His rag showed dead insects, dirt, a little moisture, and just a trace of rust. He would find out shortly if it was safe to fire.
* * *
“Richardson.” The voice was muffled, but Laskov was sure of it. He unbolted the door.
Miriam Bernstein got out of bed naked and leaned against the doorjamb in the pose of a Parisian lady of the night against a lamppost. She smiled and tried on a sexy come-hither look. Laskov was not amused. He opened the door slowly. Tom Richardson, the U.S. air attaché, stepped in at the moment Laskov heard the bedroom door close behind him. He looked at Richardson’s face. Had he seen her? He couldn’t decide. No one registered much emotion at that hour. “Is this business or social?”
Richardson spread his arms out. “I’m in full uniform and the sun isn’t even up.”
Laskov regarded the younger officer. He was a tall, sandy-haired man who was chosen for the attaché job more for his ability to charm than for his ability to fly. A diplomat in uniform. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Why do you have that hardware stuck in your pants? Even in D.C. we don’t answer the door like that.”
“You should. Well, have a seat. Coffee?”
“Right.”
Laskov moved toward the small kitchenette. “Turkish, Italian, American, or Israeli?”
“American.”
“I’ve only got Israeli and it’s instant.”
Richardson sat in a club chair. “Are we going to have one of those days?”
“Don’t we always?”
“Get in the spirit of things, Laskov. There’s going to be peace.”
“Maybe.” He put a kettle on the single gas jet. He could hear the shower running on the other side of the wall.
Richardson looked at the closed bedroom door. “Am I disturbing something? Were you making a separate peace with a local Arab boy’s sister?” He laughed, then said seriously, “Can we speak freely?”
Laskov came out of the kitchen. “Yes. Let’s get this business out of the way. I have a full day ahead of me.”
“Me too.” Richardson lit a cigarette. “We have to know what kind of air cover you have planned for the Concordes.”
Laskov walked over to the window and threw open the shutters. Below his apartment ran the Haifa-Tel Aviv Highway. Lights shone from private villas near the Mediterranean. Herzlya was known as the air attaché ghetto. It was also Israel’s Hollywood and Israel’s Riviera. Herzlya was the place where El Al and Air Force personnel lived if they could afford it. Laskov detested the place because of its privileged atmosphere, but an accident of social grouping had put most of the important people he had to deal with in Herzlya.
The smell of the western sea breezes, which usually carried into the apartment, was replaced by the dry east wind carrying scents of orange and almond blossoms from the Samarian hills. Across the highway, the first shaft of sunlight revealed two men standing in the alcove of a shop. They moved further into the shadow. Laskov turned from the window and walked to a high-backed swivel chair. He sat down.
“Unless you came with a chauffeur and a footman, I think someone is watching this apartment.”
Richardson shrugged. “That’s their job, whoever they are. We have ours.” He leaned forward. “I’ll need a full report on today’s operation.”
Laskov sat back in his chair. His dogfighter chair. At get-togethers his friends would regale each other with the old fights. The Spitfires. The Corsairs. The Messerschmitts. Laskov looked at the ceiling. He was flying his mission over Warsaw again. Captain Teddy Laskov of the Red Air Force. Things were simpler then. Or so they seemed.
Shot down for the third time, in the last days of the war, Laskov had returned to his village of Zaslavl, outside Minsk, on convalescent leave. He found the remainder of his family, barely half of whom had survived the Nazis, murdered in what the Commissars called a civil disturbance. Laskov called it a pogrom. Russia would never change, he decided. A Jew was as much a Jew in unholy Russia as in Holy Russia.
Captain Laskov, highly decorated officer of the Red Air Force, had returned to his squadron in Germany. Ten minutes after arriving, he had climbed into a fighter, bombed and strafed an encampment of his own army outside of Berlin, and flown on to an airfield occupied by the American Second Armored Division on the west bank of the Elbe.
From the American internment camp, he had made his way, finally, to Jerusalem, but not before seeing what had become of West European Jewry.
