By Dawn's Early Light Page 12

  He blew a strand of blond hair from his forehead, then grimaced at the map. “I suppose we should begin at the beginning. We’re here, so why not start with this base?”

  Devorah didn’t waste a moment, but moved toward the door, her keys jangling in her hand. “Shall we go?”

  She walked him around the military complex, saying nothing about the obvious resources and only pointing out facts he might not know. Several times she paused in midsentence as a jet roared overhead, then picked up a moment later with the same train of thought. Reed listened intently, his hands fastened behind his back, his blue eyes shining like cobalt as they swept the runways and airstrips.

  “Some people are surprised to learn that Ben Gurion is the busiest civil airport in the Middle East, except on Saturday,” she remarked as they entered a hangar.

  His brow wrinkled. “What happens on Saturday?”

  She gave him a reproachful look. “Did they not tell you that Israel is populated by Jews? Saturday is the Sabbath.”

  She expected him to be embarrassed; instead, a flash of humor crossed his striking face. “I’m more tired than I realized,” he murmured, taking off his hat. He ran his hand through his hair, as if a scalp massage might stimulate his brain. “Sorry. Stupid of me, I know.”

  Shaking her head, Devorah moved on. “All the heavy transport squadrons of the Israeli Defense Forces and Air Forces are based here, at the military half of the airport. The runways are shared by military and civilian traffic. And you need not worry, Captain,” she added, hearing a bitter edge of cynicism in her own voice. “Military aircraft are not grounded on the Sabbath.”

  Once they had finished their inspection of the facilities, Devorah took Captain Reed to meet the base commander. Reed introduced himself, displayed his security pass, and was given clearance to visit weapons storerooms and munitions dumps. Occasionally he scribbled notes in a small notebook he carried in an inner jacket pocket, but most of the time he listened intently, as if committing the numbers, facts, and figures to an overdeveloped memory bank.

  “You do that very well,” she remarked as they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

  His brows lifted a question: “What?”

  “Take notes.” She laughed. “Oh, I know all about the things they teach you in Air Command and Staff courses—how to take notes with the nub of a pencil and a slip of paper in your pocket so no one will notice. The last American military attaché who visited took secret notes constantly—but he wasn’t very good at it. He looked like he had an itch.”

  For a moment he stared at her in amused wonder, then he threw his head back and roared with laugher. Devorah glanced around, afraid someone would notice, then stepped quickly away, leaving him laughing in the parking lot.

  “Wait, Sergeant Major.” He laughed again, then turned his laugh into a cough. “Please!” She heard the sound of his loafers slapping the asphalt, then he was beside her, his hand over his heart, his face red with exertion. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—well, that’s such an apt description. An itch! I suppose that’s why I’ve always tried to memorize things. When I have to be absolutely sure I’ve got it right, I write it in a notebook.”

  She exhaled and kept walking. “So I noticed.”

  He shortened his stride to match hers and continued with more enthusiasm than he had exhibited all day. “I figured—what’s the harm in pulling out a notebook? Everybody knows attachés are used for gathering intelligence. We’re just more subtle about spying on our allies than we are our adversaries. You and I both know that all this—” he waved his hand— “is going to be written up in a memcon and posted to our superiors.”

  Devorah halted as a sense of unease crept into her mood like a wisp of smoke. She hadn’t wanted this assignment and, in an effort to be honest, had made her feelings clear at the outset. If, however, this man meant to record every element of their conversation, her honesty could be seen as belligerence and her unwillingness as insubordination—or worse.

  “A memcon?” she asked, turning. “I don’t know the word.”

  He frowned, his brows knitting together. “A memorandum of conversation. A record of all conversations in official settings. Perhaps you just call it a report.”

  As anger singed her control, Devorah turned away, caught her breath, then lifted her hand and turned to face him again. “Listen to me, Captain Reed.” She shook her finger in his face, not caring whether anyone saw them. “You are here to report on Israeli readiness. You will not report on me, do you understand? You will not record my statements, my attitudes, or my conversations. You have no authority over me, and I will not answer to you.”

