By the Rivers of Babylon (43 page)

Laskov began walking again. “Let’s suppose that you wanted to get a message to a high-level recon craft. How would you do it without a radio?”

Talman thought a moment. “You mean a photographic message? Well, I’d make a big sign on the ground—you know. Or if that were impossible, or if the craft were very high and it was dark or overcast—or if there was a sandstorm, then I’d—I’d create a heat source, I suppose. But we saw those heat sources. They are not conclusive.”

“They
would
be if one of them were in the shape of the Star of David.”

“But there was no such shape.”

“But there was.”

“There wasn’t.”

Laskov seemed to be speaking to himself as he walked. “With all that brain power, I’m surprised no one thought of it. But that’s an arcane field—high-level infrared reconnaissance, I mean. Maybe they have a star waiting to be ignited if they
see
an aircraft. They don’t understand that if they lit it, it could be photographed from an aircraft for some time after it burned out. Dobkin and Burg should have thought of that. But I’m being too critical. It may very well be that there is no kerosene left, or for one reason or another they could not do it, or the kerosene was critical to make bombs. And why would they think anyone would make a recon over Babylon? I mean, why—”

Talman interrupted him. “Teddy, the point is that they did not ignite a Star of David or a message that said, ‘Here we are folks!’ or anything of the sort. Maybe they had no time before . . .” His voice trailed off. “Anyway, there is no such sign or mark.”

“If there
were . .
. ?”

“I’d be convinced. And so would most people.”

“Well, then we’ll have to look at the pictures that Air Force Intelligence didn’t think were worth sending over to the Prime Minister. I’m sure we’ll see the residual heat from a burning kerosene Star of David. It’s just a matter of knowing what you’re looking for—then you’ll see it.”

Talman stopped suddenly. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Are you insane?”

“Not at all.”

“Do you mean you would actually try to alter one of those photos?”

“Do you believe they are—or were—in Babylon?”

Talman believed it, but he didn’t know why. “Yes.”

“Do the ends justify the means?”

“No.”

“If your wife were there—or your daughters—would you think differently?”

Talman knew about Laskov and Miriam Bernstein. “No.”

Laskov nodded. Talman was not lying. He’d spent too many years among the British. Emotions played little or no part in his decision-making process. That was a good trait most of the time. But Laskov thought he should be a little more Jewish sometimes. “Will you promise to forget what I just said and go get some sleep?”

“No. In fact I feel it’s my duty to place you under arrest.”

Laskov put his big hands on Talman’s arms. “They’re dying in Babylon, Itzhak. I know it. The Russians
are
mystics and the Russian Jews are the worst of the lot. I can
see
them, I tell you. Last night I saw them in a dream. I saw Miriam Bernstein playing a zither—a harp—and crying by a stream. It was only before, in the café, that I understood what that meant. Do you think I’d lie to you about that? No. Of course you don’t. Itzhak, let me help them. Let me do what I must do. Forget what I told you. When you were my commander, you looked the other way for me once or twice—yes, yes, I know you did—don’t be flustered. Go home. Go home and sleep until noon, and when you wake up it will all be over. It will be a national celebration—or, yes, a tragedy—maybe even war. But what choice is there? Let me do this. I don’t care what happens to me afterwards. But let me walk away now.” He grasped Talman’s arms tightly at his sides.

Talman was uncomfortable with Laskov’s sudden intimacy, both physical and emotional. He made a small movement to indicate that he’d rather not be held, but Laskov would not release his grip. This was a crossroads for Talman, and he thought he could make the decision better if Laskov were standing off a bit. The Israelis stood too close, not as close as the Arabs, but close enough. Too close for Talman’s comfort. “Well . . .” But Laskov’s nearness made him . . . what? He could feel the man’s warmth, his breath . . . he could feel something pass through Laskov’s fingers and into his body. “I really . . .” This was terribly awkward. The man’s face was less than half a meter from his. And he could . . . feel what Laskov was feeling. “I . . . think I’ll go home. . . . No. . . . I’ll come with you. Yes, damn it! It’s insane, you know . . . insane, really . . . but I’ll help you. Yes!”

