Michael, Devorah, and Rabbi Witzun left Brussels two weeks after the American election. The rabbi took an apartment in the Orthodox section of old Jerusalem, not far from where Devorah’s father lived. Michael stopped to check on the rabbi the day after their arrival, and Witzun seemed blissfully happy. “The Master of the universe has blessed me above all I could ask,” he told Michael. “I am awaiting his pleasure with great joy.”
Now that the Knesset hostage situation lay safely buried in history, Michael and Devorah planned to continue their work of inspecting the Israeli military bases. Though Michael still operated under the pretense that his visit was nothing more than an ordinary liaison mission, he was certain the entire world now knew that Russia and a host of Arab nations were preparing for war. Though the Russian ambassador to the United Nations insisted that the Russian military was merely engaged in training operations, any country with a spy satellite could see that Russia had begun to mobilize her troops. Furthermore, any thinking person with access to a newspaper knew that Russia and her Arab allies had presented a resolution against Israel to the UN Security Council. The debate was raging hotly among the fifteen-member council, and the resolution would be put to a vote after every member nation had been presented with an opportunity to speak.
Michael felt a sourness rise from the pit of his stomach when he picked up a Jerusalem Post in the hotel lobby and read the list of current Security Council members. Most of the nine rotating members were traditionally Muslim countries and would be certain to vote in support of Russia’s resolution against Israel. A resolution to order military enforcement action could not proceed, however, if vetoed by any one of the five permanent Security Council members—Russia, the United Kingdom, France, China, or the United States. As he folded his paper, Michael prayed that at least the American ambassador would have the strength to resist Russia’s resolution.
Devorah picked him up outside the hotel. From the way her mouth flattened into a grim line when she saw the paper tucked under his arm, Michael knew she had read the same article. They spoke little as she drove to the Palmachim Air Base, situated in central Israel.
Michael knew that Palmachim was Israel’s main helicopter base. A row of AH-64 Apaches, Hughes Defenders, and AH-1 Cobras stood in an orderly row on the flight line, well-maintained and on alert. A corps of Sikorsky and Bell choppers stood ready to transport troops and equipment if needed in an assault, medevac, or rescue mission.
“You’re not writing anything in your notebook,” Devorah remarked as they exited the last hangar and moved toward the parking lot.
“I don’t need to.” Michael turned away, hiding a thick swallow in his throat. What was the point? Israel’s days were numbered and so were Samuel Stedman’s. Michael was only going through the motions here, fulfilling a promise made long before the growling Russian bear began to arouse his neighbors.
“I forgot.” Devorah lightened her voice, as if deliberately choosing to ignore the ominous cloud that loomed over them. “I keep reminding myself that you have a photographic memory.”
He stopped suddenly and turned to face her. “It’s not photographic, but it’s pretty darned good.”
The wind whipped past them, roaring like the blood in Michael’s ears. Devorah held his gaze while she reached up and pulled the windblown curls from her face. “So tell me what you’ll remember, Michael. What memories will you take with you when you leave Israel?”
She had to raise her voice to be heard over the wind, but Michael could hear the gentleness in her words. “What will I remember?” He locked his hands behind his back as his gaze traveled over her face and searched her eyes. “I’ll remember the way you’re always tucking those curls behind your ear. And I’ll remember that crazy broken turn signal in your car and the way you bite your lower lip when you disagree with me but don’t want to speak up.”
“But I always speak up.” Her cheeks colored under his gaze. “You used to complain that I argued too much.”
“I don’t complain any more. And I don’t think you enjoy arguing like you used to.” They stood in the silence for a long moment, not speaking, not touching. An absurd thought ricocheted through his brain—if this were a movie, at this moment a symphony of violins would swell with the sighing wind as he drew her into his arms and kissed away the obstacles between them.
But this was real life. With an effort, Michael wrenched himself away from his unexplainable preoccupation with her arresting face. He gestured toward the car. “We’d best be going.”