  His brows rose as he lifted both hands in a “don’t shoot” pose and took a half step back. “I wasn’t planning on mentioning you,” he said, softening his voice, “unless you decide to spill some state secret that proves irresistible.” He lowered his arms and gave her a smile that was at once confident and apologetic. “Actually, Sergeant Major, I was hoping we could become allies . . . if not friends. Let’s lay down our swords and end the day in peace.”

  Devorah faltered in the silence that engulfed them. What was wrong with her? If he hadn’t thought her ill-mannered and unprofessional, he certainly did now.

  She stepped back, wiped her damp hands on her trousers, and shook her head. “I apologize, Captain. I have a temper. Sometimes it gets the best of me.”

  “Nothing wrong with high spirits.” His eyes flashed with something that might had been admiration—or amusement. “But I really must ask, Cohen—can we call it a day? I haven’t slept, I’m jet-lagged, and I could use a shower. I’d like nothing better than to find a hotel and get some rest.”

  “Of course.” She gave him a smile and pointed toward the parking lot. “I’ll drive you there myself.”

  Reed spoke little as she drove toward Jerusalem, and she consoled herself with the knowledge that at least this American didn’t babble or condescend. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon and his thoughts to himself, but she found herself wondering why he had immediately assumed she had a husband and child at home. The absence of a wedding ring upon her left hand meant nothing, for most women in the army left their wedding bands at home. A ring could easily be stolen or lost, or it could catch on a weapon and result in disaster.

  She glanced again at the clear-cut lines of his profile. Perhaps he thought all women ought to be married. Resting her arm on the car door, she smiled at the thought. If he was a traditionalist, her father would certainly agree with him. He believed a Jewish girl should get married and raise a dozen children, keeping herself to hearth and home and the true faith. A Jewish boy should study Torah, attend a yeshiva, and defend his country. Then he should settle down and raise a large family, observing Shabbat every Friday at sundown and praying throughout the next day.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She erased her smile. “Did I laugh?”

  “You’re grinning about something.” His brittle smile softened slightly. “It would be nice to lighten the atmosphere. Agreed?”

  Idly, she tapped the car’s roof with the fingers of her left hand. Reed was probably right. If he would be pleasant, she could probably handle this assignment for the duration. So if they were going to be thrust together, they might as well be agreeable.

  She shifted her right hand on the steering wheel, then cast him a quick smile. “I was thinking about my father. He is an Orthodox rabbi, very strict, very religious. When we met, you assumed I had a husband and children. My father would like nothing better.”

  “But you disagree?”

  She made a face. “Of course. My mother, of blessed memory, was an Orthodox wife, and I knew I did not want to live as she did. My brother and I were both happy to join the IDF when we turned eighteen. We are both career officers, and we have both disappointed our father.”

  Reed crossed his arms as his forehead crinkled with thought. “Your father—is he ill? You mentioned a family emergency.”

  She s
hrugged slightly. “I’m not sure. He seems fine, but this morning he fainted at the yeshiva. He thought he—” She paused, then backed away from the rest of the story. “Our family doctor says he is fine, but my brother and I are still concerned. It is not like Papa to get sick.”

  “I seem to recall stories about deep divisions in the Orthodox community about the peace process.” Reed relaxed, too, thrusting one arm out the window as she had. He stretched his long legs out as far as he was able then, finding the small sedan a poor fit for his lanky frame, turned sideways in the seat. “How does your father feel about it?”

  Devorah checked the rearview mirror, then glanced out at the dusty road. It was late, nearly six o’clock. If they didn’t hurry the American would be lucky to find a vacant hotel room.

  “My father was concerned, of course,” she said, transferring her gaze back to the road ahead. “Many people felt that surrendering the disputed lands was tantamount to devaluing the lives of more than 150 Israeli citizens who died through acts of Arab terrorism. No one could forget that more Israelis died from terrorism in the two years immediately after the signing of the Israel-PLO peace accords than in the two preceding years. And some Torah scholars were quick to point out it is not allowed to endanger the life of one Jew today in the hope of a better tomorrow for many Jews.”

