The Glory (21 page)

A stiff easterly wind was gusting in the Strait, and the gray swells were immense. The seasick sailors who had recovered during
the fueling once more moaned in their bunks. Flying no flags, the flotilla ran in tight formation, a line of three by a line
of two, overtaking here a freighter, there a tanker. The shores of the Strait kept narrowing like a funnel, until Gibraltar
lay dead ahead. A high signal station on the Rock began blinking the international Morse challenge:
What ship?

“No answer,” Kimche told Noah.

The boats ploughed on.

What ship? What ship?

“Well, Noah” — Kimche’s voice was tense and slightly amused — “this blows the Norway story, anyhow, doesn’t it? The Brits
can count to five. They know who we are.”

What ship? What ship? What ship?

The cloudy afternoon was fading to evening. The boats entered the narrows between the two continents, Africa to starboard,
Europe to port, the headlands four miles on either beam. The Gibraltar light ceased its queries, and the Cherbourg boats sped
into the Mediterranean Sea. Other vessels were slowly traversing the narrows, but no French warships were in sight.

“So far, so good,” said Kimche, whereupon the Gibraltar light began blinking at the flotilla again. “Now what? Still
What ship?
”

“No, sir.” Noah read the Morse code as it flickered in the gloom.
“Bon voyage. Bon voyage. Bon voyage.”

Kimche burst out laughing. “Translation,” he said, switching to a burlesque British accent,
“Jolly good show, lads, fucking the French.”

A
t the embassy, Zev Barak was comparing notes with Pasternak in Jerusalem via scrambler telephone. The Arab governments and
press were frothing at France and Norway. The French government was in an uproar, and certain high French officials, old acquaintances
of Mocca Limon from World War II days, were discreetly keeping the Israelis posted. President Pompidou was on Christmas holiday,
and when first informed that the boats had left for Norway, he had commented, “
Tant mieux!
If the papers were in order, good riddance!” But with the media explosion he was becoming concerned. His Defense Minister,
in great rage, wanted to send the air force to sink the flotilla; the converted grandson of a rabbi, he was eager to make
clear which side he was on. President Pompidou was not rushing into any action, but he was “requesting clarification” from
Israel and Norway, and from Panama; because Norway, in assuring the Arabs that it was in no way involved, had disclosed that
a Panamanian company was the purchaser, using a post office box in Oslo for reasons unknown.

At the press conference the French reporters, who had skipped their dinners en masse, fired hard questions about Norway’s
denial and the Panama development. Zev Barak, watching and taking notes, was delighted with Avi’s dimwitted performance. The
press secretary pointed out in somewhat floundering French that Israeli sources had never mentioned Norway. That was the doing
of Cherbourg officials, who had revealed the contents of customs documents to the press. His understanding was that a Panamanian
buyer had sent the boats to Norway for refitting, to service Alaskan oil rigs off the Canadian coast. Questions shot at him.

Why to Norway, of all places?

That was a question for the Panamanian embassy to answer.

Which Canadian and Alaskan companies were in the transaction?

The Canadian embassy might be helpful on that point.

Had Israel waived title and received repayment?

Israel was grieved by the unjust embargo, but financial details were not yet available. Israel was anxious to preserve cordial
relations with Canada, Norway, Panama, and France, and had only admiration for Alaska.

Where were the boats?

Apparently not in Cherbourg, therefore apparently somewhere at sea.

So it went, and at the end of the conference the reporters left baffled and muttering. Barak heard one say,
“C’est tout une blague juive.”
(“It’s all a Jewish joke.”) Avi had displayed such virtuoso stupidity, Barak later reported to Pasternak, that he might one
day be the government spokesman in Jerusalem.

The tension in the embassy eased when the BBC announced the sighting by a Greek freighter of five small unidentified vessels
heading east off the North African coast. “Well, then, they’re
through
, anyway,” the ambassador exulted.

“So am I,” muttered Barak, and he curled up on the ambassador’s couch and fell asleep. Not for long. When he opened his eyes,
the ambassador was shaking his shoulder. “Zev, top-secret message for you in the code room.” He stumbled down the corridor
and knocked on a door marked with a red security warning. A yawning coding officer, crushing a cigarette into a tray full
of butts, handed him a scrawled decode. By her smoke-shrouded lamp he read the message, and thrust it into the burn bag.

