By Dawn's Early Light Page 13

  “I’ve been to Beirut.” His voice, which had been so vibrant a moment before, went flat. “In the winter of ’82 my SEAL team was sent in to poke at the marines’ defenses and see if we could find any weak spots.”

  Devorah waited, but he did not continue, though there was obviously more to the story. “Did you find them?” she asked after a moment. “Weak spots?”

  His features hardened in a stare of disapproval. “We did. We reported the problems, and they ignored us. So we left, and two months later I was promoted out of the SEALs and found myself back in Beirut.” He swallowed hard, as if trying to dislodge something stuck in his throat. “I was there when a car bomb exploded at the embassy. My wife died in the blast.”

  Devorah felt a cold hand pass down her spine. She glanced away, uncomfortable with this private revelation. “I am sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with shock. “I remember that terrible time. I had just joined the army and was terrified because we went on alert after the explosion.”

  She heard herself babbling, then clamped her lips together. The sound of pain had laced his voice, so his wife was not a subject he broached often. He would not want to continue this conversation about Beirut.

  They rode in silence for the rest of the journey.

  Michael wasn’t sure what compelled him to talk about Janis, but he wondered about it repeatedly as they toured the Hatzerim Air Base. He had never talked about Janis’s death with his buddies in the navy, just as he had never talked much about his domestic affairs with his SEAL teammates. Military life was odd that way, especially when a soldier was part of an elite unit that lived and trained together for months at a time. A man naturally felt closer to his comrades than to the wife waiting at home—mainly because he trusted his teammates with his life. Working together as a single-minded unit, literally placing your life in someone else’s hands—well, that sort of pressure had a way of binding men together.

  Janis never fully understood that, but she accepted it the same way she accepted Michael’s desire to spend his free evenings playing pool with his fellow SEALs. Though he often came home with a black eye and bruises, he and his guys never backed down from a poolroom brawl—and never lost one, either. After five years of marriage, Janis seemed to realize that the same guys who watched Michael’s back in the pool hall would do the same thing on a mission.

  A cold shiver spread over him as he remembered Janis’s patient tolerance. The navy had spared no expense preparing him to defy death, but they were helpless—as was he—when it came to protecting Janis.

  He cast Devorah a sidelong glance as they walked through the impressive Air Force Museum in the northwest corner of the air base. She hadn’t married—had she realized the truth Michael learned too late? Modern warriors couldn’t expect to have it both ways. All that happy hyperbole about how a soldier could enjoy a successful military career and family evaporated in the scorching light of reality.

  The museum was imposing, but Michael was far more interested in the airworthy craft maintained at the base by the Israeli Air Force. Two dozen of the sixty F-16C/Ds Israel had bought from the United States in 1998 were based here, along with fifteen F-15Is. The F-16 was one of the most maneuverable fighters ever built, as tough to bring down as a gnat, but the F-15Is served as the U.S. Air Force’s primary air-superiority fighter. Each F-15I was outfitted with LANTIRN—Low Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared for Night—pods.

  Mentally noting the condition of the Israeli jets, Michael calculated what it would take to launch a full-scale defense against a massive land and air attack rising from the north, east, and south. From what he had already seen, the Israelis were well prepared against the sort of attack they had faced in the past, but they had never confronted an onslaught like the one possibly brewing in Russia.

  “Devorah!” A robust and excited voice caught his attention as they exited a hanger. A uniformed paratrooper ran forward, wrapped his arms around Sergeant Major Cohen, and whirled her around in a circle.

  Michael lifted a brow. Perhaps he had been too hasty in assuming Cohen had chosen not to marry. This soldier was obviously fond of her.

  Michael thrust his hands behind his back, about to retreat and grant the couple a measure of privacy, but the sergeant major’s scolding voice stopped him. “Be quiet, Asher, you act as though you have not seen me in a year.”

  The paratrooper drew back in surprise. “Not here, I haven’t. Now I will finally have a chance to show my comrades what a lovely sister I have.”