Laskov smiled slowly. Yes, he knew Talman as well as he thought he did. Even Talman could be moved. The dream was a nice touch. “Good.” He released Talman and stepped back. “Listen. I know an Air Force photo lab tech in Tel Aviv. We can pick him up on the way to the Citadel. He can make a storage dump look like a nude of Elizabeth Taylor if we want. He’ll do anything I say, with no questions asked.”

Talman nodded and they began walking again, almost running, back to the taxi rank outside the Prime Minister’s office. They jumped into a cab. “Tel Aviv,” said Laskov, out of breath. “National emergency!”

Benjamin Dobkin took the hand of Shear-jashub. They stood on the mud quay that jutted into the Euphrates. The entire village of a few dozen persons stood at the foot of the quay and watched them quietly. The moon revealed the dust clouds on the opposite shore. On this shore, the wind blew, but most of the dust fell into the river. The river itself was choppy, and small waves lapped against the quay. It would not be an easy crossing, nor would it be an easy journey on the land. Dobkin looked back at the old man. “Carry him out onto the mud flats for the jackals, and in the morning go about your business.”

The old man nodded politely. He didn’t need any instructions on how to survive. His village had survived for over two thousand years through episodes that were second to the European Holocaust only in scale. “May God go with you on your journey, Benjamin.”

Dobkin was wearing the bloodstained tiger fatigues and the
kheffiyah
of the dead Ashbal. The man himself would soon be in the bellies of the jackals, but Dobkin couldn’t get out of his mind
the troubled feeling that Rish would eventually come to this village to avenge Talib and would swiftly complete the job that two millennia of attrition had not completed. “Would your people want to come—to come home to Israel—if that could be arranged?”

Shear-jashub looked at Dobkin. “Jerusalem?”

“Yes. Jerusalem. Anywhere in Israel. Herzlya beach, if you want.” He could dimly understand what was going on in the old man’s mind. Israel to him was just a Biblical name, along with Judah and Zion. It was hardly a real place and had not much more meaning than Babylon had had to Dobkin two days before. “It’s a good place,” said Dobkin. “The land is good.” How the hell could he possibly bridge two millennia? Not only was the Hebrew different, but the concepts and values were worlds apart. “You may be in danger here.”

“We are always in danger here.”

What right did he have to hold out the promise of return to Jerusalem anyway? How could he deliver if they accepted? But he continued. “You have been in Babylon too long. It is time to go home.” He’d have to be insistent. They were like children, and they did not know how good it could be for them in Israel. And he did not like to see Jews living in subjugation. When he traveled and saw Jews in some countries keeping a low profile, it angered him and he wanted to scream to them, “Come home, you idiots! Come home and hold your heads up. There is a place for you now. We bought it for you with our blood.” He tightened his grip on the old rabbi’s hand. “Come home.”

Shear-jashub placed his free hand on Dobkin’s shoulder. “
Aluf
,” he began. “Have you come to lead us out of the Captivity? Or are you to be the unwitting instrument for our final destruction? Wait. Let me finish. In the Book it says, ‘Then rose up the chief of the fathers of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests, and the Levites, with all them whose spirit God had raised, to go up to build the house of the Lord which is Jerusalem.’ But God did not raise the spirit of my forefathers and they stayed. But let me tell you this, Benjamin. When this house of God of the returned exiles, the Second Temple, was also destroyed and the populace was dispersed and wandered the world, it was the Jews who had remained in Babylon who kept the flame of learning lit. Babylon, not Jerusalem, was the first city of Jewish learning and culture in those years. Israel will always need her exiles, Benjamin, in order to insure that there
will always be someone left to carry on the Law and to return to Jerusalem if it is ever again destroyed.” He smiled and his shiny brown face wrinkled in the moonlight. “I hope the spirit of God moves you someday to build the Third Temple. And if you do, remember this—if Jerusalem falls again, then there are always the Jews of the Diaspora, and even us of the Captivity, to return and build the Fourth.” He squeezed Dobkin’s hand and shoulder, then gently pushed him away. “Go, Benjamin. Go and complete your work. And when it is done, then perhaps we will speak again of Jerusalem.”