“You have the current NATO directory?” he asked the ambassador, who was in shirtsleeves in his office, shaking his head over
huge headlines in three Paris evening papers.

LES BATEAUX ONT PASSÉ GIBRALTAR

POMPIDOU ENRAGÉ

LA NORVÈGE “NE SAIT RIEN”

“Shelf behind my desk.”

Barak found a number for Brigadier General Halliday in the slender blue book. On second thought, he called Belgian information,
and obtained the phone number of an address in the town of Casteau. Emily had been writing to him from there.

A
n embassy girl who had assured him she knew exactly where the restaurant was drove Barak round and round the dark maze of
the Left Bank next night for an hour, chirping apologies. Our shlepper factor knows neither age nor sex, he thought, wishing
Pasternak had found someone other than himself for this chore. Bradford Halliday was not a man he could enjoy meeting. The
shadow of Emily lay across even their casual encounters. That Halliday was now her lord and master, so to say, and the father
of her twin girls, would not much allay the awkwardness.

The American general sat at a rear table of the dim little restaurant in a tweed jacket and bow tie. He gestured a welcome,
and Barak took a chair, saying, “Sorry I’m so late.”

“Hello there. This is a good family place,” said Halliday. “I think you’ll enjoy the food.”

“I appreciate your coming to Paris. I’d have gone to see you.”

“Better this way.” Brief look at Barak, cool and professional. “Quite a flap about those boats.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Can you talk about them?”

Policy from Pasternak: be as open as possible with the guy, but use your head
. “At last report they’re being shadowed by a Russian spy ship.”

“Trawler type?”

“Yes. They’ll change the fueling rendezvous and alter course at midnight, to try to shake him.”

A stout black-clad woman brought handwritten menus, with a smile at Halliday.
“Bon soir, Monsieur le General.”

“I recommend the veal here,” said Halliday.

“You order for both of us. But you’re my guest.”

“Doesn’t matter. Government business.” After a brief colloquy over the menu, the proprietress brought a dusty bottle, and
poured for them. “Try this wine,” Halliday said, sniffing it and holding it to the light. “It’s rather special.”

“Very nice.” Red wine like any other, to Barak’s discernment. “Let me drink to the health of your little twins. Are they well?”

“Thank you. Emily is well, too.”

(Try a smile.)
“She writes that they’re ‘ugly as sin.’ I don’t believe a word of it.”

No smile in return. “Yes, I know you correspond. Well, that’s Emily, warding off bad luck, like the Chinese. They’re very
pretty girls. The Russians won’t stop your boats, General, but what about the Egyptians?”

“We already have several missile boats in Haifa. Also Phantom air cover.”

“Well, then the mission should succeed.” Judicious pause. “A real coup.”

“Much too much publicity.”

“Yes, the press is a big pain in the ass.”

“It sure is.”
(He said “ass”! Progress. Human informality.)
Very long silence, the two generals looking at each other, Halliday evidently waiting for Barak to state his purpose. The
proprietress brought warm crusty bread and a thick soup. They fell to. After a while Halliday said, “Incidentally, though
it got no press, your waterborne armored raid across the Gulf of Suez, back in September, was a greater coup.”

“As it happens, Colonel Luria’s brother-in-law, Colonel Nitzan, led that raid.”

“Is that so? Hmm. Well done. Our intelligence was that not only did Nasser fire his Chief of Staff and chief of the air force,
but that it gave him a severe heart attack.”

Barak’s turn to nod without words. When they finished the soup he asked, “Do you know about Green Island, too?”

“Green Island?” Halliday wrinkled his broad brow. “Not offhand.”

“There’s a raid we didn’t publicize at all.” Barak described the operation in some detail, concluding, “We lost too many elite
fighters, but that stopped Egyptian cease-fire violations for a while.”

“When was this?”

“July.”

“Your special units are first class. But the effect didn’t last, did it?”

At this conversation-stopper the veal arrived, and they ate. “You’re right,” Barak said. “Good food.”

