By the Rivers of Babylon (49 page)

Ahmed Rish spoke on his field radio and ordered his small force there to return the fire. He didn’t want the Israelis to run inadvertently into a massacre down there. He wanted them for himself on the hill.

The Ashbals on the river bank fired up the glacis, and everyone’s heart sank as they discovered what they really had known all along—there was no escape route. There was a great deal of confusion, and some of the people who had counted on escaping that way began to weep.

Hamadi took a call over the radio from the officer in charge of their rear area, Al-Bakr. “Hamadi here. What? Who is he? Well, find out! Did he complete the call? The Baghdad operator confirms that? What was he saying? Yes, I know you don’t speak Hebrew, damn it! I’m sure he speaks Arabic. After you take his first eye out, he will speak it for you. Yes. Keep me informed.” He handed the phone back to the operator. He looked at Rish. “Ahmed.”

Rish turned to him as they advanced slowly through the dust. “I understood enough of it. It is of no importance.”

“But if he got through—”

“No importance!”

Hamadi turned away. More and more he felt that their fate was sealed. They were being hemmed in on all sides by forces over which they had no control. If he were to turn around and walk away into the night, he would live to see the sun come out of Persia. But he could not do that any more than he could kill Rish.

John McClure watched the green tracer rounds arc up from the base of the glacis and pass in front of his foxhole. “Well, we’re not going to get down that way.” He put his last two cartridges into his Ruger. “Well, Colonel, did you learn how to say ‘take me to the American ambassador’ yet?”

Richardson carefully put on his blue tunic and buttoned it.
“We’re going to have to be very careful in the next few minutes, McClure. Our lives may hang on a misunderstood word or gesture.”

McClure placed the first loaded chamber to the right of the hammer. “Why’d you do it, Tom?”

Richardson straightened his tie and uselessly brushed some dust from his shoulders.

“I said, why’d you do it?”

Richardson looked at him across the small foxhole. “Do what?”

McClure cocked the pistol, and the cylinder turned left so that the cartridge was under the raised hammer.

Richardson found his cap and poured sand out of it. He looked down the big open muzzle. “Money. I have a weakness for expensive things.”

“How much money, Tom?”

“A cool million. American.”

McClure gave a low whistle. “Not bad.”

“No. Safely deposited in a Swiss bank, I should add. I was supposed to get another mil afterwards, but I don’t think so now.”

“Maybe they’ll still come across, Tom. Those people have lots of it.”

“That’s right, John. Those people have more petrodollars— our dollars—than they know what to do with. The West is hemorrhaging money and getting transfusions of oil.”

“Interesting figure of speech, Tom. But we’re not talking about that or about Israel, either. We’re talking about you, Tom—a Colonel in the United States Air Force—selling out to a foreign power. That’s still against the law—even in America.”

Richardson straightened the cap on his head. “Well, I haven’t been home in some time so I can’t verify that, John. It used to be all right to publish classified Pentagon papers. Are you sure it’s still against the law to sell out to a foreign power?”

“Don’t temporize, Tom.”

“Right. Well, I’ll take my punishment when I get home. I wish you’d put that thing down. I’m not running off.”

“People talk better when they’re looking down a muzzle, Tom.” McClure spit out a matchstick. “I thought you liked these people.”

“It’s not very fashionable to be an open anti-Semite these days.”

“I see.”

Richardson’s face underwent a remarkable change. His mouth hardened and his eyes became narrow slits. “So, I went and had a celebration drink down at the Officers’ Club with Israeli flyers who I was training at Travis in 1967. And I commiserated with them in 1973 after the near disaster. The next thing I know, someone puts in a good word for me and I’m posted here. I almost vomited when I got the assignment.”

McClure did not respond.

After several long seconds, Richardson looked up at McClure. “Anyway, no one was supposed to get hurt,” he said softly.

“But we’re not talking about them, Tom. I may not like them either, but I’d hold out under torture before I’d betray them. Know why, Tom? ’Cause that’s what Uncle says I got to do. That’s what I get paid for . . . Tom.”

Richardson ignored the entire exchange. His face softened again. “That reminds me, John,” he said brightly. “Can I purchase you? A hundred thou?”