  “I’m not here for a social call, Asher. This is business.” She pulled out of the man’s embrace and tugged at the hem of her jacket, a rush of pink staining her cheek. Michael turned his attention back to the Israeli paratrooper, who met Michael’s gaze with a smile that was 20 percent manners and 80 percent challenge.

  Keeping her eyes downcast, Devorah gestured toward Michael. “Captain Reed, meet my brother, Asher Cohen.”

  Asher took off his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm, then extended a broad hand. “Happy to meet you, sir. What brings you to Israel?”

  “Routine liaison work, I’m afraid.” Michael shook the fellow’s hand. “Very dull stuff, actually. Your sister is remarkably patient with me.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Asher looked at his sister with a world of meaning in his eyes. “You did not mention this assignment, Devorah.”

  The blush on her cheek deepened. “It came up rather suddenly,” she said, sounding slightly strangled.

  Asher turned to Michael. “How long will you be in Israel, sir?”

  “For at least another week,” Michael said, switching his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I’m touring all the major military bases, and we’ve just begun.”

  “So you’ll be here through the Sukkot festival?”

  Michael slipped a hand into his pocket and smiled. “Apparently.”

  “Good.” Asher reached out and draped his arm around his sister’s shoulders. “You will have to come to my father’s house for the feast of Sukkot. We would love to have you as our guest.”

  Glancing at Devorah, Michael saw his surprise mirrored in her eyes. “Thank you, Asher, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It is impossible to intrude at festival time. It is a mitzvot to extend hospitality to guests. You will sit with us in my father’s sukkah and share in our time of rejoicing. You might find it an interesting experience.”

  Michael wasn’t certain what a mitzvot or a sukkah was, but he had the feeling a refusal might be considered a serious breach of etiquette. Given that his appearance in Israel had already offended the sergeant major, perhaps it would be wise to accept.

  He nodded slowly. “You’ll have to be patient with me. This will be my first Sukkot festival.”

  “You will enjoy it,” Asher assured him. The paratrooper turned to his sister. “You will pick him up before sundown tomorrow, right? I will meet you and Papa at the house.”

  The sergeant major’s eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, but she nodded dumbly. Asher bent to give her a quick peck on the cheek, then turned and moved away with a loose-boned, easy gait.

  Hiding a smile, Michael turned and pretended to study the tidy row of jets parked on the airfield. He would never have imagined the sergeant major could be left speechless with surprise.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Paris

  1330 hours

  VLADIMIR GOGOL PRESSED THE FINE LINEN NAPKIN TO HIS LIPS AND SMILED AT his host, Adrian Romulus. A quartet of tuxedoed waiters was busily clearing the table, while a string quartet played Mozart in a corner of the cavernous dining hall.

  “May I compliment you on your choice of chef.” Vladimir nodded toward Romulus, who sat next to him, at the head of the long table. “I do not think I have ever enjoyed a more delicious meal.”

  Romulus smiled and shifted his posture with an indolent, tomcat grace. “That is one of the benefits of living outside Paris, General. Not only can I enjoy the beauty of an
intelligent city, but its fine cuisine is mine to savor any time I wish.”

  Vladimir smiled, then leaned back as a waiter approached to take his dessert plate. A fragrant cup of coffee steamed on the table before him, and he lifted it to his lips, surveying the host gathered around Romulus’s table.

  He was quietly thrilled that not one representative had refused his invitation. Though Romulus was serving as host, everyone present knew that Vladimir had instigated and would control this meeting.

  He replaced his coffee cup and folded his hands, studying the men who would join him to change the world. Many of the leaders present wore kaffiyehs on their heads; others went bareheaded. Vladimir wore his military uniform, as did Gen. Adam Archer, the former American now sworn to aid Adrian Romulus and the European Union. Others, the politicians and religious leaders, wore the clothing and insignia befitting their positions. But no matter how different their personalities and roles, all of them—emissaries from Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Ethiopia, Sudan, Libya, Austria, Germany, and Turkey—had come to discuss the problem of Israel.

