by Ben Coes
Up the runway, a pair of troop carriers sped down the runway from the direction of the terminal carrying LAF soldiers.
Dewey reached the Panther first. He lay the body inside the cabin, then turned toward the terminal, where LAF troops began firing from the north, moving closer to the Panther, whose rotors tore the air as Meir and the other surviving Israeli hastily loaded the corpses of their fallen comrades. Dewey swept his carbine across the line of Lebanese soldiers, killing several men, while the others dived for cover behind the troop trucks.
The Panther’s nose remained targeted at the south end of the runway. As they finished loading the dead, the gunman fired 20mm rounds through the smoky, chaotic din, back at the terrorists at the southern end of the runway.
They packed in six dead Israelis.
Dewey and Meir stood side by side, Dewey gunning up the tarmac at LAF soldiers, Meir firing at Hezbollah to the south.
“Get on!” screamed the commando already on board. “Kohl! Andreas!”
Dewey and Meir stepped back toward the chopper, which was already above its weight capacity, and packed to the rafters with dead Israelis.
Meir sat in the door, feet dangling out. He grabbed a safety strap above the door frame with one hand and started firing behind the chopper, up the runway. Dewey sprinted to the other side of the chopper and knelt in the door, holding a safety strap with his left hand while he fired.
“Go!” screamed Meir.
The pilot lifted off, but the weighted down Panther barely got its wheels off the ground before it settled back down onto the tarmac.
Lebanese soldiers moved closer as the chopper stalled. The low hiss of a surface-to-air missile sounded. A white blur scorched through the air from behind the cargo plane, sailing just in front of the Panther. Then, a second later, Meir lurched forward as a slug from somewhere on the ground struck him in the leg, just above the knee.
“Get rid of the fuel!” screamed Dewey to the pilot. “Now! Dump it!”
Beneath the Panther, a flood of gasoline spread as the pilot emptied three of the four tanks on the chopper. The smell of gasoline was suddenly everywhere.
The pilot revved the Panther’s engines and the chopper lifted slowly into the sky.
Meir, blood pouring from his leg, fired at the ground as the chopper climbed. He fired his weapon north, at the government troops who now ran in groups, weapons raised, trying to shoot the chopper from the sky. Meir picked off soldier after soldier, creating clusters of corpses in a loose line behind the smoking C-130, ignoring the pain in his leg.
Dewey, on the opposite side of the Panther, registered half a dozen Hezbollah, running up the tarmac, like ants, firing at the climbing chopper. He fired calmly from the open door, striking terrorist after terrorist, like target practice.
The chopper climbed higher. Dewey and Meir gunned from the open doors, firing their weapons as the black Panther AS565 AA climbed higher and higher above the tarmac into the smoldering, smoke-clouded sky.
Suddenly, the chopper arced hard right, the engine churned furiously, and the Israeli Panther rushed away from the battlefield into the protective sky above the black waters of the Mediterranean.
81
MOUNT OF OLIVES CEMETERY
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
FOUR DAYS LATER
Jessica walked through the open gates of the cemetery. The simple, solemn burial ground sat on a windswept hill a few miles south of downtown Jerusalem. The cemetery was Israel’s most solemn burial ground, more than three thousand years old. Many of Israel’s greatest heroes were buried at Mount of Olives. Today, that number would grow.
Long, uneven lines of tombstones ran in every direction. Dotted throughout the cemetery were olive trees and small patches of lush green lawn. In the background, the cemetery arose in sandstone hills, uneven steppes of graves that spread to ivy-laced walls, Jerusalem’s clustered mass of buildings in the distance. The sky was bright blue. The sun shone down fiercely. The temperature was in the seventies. Wind came softly from the east. It was a perfect day, a comfortable, clear, beautiful day.
A single violin player near the gates played a soft, slow, mournful sonata by Boccherini.
In straight lines, beginning at the north cemetery wall, gravestones descended in simple, serial geometry: rectangular slabs of sandstone, decorated in Hebrew letters. These were the markers of Israel’s sons and daughters, her buried heroes, the pained, proud legacy of a young country whose survival was earned only with the barrel of a gun, the thrust of a blade, the blood of its children.