“Sorry.”

“Half?”

“Nope.” McClure found his last match.

“Plus the whole second mil if I get it?”

McClure seemed not to be paying attention. He chewed on the matchstick and spoke as he chewed. “You said no one was supposed to get hurt. But a lot of people got real hurt, Tom. Real hurt.”

“I know. And I
am
sorry about all of this, John. None of this was supposed to happen. Who could have foreseen this? That’s my real regret. All these casualties.” He stared out into the dust.

“If no one was supposed to get hurt, Tom, why’d you
pick
02?”

Richardson licked his dry lips. “Well . . . all right . . .
if
there was to be any trouble, then 01 was to be the . . . demonstration. We knew any trouble would come from Avidar. Not Becker.”

McClure let out a short laugh. “
Knew?
How can you know these things? Suppose that against all we know about human nature and that kind of thing, Becker had gassed it and Avidar had played your game? That would have left you trying to tread sky at a couple thousand meters, my boy.”

“Calculated gamble, John. You see, I gamble with my own life, too. I’m no coward.” He continued to stare out into the dust.
“I hear voices. Should we go out and surrender or should we sit tight and wait for them to get here?”

“You’re awfully goddamned anxious to surrender to these young gerbils or whatever the fuck they call themselves, Tom. Do you think they’re going to give you a hero’s welcome, Richardson? They’re going to murder you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. And then they’re going to murder me to make sure no one knows about you.”

Richardson shook his head and smiled. “No, they won’t kill me. Rish has a boss, and that boss and I worked out a guarantee for my safety. We foresaw problems with Rish. If I’m killed, then a letter in my safe at the Embassy will be opened, and it names names—Arab terrorist agents in Israel, including my contacts and others. I think ahead, John.” He paused. “I won’t let them harm you, either.”

“Thanks, Tom. You’re better than the American ambassador. Well, I wonder if Rish is in control of these guys . . . or in control of himself. I think maybe they’re all so worked up they’ll shishkebob you. . . . But maybe they won’t.” He seemed to be thinking. “You know, Tom, American justice
is
very lenient these days. That’s why you don’t care if I get you home. In most countries they’d hang you up by your left nut in a dungeon and forget about you. In the good old U.S. of A., a general court-martial or a Federal trial will get you ten to twenty—if we can get a conviction at all—and you’ll walk in six . . . or less. Walk right to Switzerland. And the U.S. won’t turn you over to Israel afterwards because that would raise one hell of a squawk.”

“I don’t make the rules.” Richardson looked wary.

“No, but I do, sometimes. When I’m authorized to.” He paused. “Did you say if you died, that would blow the cover on a whole lot of terrorists?”

“Wait! There’s no need for any wet stuff, John. There’s lots of things to consider here.”

“Yes, there are, and if we had more time, then maybe we could work something out. But time is something we don’t have.”

“Hold it!” Richardson instinctively put his hands out in front of him. “I can guarantee your safety. These people—”

McClure thrust out his big .357 Magnum between Richardson’s hands and fired a few inches from his heart. The impact sent Richardson’s head snapping back and his officer’s hat flew off and was taken up into the wind and sailed westward.

•    •    •

David Becker moved quickly down the ramp. In his hand was a metal can that contained a carbon copy of Miriam Bernstein’s short chronicle, wrapped in oil rags and plastic. He picked a spot at the base of the earth ramp and dug a quick hole with a length of aluminum brace. He thought it was a useless exercise, but she seemed so intent on it. She appeared to be brave enough about death and didn’t show any signs of hysteria, but she also seemed a little irrational about this chronicle, so he thought it best to go along with her. He placed the can in the hole and covered it quickly. The logbook itself, containing the original of her chronicle, was tucked under a loose floor section in the cabin. There
was
a chance that Israel would repatriate the Concorde someday, and so perhaps a worker would find the log. But as for the buried chronicle he wondered if it would ever be uncovered. Perhaps it would. After all, he had uncovered Pazuzu.