She answered in a broken whisper: “Roger that.”
Back at the hotel, Michael found an e-mail message from Daniel waiting on his computer:
Michael:
Can you be available for an on-line chat tonight? I’ve decided to call together some principals so we can learn from each other. Don’t worry about security—we’ll be encrypted. Meet us tonight at 3 p.m. EST—that’ll be ten o’clock for you. Just link to the following URL and wait for us: http://ftpprenticetech.net/scramble/romperroom.
I guarantee you an interesting night.
BTW . . . Thomas Freeman, AkA “Shark” is one tough man to run down. But he says to tell you hello and to remind you that you owe him a favor. Says he was ready to throw himself on a shell one night when it landed near your camp in the desert, but the thing didn’t explode . . . Should I follow up?
—D.
Michael stared at the computer screen, too surprised to do more than grunt at Daniel’s news. So, Shark had seen a shell in that desert camp. So, if in the dream Janis was telling the truth . . .
He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, wondering just what God wanted of him. Though his reputation as a special operations man was nearly spotless, he wasn’t exactly in the miracle business.
Settling back down to the task at hand, Michael typed a quick response and promised to be on-line at the appointed time, then exited his e-mail program and opened his word processor. He stared again at the report he’d been trying to write. Though the base inspections were now pointless, in Brussels he had realized that the Israelis desperately needed ASAT, anti-satellite technology. Unfortunately, not even the United States had fully implemented an ASAT program, despite the fact that the U.S. victory in Desert Storm was largely due to knowledge gleaned from satellite technology. While Saddam Hussein operated blindly, the Allied forces could see Iraqi troop movements via satellite. Iraq had no spy satellites, and Russia and France, who might have sold satellite imagery to Saddam, had complied with an American request to stop selling pictures of the Middle East.
But now Russia had firmly allied itself with Iraq and the other Arab nations, and Michael worried that Israel would greatly suffer for it. At least thirty countries now owned or operated orbiting satellites, many of which could be used for both civilian and military purposes. Any of Israel’s traditional enemies could purchase imagery from those revolving “eyes in the sky,” virtually detailing any and all Israeli troop movements. But if Israel had the capability of intercepting and/or destroying hostile satellites, she would be able to reinforce her safety.
He placed his fingertips on the keys and struggled against a wave of frustration. Blackstone and the incoming political crew might never even read this report, much less give it any credence. But NSA file reports never died, and this one might be picked up by a congressman or senator who would wield the power to make a difference.
“In any future conflict, Israel must expect its adversaries to have spies in the sky,” he wrote. “An ASAT program will be essential to protect IDF forces, counter hostile satellites, and achieve control of overhead space. In short, the United States should prepare to offer Israel an ASAT program, ASAP.”
The phone rang in the middle of his thought, and Michael reached for it. “Yes?”
It was Devorah, wanting to know if he’d had dinner.
A sudden inspiration seized him as he considered her invitation. Why not invite her to sit in on Daniel’s chat? He trusted her implicitly, and she might
be able to add valuable insights to the conversation.
“No, I haven’t,” he said, pushing his laptop aside. “Are you cooking?”
He could almost see her blush. “It won’t be anything fancy. But yes, I thought I might manage a couple of steaks. It’s about time you visited my home.”
Michael reached for a pencil. “Give me the address, and I’ll hire a car and drive over. But be forewarned—it might be a late night.”
She caught her breath in an audible gasp. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Reed, but I have an early morning tomorrow.”
“It’s not what you think. Daniel’s throwing an on-line party at ten o’clock, and I’d like you to go with me. I think you’ll find it very interesting.”
“Count me in,” she said, her voice firm. “I would not miss it.”
Devorah lived in Ramla, a thoroughly modern city not far from the Lod Air Base and only a thirty-minute drive from Jerusalem. Michael enjoyed the drive. A brilliant sunset blazoned the western sky with shades of gold and crimson that contrasted exquisitely with the deepening azure of the view from the car’s rear window.