  “So the peace accords have endangered most of the Jews?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “And that, Cohen,” he said, his voice deepening, “is a point we can agree on. I believe your father and his friends are right.”

  She looked at him, surprised at the honest compassion in his voice. He was staring out the window, his eyes wide but unseeing, as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away.

  With a long, exhausted sigh, Devorah slowed the car on the approach to Jerusalem.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Reed said, overhearing her sigh. “I’m starving and exhausted. I’d like nothing better than for you to point me toward a hotel and a good restaurant.”

  “Most hotels have restaurants in them,” Devorah answered, slipping into the flow of traffic on a main thoroughfare. “I am sure we can get you settled, then you can eat.” She glanced at him and saw that he had pulled a small tour book from his pocket. The sight of the bright yellow book made her laugh—she saw a hundred of them a day down in the Old City of Jerusalem. “So now you are going to play tourist?”

  “Just looking for a good hotel,” he mumbled. “How about the Seven Arches? It’s supposed to have a great view of the Mount of Olives.”

  “That is fine. Just don’t mention it to anyone we meet.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. It is a perfectly lovely place.” She turned and glanced over her shoulder to check the right lane. “But it’s built on a desecrated Jewish cemetery. Any Orthodox Jew would be antagonized by the mere mention of the place.”

  “Then I won’t go there.”

  Surprised, she looked at him. “Why not? Don’t worry about me; I won’t be offended.”

  “All the same, I don’t want to go there. How about the American Colony Hotel?”

  Sighing in exasperation, she worked the gearshift. “Fine. It is lovely. And usually crowded with hundreds of reporters. I will probably see half of my afternoon class in the lobby.”

  He grinned at her. “Then what do you suggest?”

  She thought a moment. “The Mount Zion Hotel is just outside the old walls of Jerusalem. It is quaint—it used to be an ophthalmology hospital.”

  He chuckled softly and slapped the roof. “Sounds like a winner.”

  Night had fallen, filling the car with shadows and inky darkness. The dash glowed softly in neon light, and Captain Reed remained silent as she drove, sitting with one arm out the window and the other resting on the seat. She was almost certain he had fallen asleep when his voice cut through the silence: “Why aren’t you Orthodox? Or is that too personal a question?”

  “No.” She blinked in dazed exasperation. “I’m just not. I am Jewish, but I am nonobservant. I believe in God, but not to the extent my father does. I believe God has protected the Jewish people for generations. But we are safe, in our own homeland, and now it is up to us to defend it. My father waits for the Messiah, whom he believes will bring peace and establish a kingdom, but I believe the kingdom has already come. We are here, and we must do the work. God will help us if we help ourselves.”

  They talked until they reached the hotel, and Devorah was surprised to find that Reed was far easier to talk to in darkness than in daylight. She heard no superiority in his voice now, no cynicism, only frank curiosity.

  When they pulled up outside the Mt. Zion Hotel, Captain Reed opened the door, then hesitated before getting out. “Would you like to have a bit of dinner with me?” he asked, his blond hair gleaming in the car’s dome light. “It’s the least I can do after ruining your day.”

  She found it impossible not to return his disarming smile. “Thank you, but I ought to go check on my father. And I would like to get an early start in the morning. Now that you have had a quick tour of Lod, why don’t we drive out to Hatzerim Air Base, in the southern district? We might as well begin at the outposts and work our way northward.”

  “Sounds good to me. What time would you like to get started?”

  Devorah thought a moment. She ought to stop by her father’s house in the morning, but the American probably wouldn’t mind a less-than-early start. “Shall I pick you up at nine?”

  “I’ll be ready.” Reed swung his long legs out of the car, stood, then pulled his briefcase and luggage from the backseat.

  He paused to lean against the door. “Sure you won’t have that dinner?”