In Jerusalem, he had joined the underground Haganah Air Force, which consisted of a few scrapped British warplanes and a few American civilian light aircraft hidden in palm groves. A far cry from the Red Air Force, but when Laskov saw his first Spitfire with the Star of David on it, his eyes misted.
Since that day in 1946, he had fought in the War of Independence of 1948, the Suez War of 1956, the Six Day War of 1967, and the 1973 Yom Kippur War. But the war dates meant nothing to him. He had seen more action between those wars than during them. He’d flown 5,136 sorties, been hit five times and shot down twice. He carried scars from shattered plexiglas, burning aviation fuel, flak, and missile shrapnel. He walked slightly bent as a result of having had to eject out of a burning Phantom in 1973. He was getting old and he was tired. He rarely flew combat missions anymore, and he hoped, and almost believed, that after the Conference there would be none that would have to he flown again. Ever.
The kettle whistled and Laskov stared at it. Richardson got up and shut it off. “Well?”
Laskov shrugged. “We have to be careful who we give that kind of information to.”
Richardson walked quickly up to Laskov. He was white and almost trembling. “What? What the hell do you mean? Look, I’ve got reports to make. I’ve got to coordinate our carrier fleet in the Med. Since when have you kept anything from us? If you’re insinuating that there’s a leak . . .”
Laskov wasn’t prepared for Richardson’s outburst. They had always bantered prior to getting to the point. It was part of the game. The reaction to what Laskov thought was a joke was inappropriate. He decided that Richardson was tense, as everyone else would probably be today. “Take it easy, Colonel.” He stared hard at the young man.
The mention of his rank seemed to snap him out of it. Richardson smiled and sat down. “Sorry, General.”
“All right.” Laskov got up and picked up the telephone with a scrambler attached to it. He dialed The Citadel, Israeli Air Force Headquarters. “Patch me into the E-2D,” he said.
Richardson waited. The E-2D Hawkeye was the newest of Grumman’s flying radar craft. The sophisticated electronic systems on board could detect, track, and classify potential belligerents or friendlies on land, sea, and air at distances and with an accuracy never before possible. Its collected information was fed into a computer bank and transmitted via data link back to Strike Force Control, Civilian Air Traffic Control, and Search and Rescue units. It also had electronic deception capabilities. Israel had three of them and one was airborne at all times. Richardson watched as Laskov listened.
Laskov replaced the phone.
“They see anything?” Richardson asked.
“Foxbats. Four of them. Probably Egyptian. Just maneuvers, I suspect. Also a Mandrake recon in the stratosphere. Probably Russian.”
Richardson nodded.
They discussed the technical data as Laskov made two cups of passable coffee. The water stopped running in the bathroom.
Richardson blew steam off the cup. “You using your 14’s for escort?”
“Of course.” The Grumman F-14 Tomcat was the best fighter craft in the world. But so was the Mig-25 Foxbat. It depended on who was flying each craft. It was that close. Laskov had a squadron of twelve Tomcats that had cost Israel eighteen million dollars apiece. They were sitting, at that moment, on the military end of Lod Airport.
“You going up, too?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you leave that to the younger men?”
“Why don’t y
ou go fuck yourself?”
Richardson laughed. “You have a good command of American idiom.”
“Thank you.”
“How far are you going with them?”
“Until we run out to the edge of our range.” He walked to the window and looked into the dawn. “With no bombs or air-to-ground stuff, and on a day like this, we should be able to do a thousand klicks out and then back again. That should take them out of the range of the Land of Islam, in case anyone has any crazy ideas today.”
“Not out of range of Libya, Tunisia, Morocco, and Algeria. Look, you can land at our base in Sicily if you want to stay with them that far. Or, we can get a bunch of KAGD’s to refuel you in flight, if you want.”
Laskov looked away from Richardson and smiled. The Americans were all right except when they were getting panicky about trying to keep the peace at any cost. “They’re not going all the way over the Med. The Concordes are going to file a last-minute flight-plan change that will take them up the boot of Italy. We’ve gotten them special clearance to fly supersonic over Italy and France. We’ll break with them east of Sicily. I’ll give you the coordinates and your carrier 14’s can pick them up if you want. But I don’t think that will be necessary. Don’t forget, they can go Mach 2.2 at 19,000 meters. Nothing but the Bat can match that, and they’ll be out of range of any of their bases—Arab or Russian—by the time we leave them.”