Halliday put down his knife and fork and leaned back. “Well, General Barak, here I am, at your service.”

“Okay.” Barak glanced around the restaurant; a few elderly couples at other tables, none within earshot. Still, he dropped
his voice. “This is about the Soviet P-12 radar.”

“Yes?” Noncommittal as a computer response.

“I’m sure your intelligence on it is good.” Not a word from Halliday. “But to be sure we’ll be talking about the same thing
— I mean the new low-level mobile system, range something like two hundred miles, top of the Soviet line.”

“Very well. That’s the P-12 radar.”

“We have one.”

“You have one
what?
”

“We have a P-12 radar. It’s at an air base in Sinai. My government has instructed me to tell you this, and to invite a secret
inspection. American inspection only, not NATO, no disclosure to the Europeans whatever.”

Halliday took the wine bottle and poured for himself, since Barak’s glass was still full. “Let me understand you, Barak. Are
you telling me you people have captured a P-12 radar from the Egyptians?”

“Well, we have it, as I said.”

“Now, we’re not talking about a Green Island operation — or are we? Is this the wreckage of a destroyed radar?”

“No. The Green Island radar was a much older system. This is the P-12, the Soviets’ newest and best. It’s undamaged, intact,
and complete. Except of course for the undercarriages. Those were just extra weight, and were detached.”

“How in God’s name did you get hold of a P-12 radar?”

“Well, that’s pretty sensitive.”

“I’ll withdraw the question.”

“You don’t have to. The original plan was, in fact, to destroy the radar. It was interfering with our airborne response to
the cease-fire violations. As you say, the Green Island effect didn’t last. Nor did the armored raid shock. But the leader
of the raiding force decided there was a chance to seize the equipment intact, and so they did.”

“By what means, if you can tell me?”

“I can. Two of your Sikorsky CH-53D helicopters picked up and brought back the installation. Seven tons of Soviet high-technology
air defense, General, in two sections. Barely made it, I may say. Complicated operation, some near-disasters, and some casualties,
but we have the thing.”

“By God, General Barak, you people are running a Wild West show out there.”

“En brera, we say. No choice.”

Halliday lit a cigar. “When did Israel acquire this radar?”

“Day before yesterday.”

Heavy eyebrows raised high. “We don’t rate our CH-53D with that lift capability.”

“Now you know. One machine lifted four tons. Almost crashed in the sea, but didn’t.”

Puffing at the cigar, Halliday looked him in the eye. “How long will you be in Paris?”

“Until I hear from you.”

“That will be soon.” The proprietress brought him the check, and he paid it, waving off Barak. “Emily has told me your son
is in the navy. Is he on one of those boats?”

“He is.”

“God bring him safe to shore.”

“Amen, and thank you.”

They stood up. “Can I give you a lift, Barak? I have a car and driver.”

“I’d better make my own way.”

“Perhaps you’d better. Goodbye, then.” A stiff handshake with a chilly hand.

As the boats approached Haifa on New Year’s Eve, with the whole world watching through circling airborne cameras, the embassy
in Paris was a very busy place. But the Norway charade was over, so Barak was strolling the dazzlingly lit Champs Élysées,
killing time before his appointment with Halliday, who had telephoned that he would meet him that night at the Hôtel Scribe.
On impulse he turned off to the Hôtel George Cinq, where in the lobby and the bar numerous Americans were making an early
start on their forlorn New Year’s Eve roistering. He went up to the deserted mezzanine, and sank into an armchair.

If year-end melancholy was in order then let it be real melancholy, to all the devils! Ah, that skittish Sorbonne nineteen-year-old
Emily, in a plaid skirt and fuzzy sweater, her hair a careless mop, with a bizarre crush on him which she had confessed right
here so long ago; Mrs. Bradford Halliday now, mother of twins in her mid-thirties! The chandeliers, the wallpaper, the furniture,
the very ashtray stands were the same. And he was almost all gray, much heavier, and stalled in his career near the top. Already
he was thinking of where to look in civilian life.

“Hi. All that’s missing is the woman feeding éclairs to her dog.”

“Good God.” He leaped up, looked around, and blurted the first thought that came to mind. “How the hell could you leave those
twins? They aren’t a year old.”