Jessica took her place in line at the heavily guarded gates to the cemetery. She followed an elderly couple, who walked slowly down the long, pebble stone, center aisle. When she reached the rows of seats, which were mostly filled, she looked to the front. She saw her boss, Rob Allaire, the president of the United States, seated next to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Shalit. Behind them, she saw Secretary of State Lindsay, Ambassador Priest, several senators and members of Congress. Toward the front, on the left, she saw Hector Calibrisi seated by himself, his eyes closed in prayer.
A uniformed Israeli soldier, standing at the front of the aisles, nodded to her, then walked to meet her.
“Ms. Tanzer,” he said. “Please follow me. General Dayan has asked that you be seated next to him.”
Jessica felt herself pulled, her gaze drawn, to the right away from the Israeli soldier. Her eyes moved to an empty seat in the back row. Next to the empty seat sat a lone figure. Large, muscled arms filled a navy blue blazer. He had long brown hair that was combed back. His face was covered in a beard and mustache. He was an outcast here; a rugged-looking man, with a blank, merciless look on his tanned face. He returned her glance, his eyes drawing her to him from across the crowd.
Jessica held his gaze for a long moment. She felt her heart race; the familiar feeling. She stared at him, trying to understand what he was thinking at that moment. Guilt, she guessed, at the death of the Israeli commandos, men he hadn’t even known but who, Jessica knew, he wouldn’t want to have died so that he could live. Responsibility, he probably felt that too, she thought to herself, for the murders of Rob Iverheart and Alex Millar in Islamabad. She looked for something, anything, but he was emotionless; the wall that she’d worked so hard to climb over was now as tall as ever, shielding memories she knew were too fresh, too painful. Jessica willed herself to avert her eyes, to look away. She followed the Israeli soldier down the pebble aisle.
Jessica stepped to her seat, just two seats from Prime Minister Shalit, next to the head of Israel Defense Forces, General Menachem Dayan. In front of her, in the front row, the mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, of the dead Israelis, the families of the six men who died at Rafic Hariri Airport. The men who died saving the life of the American in the back row.
In front of the families, six wooden caskets lay atop a green hill. On top of each casket, the flag of Israel, white with the blue Star of David.
To the right of the caskets stood two men. One was a rabbi, dressed in a long robe, a yarmulke on his head. He had glasses on, a beard, and was elderly. The other was a young Israeli with short brown hair, a large, sharp nose, tough-looking. He stared ahead, above the caskets, above the walls of the cemetery, toward a place only he knew.
For several minutes, the soft strains of the violin were the only sounds that could be heard. Time, during those moments, seemed to fall away, to stand still and linger as if the finality of what was about to happen, the bitter memorial, the ending of it all, could somehow be prevented, delayed, or altered. But it could not.
Finally, the violin went silent.
The Israeli soldier standing at the front of the gathered crowd stepped forward and walked behind the caskets. He limped as he walked, and for the first time, Jessica saw that he held a cane. He moved slowly across the ground to a simple wooden podium.
The young Israeli officer looked out at the large crowd. He stepped to the podium and spoke into a microphone.
&nbs
p; “My name is Kohl Meir,” he said, his voice deep and soft.
For the first time, in the light of the direct sun, which now illuminated the Israeli’s face, Jessica saw that the area beneath his eyes was wet with tears.
“I would like to read to you the names of my six colleagues who died at my side. All six were members of Shayetet Thirteen and served under my command. Please remember them as the heroes they were. Lieutenant Colonel David Ben-Shin, Tel Aviv, age twenty-seven. Lieutenant Joshua Rabin, Dimona, age twenty-two. Major Ezra Bohr, Hafiz, age twenty-four. Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Ivri, Beersheba, age twenty-five. Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Lutanz, Uvda, age twenty-five, Major David Iza, Tel Aviv, age twenty-seven…”
* * *
Dewey remained seated as the last of the funeral guests left the cemetery. He was alone now. He stared down row after empty row, to the caskets.