  When the last dish had been cleared, Romulus stood. The string quartet fell silent and discreetly disappeared; the waiters slipped like shadows from the room. Another of Romulus’s men, Elijah Reis, stood and moved to his employer’s side. The reason became clear when Romulus welcomed his guests and Reis acted as interpreter, translating his employer’s words into fluent Arabic.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for joining me here tonight.” As Reis interpreted, the lights in the chamber slowly brightened, casting the dark-haired Romulus in an almost unearthly glow. He was a tall man, wide-shouldered and athletic-looking, with an air of authority and the appearance of one who demanded instant obedience. “I know you are all men of considerable importance, with busy schedules and demanding lives. But the time has come to settle an old score. We should not wait a moment longer. We cannot tolerate the arrogance of the Zionist imperialists for one more year.”

  Every man at the table shifted slightly to give Romulus his full attention. From the corner of his eye, Vladimir saw several of the Arabs nodding agreement.

  Romulus leaned forward, bracing himself against the table. “I have invited you here today on behalf of Gen. Vladimir Vasilievich Gogol, whom you have already trusted to train your men. Listen to him now, my friends, and commit your hearts to him. I believe you will find him to be a most capable visionary.”

  Vladimir inclined his head in acknowledgement, then stood while Romulus resumed his seat. Looking down the table, Vladimir saw over a dozen eager and expectant faces. This meeting was merely a formality; by sending their troops to Pushkina, these men had already agreed to join him in principle. Tonight they would place their signatures on a document and join him in history.

  “Comrades,” he began, speaking slowly for the sake of the interpreter. “You and I know that the so-called State of Israel has been a thorn in the flesh of the Palestinian people for countless generations. Even though the Israelis have agreed to vacate the disputed territories of Gaza, the West Bank, the Golan Heights, and East Jerusalem, from the testimony of many witnesses we know that continued Israeli occupation continues to severely affect Palestinians’ quality of life. As a point of illustration, Israel controls the principal aquifer under the West Bank, as well as most of the water sources supplying Palestinians in Gaza. Israelis have unlimited access to water all year round, at prices far below those paid by Palestinians. Israeli settlers in the surrounding areas have unlimited supplies of water and are estimated to consume five times as much as Palestinians. Many maintain the wasteful luxury of a swimming pool, even during times when Palestinians face severe water shortages. It has been estimated that the three thousand Israeli interlopers still living in the Gaza Strip use 75 percent of the available ground water, while the one million Palestinians in the area use less than 25 percent.”

  “If I may speak.” Gen. Kamal Jawhar al-Nadir, the military leader of Sudan, lifted his hand, drawing the group’s attention. Reis translated the general’s comment into English, and Vladimir nodded, granting the man permission to take the floor.

  Al-Nadir, a barrel-chested man who did not look capable of any pleasant emotion, stood at his place. “We have been most concerned about the barbarous practices enacted by the Israeli General Security Service. As many as fifteen hundred Palestinians each year are still being interrogated and confined by Israeli intelligence. This is an injustice, and it must stop.”

  President Dismas Rabi, head of the Council of People’s Representatives in Ethiopia, stood and waited for the interpreter before speaking: “I would like to add my voice to my brother’s. Serious economic and social problems exist in the area as well. Witnesses have told us that employment opportunities in Gaza are nonexistent and the economic situation is very bad. Palestinian vegetables and flowers are allowed to wilt or spoil by the side of the road while the Israelis waste precious time on the pretext of security checks. Since Gaza has no seaport or airport, our Palestinian brothers are at the mercy of the Israelis. Israel is directly responsible for this situation, which has led to serious social polarization between the rich and poor.”