He straightened up and wiped his hands. He could hear two Arabs shouting to each other above the wind. They weren’t more than two hundred meters away. An Israeli took a shot at the voices, and one of them let out a sound of pain. No, thought Becker, they will not be in a good mood when they get here. Yet he never once regretted the decision to fight, and he had never heard anyone else say they regretted it, either.

He moved over to the front wheel well and spoke to Peter Kahn, who was still working on the auxiliary power unit. “Come on, Peter. It’s a little late for that. Come onto the flight deck.”

Kahn took his head out from the well. “What the hell for? Look, when they get here, I want them to see Peter Kahn breaking his ass on this son-of-a-bitching power unit. Maybe they’ll feel sorry for me and give me a ticket to Lod.”

Becker smiled. “All right. . . . I . . . I’ll see you around.”

Kahn looked at him. “Right. See you around, Captain.”

Becker turned toward the ramp and slowly mounted, oblivious to the rounds whistling through the air around him.

He walked across the wing and passed into the cabin. He had to pick his way through the wounded to reach the flight deck.

Inside the flight deck he took his seat next to Miriam. “It’s done.”

“Thank you.”

There was a long silence. Becker finally spoke. “I always knew I’d die in this thing.”

Miriam reached out and touched his arm. “I think you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

Becker looked down at the control panel. He felt that he should be doing something, but he had orders from Hausner to stay in the cockpit no matter what happened. He turned the radio up and began scanning the frequencies. He would do that until someone put a bullet in his back. He felt sorry for Miriam—for all the women. He was certain the Ashbals had a special fate reserved for them. “Do you want to stay here? I mean . . .”

“I’m under orders, too.” She smiled.

He looked out the windshield. “There are people gathering in the shepherds’ hut. I think they are going to—”

“Yes, I see them. I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind.”

He hesitated, then reached out and took her hand and squeezed it.

The group of Israelis who were intent on suicide gathered in the blood-soaked, fetid shepherds’ hut after the wounded had been removed.

Arabs, as a people, did not often take their own lives, but no one in the hut was surprised when Abdel Majid Jabari and Ibrahim Arif entered. It was understood that these two, above everyone else, were far better off dead.

The hut was completely dark, and that made things easier for everyone. There was little talking, only some dangling, whispered half-sentences as someone new entered.

After a few minutes, it became apparent that no one else was coming, but no one present knew what to
do
next, and a stillness fell over the hut.

In all, there were eleven men and women gathered in three small groups in separate corners. In one group was Joshua Rubin, who was the prime mover behind the suicide pact. Lying on the floor near him was Yigael Tekoah. Tekoah was bitter over the fact that he had not died when the Arab bullets cut him down as he shouted the warning from his outpost. Now he had to face death again. With Rubin and Tekoah were four young Knesset aides, two men and two women, all members of the Masada Defense League.

In another corner was the steward, Yaakov Leiber, and the two stewardesses, Beth Abrams and Rachel Baum. Beth Abrams had spent the last two days caring for the wounded and
watching them suffer. She had changed from a happy girl to a despondent one in a very short time. Rachel Baum was lying on the floor between Lieber and Abrams. She, like Tekoah, had refused to be moved to the Concorde with the rest of the wounded. She was in terrible pain from her wounds and didn’t see much sense in waiting on the Corcorde for more pain. She had nursed Kaplan and had heard him die, and she was frightened enough to take this way out.

Yaakov Leiber had considered his three children before he made his decision, but Rubin had convinced him that no one would survive what the Ashbals had planned for them. Still, he was having second thoughts about it. He could see that the two stewardesses needed him there. He spoke softly to them in the dark. Beth Abrams was crying but Rachel Baum was quiet. He knelt next to her and took her hand. Beth Abrams also knelt and took both their hands.

In the third corner, Abdel Jabari and Ibrahim Arif sat back on their haunches. They had lived alone among these people for over thirty years, and now they were to die alone among them.

Jabari lit his last cigarette and whispered to Arif. “You know, Ibrahim, I always knew that I would not die a natural death.”

Arif was pale and shaking. He, too, lit a cigarette in the black room and drew heavily on it. He tried to make a joke. “I may die of a heart attack yet.” He drew again on the cigarette. “How are we going to work this?”

“I think there are two or three pistols. They will pass them around.”