Richardson stretched. “You expecting any trouble? Our intelligence tells us it looks O.K.”
“We always expect trouble here. But frankly, no. We’re just being cautious. There will be a lot of important people on those Concordes. And everything is at stake. Everything. All it takes is one crazy to fuck things up.”
Richardson nodded. “How’s ground security?”
“That’s the Security Chief’s problem, I’m just a pilot, not a guerilla fighter. If those two goofy-looking birds get airborne, I’ll escort them to hell and back without a scratch on them. I don’t know from the ground.”
Richardson laughed. “Right. Me, neither. By the way, what are you packing besides your .45?”
“The usual ironmongery of death and destruction. Two Sidewinders and two Sparrows, plus six Phoenix.”
Richardson considered. The Sidewinder missiles were good at five to eight kilometers; the Sparrows, at sixteen to fifty-six kilometers; and the Phoenix, at fifty-six to a hundred and sixty. The Hughes-manufactured Phoenix was critical to get the Foxbat before it came into dogfight range with its greater maneuverability. “Take a tip, Laskov. There’s nothing up there at 19,000 and Mach 2.2 but Foxbats. Leave your 20mm cannon rounds home. There are 950 of them and they weigh. The Sidewinder will get anything that gets in close. We did it on a computer once. It’s O.K.”
Laskov ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll keep them in case I feel like knocking down a Mandrake.”
Richardson smiled. “You’d hit an unarmed reconnaissance plane in international air space?” He spoke softly, as though there were someone close by who shouldn’t hear. “What’s your tactical frequency and call sign today?”
“We’ll be on VHF channel 31. That’s 134.725 megahertz. My alternate frequency is a last-minute security decision. I’ll get it to you later. Today my name will be Angel Gabriel plus my tail number—32. The other eleven Cats will also be Gabriel plus their tail numbers. I’ll send you the particulars later.”
“And the Concordes?”
“The company call sign for aircraft number 4X-LPN is El Al 01. For 4X-LPO, it’s El Al 02. That’s what we’ll call them on the Air Traffic Control and El Al frequencies. On my tactical frequency, they have code names, of course.”
“What are they?”
Laskov smiled. “Some idiot clerk at The Citadel probably spends all day on these things. Anyway, the pilot of 01 is a very religious young man, so 01 is the Kosher Clipper. The pilot of 02 is a former American, so in honor of that great American airline slogan, 02 is the Wings of Emmanuel.”
“That’s awful.” Miriam Bernstein walked into the living room, dressed in a smartly tailored lemon-yellow dress and carrying an overnight bag.
Richardson stood up. He recognized the beautiful, much talked about Deputy Minister of Transportation, but was enough of a diplomat not to mention it.
She walked toward Richardson. “It’s all right, Colonel, I’m not a working girl. I have a high clearance. The General has not been indiscreet.” Her English was slow and precise, the result of seldom used formal classroom English.
Richardson nodded.
Laskov could tell that Richardson was somewhat unsettled by Miriam. It amused him. He wondered if he should make an introduction, but Miriam was already at the door. She turned and addressed Laskov. “I saw the men in the street, I’ve called a taxi. Jabari is waiting. I must rush. See you at the final briefing.” She looked past Laskov. “Good day, Colonel.”
Richardson decided not to let them think he was totally in the dark. “Shalom. Good luck in New York.”
Miriam Bernstein smiled and left.
Richardson looked at his coffee cup. “I’m not going to drink any more of this swill. I’ll take you to breakfast and drop you at The Citadel on my way to my embassy.”