A mezuzah hung on the doorpost outside Devorah’s apartment, and as Michael waited for her to answer his knock he wondered if she or her father had placed it there. She was a thoroughly odd contradiction. To the world she appeared to be a modern female and capable soldier, but at times the veneer cracked and he could see traces of the devoutly Orthodox woman at the core of her being.
She opened the door, her face flushed and smiling. “Come in,” she said, leading the way through a foyer as neat and uncluttered as her military personality. “The steaks are thawed, but I didn’t want to put them under the broiler until you arrived.”
Michael followed her through the hallway and glanced through an archway at the living room—an extremely functional space marked with bright splashes of color where she had tossed red and yellow pillows on the blue sofa. Framed photographs of Asher and her father stood on the table, along with a stack of leather-bound books.
She caught him glancing at the books. “Those belong to Rav Witzun,” she said, motioning for him to follow her into the kitchen. “He’s been quite generous with his library. I’ve never read so many interesting things.”
Michael stepped into a large kitchen, decorated in cheerful shades of red and white. Apple wallpaper lined the walls; a red and white checked tablecloth covered the small table. The bright room suited her.
He set his laptop on the table, then sank into a chair. “How is the rabbi adjusting to Jerusalem?”
“Like a fish taking to water.” She pulled two raw steaks from the refrigerator, then set them on a broiling pan. “He and my father spent the morning together. For three hours they debated the meaning of an obscure passage from the Talmud. They seem to deserve each other.”
She bent to place the steaks in the oven, then glanced at him over her shoulder. “I hope you like steak. I didn’t even ask.”
“I like anything.” Leisurely, he leaned back and stretched his long legs beneath the table. “A home-cooked meal sounds really great. I had almost forgotten that yesterday was Thanksgiving, and—well, that’s a big holiday at home. Lots of food—turkey and cranberries and dressing.”
She came toward him and leaned on the counter, compassion flickering in her eyes. “I’m sorry. If I had known you were homesick, I’d have done my best to find a turkey.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged her concern away. “When I had a family, it was a big deal, but it’s not so big anymore. My folks are gone, and the only family I have left is the navy.” He swallowed against an unexpected constriction in his throat. “At this moment, the dearest people in the world to me are you and the rabbi. Funny, how living with people for a few weeks can draw you close.”
“Yes . . . it’s funny.” Her eyes clouded for a moment with hazy sadness, then she pushed herself off the counter and moved to the sink. “Let me get the salad ready. Why don’t you go into the living room and see if you can find a CD you like. I’ll do the food; you handle the music.”
By all means, let’s keep busy. “Aye aye, Sergeant Major.” Michael snapped a sharp salute, then moved into the living room to do her bidding.
They had just finished clearing the kitchen dishes when the alarm on Michael’s watch sounded. “We’ve got ten minutes,” he said, picking up his laptop. “Can you point me toward your phone line? I’ll get this thing set up and ready to go.”
Wordlessly, Devorah pointed toward the kitchen phone. While she wiped the counter, he booted the laptop, logged onto the Web, then clicked on the URL Daniel had provided.
The Web page was unremarkable; it featured the logo of Prentice Technologies above an animated GIF of twinkling lights that spelled Romper Room. From the corner of his eye, Michael saw Devorah pick up a towel and dry her hands.
“That’s cute,” she said, peering over his shoulder. “But what’s Romper Room?”
“An old American kids TV show.” Michael scratched his jaw as he stared at the screen. “I barely remember it, but I know it was on right before Captain Kangaroo.”
Devorah tossed the towel on the edge of the sink, then pulled up a chair and sat next to Michael. At precisely 10:00 P.M., the Prentice Technologies logo began to scramble before their eyes.
“Amazing,” Devorah said, leaning close enough for him to smell her perfume.
Against his better judgment, Michael reached up and lightly fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. “I’ll have to tell Daniel you’re here.”