“You okay?”
Dewey turned. He saw Jessica’s legs first, thin, brown, sculpted legs that climbed to her white skirt, blue piping edged just above perfect knees, white button-down blouse, auburn hair, then her face, green eyes, sharp nose covered in freckles, so pretty.
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
Jessica moved down the aisle and took the seat next to him. They sat, silently, for more than a minute. Finally, Jessica placed her hand on Dewey’s thigh.
“I know you don’t want to talk, but I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” said Dewey. He looked at her hand on his thigh. Such a small gesture, and yet it sent a large wave of warmth through his body, warmth he needed so badly in that moment.
“We retrieved the bodies. Alex and Rob. The president and I are meeting the families at Andrews tonight.”
Dewey looked at the ground, then back to her.
“I’m leaving for the United States in one hour,” Jessica said. “I would like you to come with me. Would you come with me?”
“No. I can’t.”
“It’s not your fault, Dewey. I’m the one who asked you to go to Pakistan. I’m the one who called General Dayan. I’m the one who got the Shayetet team sent in. I’m the reason the six Israelis are dead, the reason Alex and Rob are dead. If you’re going to blame someone, blame me, but don’t blame yourself.”
“I would never blame you.”
“You saved millions of lives this week,” said Jessica. “Innocent lives. Children and families all over India and Pakistan. You prevented the United States from being dragged into a war that could have cost millions of American lives. Had Omar El-Khayab remained in power, it is certain that our allies, Israel first among them, would have been dragged into the conflict. You prevented what could have been war between America and China. You alone, Dewey. Do you understand that?”
Dewey placed his hand on top of hers, covering her hand. He held it tight, but said nothing.
“We’re the front edge of a very sharp blade,” she whispered. “‘The tip of the spear,’ isn’t that what they say? And at the edge, there’s death. That’s the world we live in. But without the spear, our world, our freedom, would disappear before you know it.”
“What happens to Bolin?” asked Dewey.
Jessica paused. She looked at the ground, then shook her head.
“The Middle East is a screwed-up place, you know that,” she said. “We’re only at the beginning. This conflict, this war, it’s barely even begun.”
“You’re not ready to fight the war I was born to fight,” said Dewey.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m going to kill Fortuna,” he said. “Then Bolin.”
Jessica stared into Dewey’s blue eyes.
“There are no winners over here, Dewey,” she said, turning her hand up and interlocking her fingers in his. “Let’s get out of here—you and me—before something bad happens. You promised you’d come home alive. Let’s go home. Let’s put it all aside for a while.” She paused, then squeezed his hand. “Let’s try and build something,” she whispered.
“They killed my men in cold blood. They died in front of me. Alex Millar was twenty-four years old. I can’t just walk away. I can’t let them get away with it.”
Jessica forced a smile across her face, but it held back deep sorrow that brought tears to her eyes. She had to bite her lip. “I didn’t want to talk about this,” she whispered finally. “I wanted to tell you that I miss you. Save Fortuna for another day. Please let’s leave before…”
Her voice trailed off. Dewey said nothing, his eyes looked away from Jessica, up at the caskets at the front of the cemetery.
“Okay,” she said in resignation. Slowly she stood up.
She looked at Dewey, placing her right hand on his shoulder, then brushing it across his cheek. He looked at it, thin, long, elegant fingers, short, unadorned fingernails, a simple, shining emerald ring on her finger. He looked up at her beautiful face.
“Can I ask you something?” she asked, looking into Dewey’s eyes. “Did you…”
“What?”
“Well, did you … find someone else while you were in Australia?”
Jessica stared, then looked away, afraid of what the answer might be. She waited, looking at the white chair in front of him, but he said nothing. After several moments of pregnant silence, she turned, closing her eyes as she did so. She walked away from Dewey, down the pebble stones, to the aisle.
“Jess,” he said.