  The Libyan head of state, Qasim al-Musa, did not wait to be recognized, but barged into the conversation, his dark eyes gleaming with resentment. “Even though the Israelis have withdrawn their police from these disputed areas, the problems persist. They have gone ahead with the building of a new Jewish settlement in the south of Arab East Jerusalem. Their settlers have not left their homes. Their children still fill the schools, depriving Palestinian children of their right to health, education, expression, and play. This is a clear contravention of the Convention on the Rights of the Child.”

  The German chancellor, Otto von Hirsch, pounded the table with his fist, making the candelabrum jump. “It is very clear that illegal Jewish settlers will continue to colonize the Palestinian territories unless Israel is stopped. For years, Israel has encouraged Jews from around the world to emigrate and settle on Arab lands. Collective punishment, blockades, the desecration of holy Muslim sites, and arbitrary murders of innocent civilians are a flagrant violation of international law and the Fourth Geneva Convention. It is time we did something about it.”

  “That, my friends,” Vladimir said, standing again, “is precisely why we are gathered here today. In a moment we shall adjourn to the next room and sign a resolution that will change the course of human history. We will submit this resolution to the United Nations Security Council, and the council will have no choice but to order enforcement action. Israel has not honored the terms of the peace accord; the Palestinian areas are still occupied by Israeli forces.”

  “What about the Americans?” General al-Nadir barked out the question. “All five permanent members of the Security Council must support the resolution, and the Americans have long been blind to Israel’s injustices.”

  Romulus tapped his spoon against the side of his water goblet, attracting the group’s attention. “Do not worry about the Americans.” A smile crawled to his lips and curved itself like a snake. “When the time comes, they will do the right thing.”

  Taking charge with quiet assurance, Vladimir leaned upon the table and looked from man to man. “You hate the Jews for your reasons; I hate them for reasons of my own. But trust me, friends, after Jerusalem is ours and Israel is destroyed, the entire world will look upon the remaining Jews with abhorrence and hatred. Today we shall set in motion a chain of events that will result in the total destruction of Israel. We will rid the world of this repugnant race for all time!”

  His eyes roved over the circle of men, coming to rest upon the interpreter’s face. Vladimir caught his breath—Romulus’s imposing interpreter, Elijah Reis, was almost certainly Jewish, but he translated Vladimir’s words without any display of emotion. After an uneasy moment, Vladimir exhaled. Apparently Reis knew his people were doomed and had pledged his allegiance elsewhere.

  Yasin Diya al-din, representing the Palestinian Liberation Or
ganization, stood and looked at Vladimir with tears in his eyes. “We are all candidates for holy martyrdom. In memory of the noble and brave holy martyrs Abu Iyad, Abu Al-Hol, Abu Muhammad, and Abu Jihad, we will say with complete faith, loudly and clearly, that the song of the martyrs is etched in the path of Palestine. The Israelis are determined to destroy the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aksa Mosque on the Temple Mount and rebuild Solomon’s temple, but we will not permit it.” He wiped the tears from his eyes and squinted back down the table. “I envy the martyrs and hope to become one of them . . . and I am honored to be among you, my friends.”

  Vladimir cleared his throat, uncomfortable as always with the intrusion of religion into politics. The Muslims insisted upon seeing every battle as a holy war and every soldier as a martyr, but he was far more pragmatic. It was enough to know that Israel’s defeat would open the way to the Mediterranean, and a complete victory would ensure the flow of Arabian oil to Moscow for years to come. Most importantly, once Russian troops occupied the Middle East, Russia would control the flow of oil upon which the rest of the world depended.

  “To victory, gentlemen.” He reached for the closest thing at hand, his coffee cup, and flushed with delight when the others smiled and lifted their cups in a spontaneous toast.

  When the last representative had signed the treaty of cooperation and resolution against Israel, Romulus tugged on Vladimir’s sleeve and pulled him into a private corner of the drawing room. “The training is progressing?” he asked, his eyes gleaming black and dangerous in the candlelight.

  “All is well,” Vladimir assured him. “My officers tell me that what the Arabs lack in military discipline, they compensate for in enthusiasm. They are willing soldiers and hard workers.”