on the kibbutz. If I loved you as fully as I claimed, I should have known it was not something you could ever do and survive as the person you are. No, wait, Marc. I asked you not to speak. Hear me out, please.” She paused until she was certain he would not interrupt, then said, “I did love you. I do now. With all my heart. But the night before last I faced myself with the honesty of thinking I might have lost you forever and so lost the chance to speak the truth. The real truth.
“Part of why I asked you to join me in Israel was because I knew you couldn’t. I feared your love. I feared losing myself to you. Someone I could not control. I have fought all my life to be independent. I was fighting against you. No, not you. Against my own love.”
He reached over and covered her hand with his other one. She looked into his face and continued, “Our prayer times in Geneva became a mirror for me. I see now that my life has reached a juncture. I have a choice. I can give myself to love, and know the sacrifice, and accept it. Or I can remain where I am and live for the kibbutz. Will I ever love again? Perhaps. Most likely. But it will not be our love.
“What has been most important for me to realize is that both of these decisions are right, both are good in God’s eyes. Each one would keep me within his divine will. The question is, what do I want? It is hard to think of giving up life on the kibbutz. But I have also learned that it’s possible I need not give up the kibbutz entirely. They need a new sales director, someone to handle the contacts with the mines in Kenya and the end users in America and—”
“What are you saying, Kitra?”
“Yes. I have not told you because I feared even thinking about this. The timing is God’s, no? The invitation to make this decision came at this precise juncture. And its arrival has done two things for me. It has helped pry away my frantic hold on the myths I have told myself, and revealed that it was I who should have chosen between you and the kibbutz, not forced you to choose. And second, it has shown me that God is with me in both choices.”
Marc gave that the time it deserved, then asked, “What will you do?”
“Pray,” she replied, after a time. “Pray for the strength to do what my heart has already decided.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The road wound through some very steep climbs and steadily worsened as they progressed. An hour and a half after leaving Sharm el-Sheikh, they turned west and entered the area known as the Roof of Egypt.
The central Sinai Mountains contained Egypt’s highest summits. The ridgeline cut razor edges from the still-starlit sky. The car’s powerful engine rushed them through one cutback after another. Headlights of cars ahead of them shone over great yawning drops, with no guardrails, into utter blackness. They met two cars coming toward them and had to creep into the hillside to maneuver past.
The two vehicles arrived at the outskirts of the city of Saint Catherine just before dawn. They off-loaded their gear, paid the drivers, and set off. It was good they had come prepared, for the air was bitingly cold, not more than a few degrees above freezing. Saint Catherine sat at an elevation of five th
ousand feet. Even so, the city was alive with tourists pouring from cheap hotels and guesthouses. Their breath drifted like silver fog in the city’s few lights.
The group bundled into sweatshirts and knit caps Kitra had purchased in the hotel gift shop, hefted the picnic hampers, and joined the people making for the cliffside paths.
They were greeted by a mystical illumination, a glow that took hold of the ancient cliffs and turned them into something not quite earthbound. The benches and surrounding paths were filled with people gazing at the ancient phenomenon. And yet the entire gathering held to a monastic silence. The rocks grew orange, then gold, and the surrounding peaks became a sea of sharp edges. Far down below them, the shadows gradually rolled back, and the monastery was revealed.
They ate the sandwiches and drank the coffee in silence. Only when they had started their descent did Rhana say, “Whatever else comes, whatever happens now, I thank you for the sunrise.”
Sandrine had not uttered a word since their arrival, nor did she speak now. She simply wiped her face and moved more swiftly down the path.
The buses began rumbling into the parking lots surrounding Saint Catherine, coming from Cairo and Tel Aviv and Amman and Eilat and Petra and a dozen other places, drawn to a monastery that had been active for more than twelve centuries.
It was named the Sacred Monastery of the Mountain Where God Walked, but was known as simply Saint Catherine’s. From the year 800 until the present day, thousands of pilgrims made the difficult trip every year. Built as a medieval fortress, the monastery was situated at the mouth of the gorge, Amin explained. Two guest wings stood to either side of the main western gate, great halls open to all who wished to share the monastery’s simple fare. There were three chapels, private living quarters for the monks and official visitors, the original church, and a much larger basilica that was called modern, though it was itself over seven hundred years old.
Sandrine opted to stay outside and tour the grounds as the others joined the crowds entering the basilica for the morning service. The prayers echoed through the vast stone chamber, rolling cadences in a dozen different tongues, melding with the incense and forming a liturgy that was without beginning or end.