Laskov nodded. He walked into the bedroom. He slipped on a khaki cotton shirt that might have been civilian except for two small olive branches that designated his rank. He pulled the automatic from his waistband. He buttoned his shirt with one hand and held the .45 with the other as he walked to the window. Below, the two men, whoever they were, looked quickly down at their shoes. Miriam got into a waiting taxi and sped off. Laskov threw the .45 on the bed.
He felt uneasy. It was the wind. Something to do with an imbalance of negative ions in the air, they said. The ill wind went by many names—the Foehn of Central Europe, the Mistral of Southern France, the Santa Ana of California. Here it was called Hamseen or Sharav. There were people, like himself, who were weather-sensitive and suffered physically and phychologically from the effect. It wouldn’t matter at 19,000 meters, but it mattered here. It was a mixed blessing, this first hot wind of spring. He looked into the sky. At least it was turning out to be a perfect day for flying.
2
Abdel Majid Jabari sat staring at a cup of black Turkish coffee laced with arak. “I don’t mind telling you I was badly frightened. I came very close to shooting a security man.”
Miriam Bernstein nodded. Everyone was jumpy. It was a time of celebration, but also a time of apprehension. “My fault. I should have realized.”
Jabari put up his hand. “Never mind. We see Palestinian terrorists everywhere, but in fact, there are not many left these days.”
“How many does it take? You especially should be careful. They really do want you.” She looked at him. “It must be difficult. A stranger in a strange land.”
Jabari was still high-strung from his dawn encounter. “I’m no stranger here. I was born here,” he said pointedly. “You weren’t,” he added, then regretted the remark. He smiled in a conciliatory manner and spoke in Arabic. “ ‘If you mingle your affairs with theirs, then they are your brothers.’ ”
Miriam thought of another Arabic saying. “ ‘I came to the place of my birth and cried, “The friends of my youth, where are they?” And Echo answered. “Where are they.”’ ” She paused. “That applies to both of us, I suppose. This is no more your land now, Abdel, then it was mine when I landed on these shores. Displaced persons displacing other wretched persons. It’s all so damned . . . cruel.”
Jabari could see that she was on the verge of slipping into one of her darker moods. “Politics and geography aside, Miriam, there are many cultural similarities between the Arabs and the Jews. I think they have all finally realized that.” He poured a glass of arak and raised it. “In Hebrew, you—we—say shalom alekhem, peace unto you. And in Arabic, we say salaam aleckum, which is as close as we’ve gotten to it up to now.”
Miriam Bernstein poured herself a glass of arak. “Alekhem s
halom, and unto you, peace.” She drank and there was a burning in her stomach.
As they sat at breakfast they spoke about what might happen in New York. She felt good talking to Jabari. She was apprehensive about sitting face to face with Arabs across a conference table at the UN—the long-heralded confrontation— and Jabari was a good transition for her. She knew he had been far from the mainstream of Arab thought for thirty years, and his loyalties were with Israel; but if there were such a thing as a racial psyche, then perhaps Abdel Jabari reflected it.
Jabari watched her closely as she spoke in that husky voice that sometimes sounded weary and often sounded sensuous. Over the years, a bit at a time, he had come to know her story as she had come to know his. They had both known what it was to be the flotsam and jetsam of a world in upheaval. Now they both sat at the top of their society and they were both in a position to change the currents of history for better or worse.
Miriam Bernstein was a fairly typical product of the European holocaust. She had been found by the advancing Red Army in a concentration camp, whose purpose was as obscure as its name, although the words Medizinische Experimente stuck out in her mind. She remembered that she had once had parents and other family—a baby sister—and that she was Jewish. Beyond that, she knew little. She spoke a little German, probably learned from the camp guards, and a little Polish, probably learned from the other children in the camp. She also knew a few words of Hungarian, which had led her to believe that this was her nationality. But mostly she had been a silent child, and she neither knew nor cared if she was a German, Polish, or Hungarian Jew. All she knew for certain, or cared about, was that she was a Jew.
The Red Army had taken her and the other children to what must have been a labor camp, because the older children worked at repairing roads. Many of them died that winter. In the spring, they all worked in the fields. She had wound up in a hospital, then was released into the custody of an elderly Jewish couple.