  “Quite sure, thank you.” She waved him away. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  She turned the wheel and pulled away, pausing long enough at the intersection to glance back. He still stood on the curb, his suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other, as if waiting to see that she made it away safely.

  She sighed as she turned into the traffic. American men were all the same—guardians of the weak, self-anointed protectors of women. Capt. Michael Reed was no different than the others.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Jerusalem

  0900 hours

  Thursday, October 12

  REED WAS STANDING ON THE CURB OUTSIDE THE HOTEL WHEN DEVORAH pulled up. With a wave of greeting, he approached and tossed his briefcase into the Fiat’s backseat, then opened the passenger door and slid into the car.

  “Good morning,” he said, his smile much less frayed than it had been the day before.

  Devorah gave him a tentative smile. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Thank you, yes, I did. Though my body is not quite sure what time it is, I feel much better today.”

  She turned the key in the ignition. “Good.”

  “And your father?”

  “He is well today; thank you for asking. He has returned to the yeshiva and seems to be no worse for wear.”

  She pulled away from the hotel, grateful that the weather showed signs of cooperating with her travel plans. A dazzling white blur of sun stood fixed in the eastern sky, a faultless wide blue curve over the city. A brisk wind would keep the temperatures at a comfortable level, at least until they reached the dry heat of the desert.

  “I love this weather,” Reed said, resting his arm on the car door. “If I lived here, I’d take my convertible out and just let it eat up the miles.”

  “I do not think you would.” Lifting her chin, she glanced at him and grinned. “You won’t see many convertibles over here, and you definitely won’t see any military people driving one. First, it is too hot. Second, you would be an easy target—a sitting duck, as you Americans would say. You could be calmly driving along, minding your own business, and suddenly find a rock or a grenade on the seat next to you.”

  He glanced back at her, his eyes bright with speculation, his smile half sly. “You’re right, of course.
But do you have to contradict everything I say?”

  “I am not contradicting you, Captain.” She kept her eyes on the road, lest he see how his superior tone irritated her. “I am just pointing out a few obvious facts.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be here any more than you do.” An unmistakable note of sarcasm filled his voice. “But, like you, I go where I’m told and do what I’m told. That’s it. So I’m going to do my duty here. If you have a problem with any part of this assignment, you can go to your CO and beg off.”

  “It is too late for that.” She thumped her hand against the steering wheel, not caring if he saw her irritation. “Yesterday I wanted out. But last night you were almost civil, so I cancelled my classes and told my CO I would see it through.”

  “To the end?”

  “To the bitter end.” She took a deep breath and squeezed the steering wheel until the urge to strangle him had passed. “So let’s just do our jobs, shall we?”

  He did not answer for a long moment, and finally Devorah looked over at him. He had turned toward her, crossing his arms across his chest, and one corner of his mouth quirked with humor. For some inexplicable reason, her reaction seemed to amuse him.

  “Is something funny, Captain?”

  Reed grinned and looked out the window. “I can’t believe it, but I think I like you, Cohen. I’ve never had much use for soldiers who didn’t raise a ruckus now and then.”

  Irked by his confident manner, she cast a sharp glance at him. He was grinning! Rattled by the honesty in his smile, she gripped the steering wheel again and stared at the road ahead as her cheeks burned with a blush. Would this day never end?

  They drove in silence for a while, then Reed told her a story about one of his commanding officers during his training days. The story broke through the awkwardness, and they talked of ordinary things as she drove southward toward the Negev Desert base. Reed asked about her brother; she explained that Asher was attached to a paratroop brigade commanded by Colonel Shiff. A note of pride filled her voice as she explained that the elite unit had been active in the 1956 Sinai Campaign, the conquest of Rafah, and the historic unification of Jerusalem in the 1967 Six-Day War. “In 1973,” she added, “Asher’s unit was part of a commando raid against Arafat’s terrorist headquarters in the heart of Beirut. That was before Asher joined, of course, but today’s unit is even more highly trained.”