Her earnest eyes sought his. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”
Michael grinned as a tinny strain of music played over the speakers. An instant later, a cartoonish Dudley DoRight character filled the screen, then shrank to a smaller size, the head ridiculously large compared to the pencil-thin body. Behind the first character, Michael could see a row of cartoon character icons, each labeled with a name and a city.
The music stopped, and a cartoon balloon materialized above Dudley’s head. A word appeared and filled the balloon. “Greetings.”
Devorah stared at the screen with an expression of amused wonder. “Is this guy serious?”
“Oh yeah.”
The balloon filled again, with a liquid stream of words that lingered a moment, then disappeared as another phrase took its place. “Thanks for joining us tonight. I suppose I should introduce all of you to each other.”
The Dudley DoRight cartoon character pivoted and pointed toward the first icon, a bearded figure that reminded Michael of Colonel Sanders of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. “Joining us from the U.S. is Sam.”
Obeying a hunch, Michael typed “Welcome, Sam,” then grinned when the words appeared in a balloon over Beetle Bailey’s head.
Devorah laughed and pointed to the picture of the freckle-faced soldier with a cap on his head. “That’s you?”
“I guess so.” Michael rested his chin in his hand and grinned at the screen. The icon who had presented his words was identified as “Mike, in transit.”
Devorah laughed as the others followed Michael’s example and typed greetings. Dudley DoRight lifted his hands in mock horror. “Hold on, buckaroos, we’re not ready to chat willy-nilly just yet. Let me finish the introductions.”
Dudley pointed toward the second icon, a scratchy representation of a girl who resembled Lucy from the Peanuts comic strip. “This is Alanna, from Moscow. She’s a little nervous.”
The Alanna character lowered her eyelids in a demure pose, then her balloon filled: “Hello. I’m so glad to know I’m not alone.”
“Next, we have Mike, who never knows where he’ll be tomorrow,” Dudley said, gesturing toward Beetle Bailey. Michael lifted a brow, grateful that Daniel hadn’t given away his position. All of these descriptions and locations, in fact, were extremely vague. Though Michael strongly suspected that Sam might be Samuel Stedman himself, he had no way of knowing if Daniel had convinced the president of the United States t
o join in an on-line cartoon chat.
“Hey,” Michael typed, “I have a guest with me tonight. I’ve told you about her, and she’s eager to listen in.”
Dudley’s head zoomed toward the screen, blocking everyone else from view. “Would that be Debbie the cheerleader?”
“It would.”
“Cool.”
Dudley shrank back down to size and went on to introduce two other characters, Eli from Israel, and Jacob from Brussels. Daniel had chosen a grinning bulldog to represent Eli and a smiling Fred Flintstone to represent Jacob.
Devorah pointed toward Fred Flintstone. “Do you think Jacob could be Rav Witzun? We know the rabbi was in touch with Daniel in Brussels.”
“Could be.” Michael leaned back and rubbed his jaw, wondering how Daniel had managed to fashion this little fraternity. He glanced at Devorah. “Any idea who Eli is?”
She bit her lower lip. “Could be anyone—someone in the military, or even in the prime minister’s cabinet.” She snorted softly. “For all I know, it could be the prime minister himself.”
“If it was safe for us to know, Daniel would have given us a clue.”
Calling upon the magic of computer codes and cyberspace, Dudley DoRight waved his arm and the scene changed to a conference room. The animated cartoon characters were now seated around a large table, and Michael grinned in disbelief when he saw that they were blinking and nodding their heads just as real people might. He pointed to the screen when he realized that a new character had joined the group. The nameplate on the table before her read, Deb, Mike’s friend.
Devorah giggled. “That’s me? Who in the world am I supposed to be?”
Michael’s mouth twitched with amusement. “If memory serves me correctly, he’s drawn you as Little Orphan Annie. And with your curly hair, it isn’t a bad likeness.”
By Dawn's Early Light Page 27