She turned as Dewey stood. He walked down the pebble path. He didn’t stop until his chest was pressed against her white blouse, the neat, perfect crown of her auburn hair just beneath his chin. He leaned toward her; their lips nearly touching. Jessica’s red lips were close enough to feel the gentle wind from her breathing.
“Promise me something,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ll be there when I come home,” Dewey said.
She looked into his eyes without expression, then a smile appeared on her lips. A breeze blew through her hair, fanning it across her shoulders. She leaned forward on her tiptoes and their lips touched, and they kissed, and for a moment they escaped together, escaped it all.
“Promise,” she whispered.
82
RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL
ROTHSCHILD BOULEVARD
TEL AVIV
The bar at the Ritz Tel Aviv was nearly empty. A couple from Spain sat at one end, the woman laughing every few minutes, slightly inebriated. Two older women, visiting from England, sat near the middle of the bar, chatting with the bartender.
It was one thirty in the morning. Dewey sat at the bar, his fifth Jack Daniel’s in a glass on the obsidian marble bar top in front of him. After a few minutes, the Spanish couple stood up, holding hands, leaving to go upstairs to their room.
Dewey swigged the last of the whiskey, then nodded at the bartender and ordered another.
“Certainly,” the bartender said. “I must tell you, we close at two.”
Dewey said nothing.
A woman walked quietly into the bar, taking the seat immediately to Dewey’s right. She caught the bartender’s eye, he did a double take in fact, as most men did when they saw her for the first time.
“Bordeaux,” she said, barely above a whisper, a soft French accent. “Petrus.”
“I’m sorry,” said the bartender. “We don’t sell Petrus by the glass.”
“Then give me a bottle,” she said.
She turned to Dewey. He looked at her blankly. Her long black hair, behind her ears, shimmered, so straight, down past her shoulders. Dark skin, the color of soft leather. Blazing eyes of smoldering blue. She was perfect; a dazzling, exotic-looking beauty. Saudi, Dewey guessed. He glanced at her, then looked away without saying anything.
The bartender opened the bottle of wine. She tasted a small amount, then nodded to the bartender, who poured her a full glass. She took a sip.
“He said you were quiet,” the woman remarked after several moments.
Dewey sipped his whiskey without looking at her.
&nbs
p; “He didn’t tell me you were such a, how do you say, ‘tall drink of water.’”
She turned and looked appreciatively at Dewey’s face, now clean-shaven, his blue eyes, then down at his blue, short-sleeved shirt, arms tanned and ripped, then back to his eyes.
“Who sent you?” Dewey asked coldly.
“Hector Calibrisi.”
Dewey turned, his bloodshot eyes becoming slightly more alert.
“My name is Candela,” she said. “You are to come with me.”
“Where?” Dewey asked.
“A house in Broumana,” she said. “‘I always live up to my end of the bargain.’ Hector told me to tell you that.”
Dewey looked at her. He bolted down the last of his whiskey as the first smile in a long time appeared on his face.
83
PATULA HILL
BROUMANA
Dawn arrived at six o’clock sharp. The horizon brightened by incremental shades, black to gray, gray to peach, peach falling away to dust-filled, ageless yellow.
The villa, made of ornate, interweaving sandstone, spread out in a rambling line atop Patula Hill. The early sun caught the villa’s terra-cotta roof, heating the clay. Shimmering tendrils of steam drifted almost invisibly up to the sky.
Inside, the house was so silent you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. A mistle thrush, sitting on a distant tree branch, sang a song, repetitively, the high, staccato tune barely audible, and yet the only sound that could be heard inside the large house.
The sound of footsteps came from down the hallway.
Aswan Fortuna walked into the kitchen. He was naked, his body tanned and wrinkled, yet still retained a healthy tone despite its seventy-five years. He walked slowly to the counter, filled a teapot with water, then placed it on one of the burners on the large stove and ignited the gas. He coughed several times, working himself into a lather, then spat into the sink.
He walked around the marble island, toward the wall of glass that looked out on the swimming pool. He looked above the pool to the distant, dark waters of the Mediterranean, shimmering in the early morning light.