Dobkin turned quickly and walked to the end of the quay. He looked back over his shoulder and gave a half wave to the robed figures standing motionless in the moonlight. A sense of unreality came over him, not for the first time. The sights, sounds, and especially the smells of this place made it difficult for him to think rationally—to think like a twentieth century military man.

Dobkin stared down into the Euphrates. An odd-looking craft called a
gufa
sat in the river. It was no more than a large round basket, coated with the famous bitumen of Babylon. It looked as if it had just been freshly coated with the slime. It may have been a few days or a few thousand years old. Dobkin lowered his big frame into it, and it sank almost to the gunwales. A young man named Chislon jumped in after him, apparently without worrying about the few centimeters of freeboard remaining. The
gufa
bobbed dangerously low in the water, but finally settled with about ten centimeters of freeboard on Chislon’s side and about five on Dobkin’s. Chislon took a long pole from the quay, cast away the mooring rope, and pushed off.

Dobkin guessed correctly that the
gufa
was never used when the Euphrates was at high flood as it was now. Within minutes his guess was confirmed when he noticed that the pole was no longer touching bottom no matter how far over Chislon leaned. Chislon looked up and smiled at him several times.

The
gufa
picked up speed. Dobkin knew that they had to make a landfall on the opposite bank within two kilometers or they would overshoot the southern end of Babylon and he would have to backtrack on foot. He didn’t feel strong enough for that. He smiled at the young man who was trying to look very calm, but Dobkin could see that he was scared.

Another possibility that had nagged at Dobkin’s mind was to
go on to Hillah. They might help in Hillah. He could go directly to the Hillah garrison and explain the situation. They would call Baghdad. But the Hillah garrison or the local government people must know that something was going on in Babylon. Why, then, weren’t they investigating? He thought about it. The Jews had never completely trusted any outside group to show them charity or give them aid. They expected treachery and were not often disappointed. No, he should not go to Hillah. He should go to the guest house or the museum and get his hands on a telephone and call Israel That was where he could expect help. That was where there were people who cared if he and the rest lived or died—cared very much, in fact.

The
Sherji
blew over the water and what it lacked in sand, it made up for in velocity. The
gufa
bobbed and swayed and waves splashed over the gunwales on all sides. The round craft began to spin around like a top, and Dobkin was becoming nauseous. His groin ached and his thigh was on fire. He put his head over the side and vomited up his meal of hot lemon tea and an unidentifiable fish that was called
masgouf.

He felt better and leaned over the side and washed his face in the river. Chislon looked a little unwell also, he noticed.

Dobkin could see a few lights on the far bank and pointed to them.

“Kweirish,” said Chislon.

Dobkin was certain now that the young man was clearly worried about the weather. Westerners always had an inordinate faith in native guides, but the truth of the matter was that natives rarely or never did the things that Western adventurers expected they did as part of their routine. Undoubtedly, Chislon had never before had any reason to cross the Euphrates at full flood in the middle of the night when the
Sherji
was blowing.

Dobkin looked at both banks as they spun past him. On the east bank, great masses of dust veiled the land and blotted out the moon. He knew that this meant the last act would be unfolding on the hill long before the moon set.

The river bent below Kweirish and the
gufa
gathered more speed as it came out of its turn. The small craft was caught in the high-velocity water between narrowing banks. Chislon continued to feel for the bottom with the pole and almost caused the craft to be swamped as he leaned farther over the side.

Dobkin tried to estimate when their course would intersect the far shore. Ahead, the river made a turn westward, and if the
gufa
didn’t sink first, they might make landfall there. That should put them in the vicinity of the southernmost wall of the city. He would have to backtrack at last two kilometers to the Ishtar Gate and guest house. He wondered what he was going to do if he got there.

“Disasters and victories are very closely related,” observed Hausner.

Burg stuffed a few cigarette stubs into his pipe and lit it as only a nicotine addict can light tobacco in a driving wind.

Both men huddled in what was left of the trenches on the east slope. Sand drifted into the cut in the earth, bringing it slowly and inexorably back up to grade level.