By the Rivers of Babylon (6 page)

Khabbani removed his strapless old watch from his pocket and looked at it. In less than one hour, the VIP lounge should be full. Any time between then and takeoff was all right, according to his instructions. Khabbani considered. The terminal was actually a little beyond the maximum effective range of his mortars, but if the
Hamseen
held, he could reach it. If he did not reach the terminal, the rounds would fall short and land in the parking ramp where the Concordes would be. It didn’t matter. It was only necessary to cause an incident and have the flight canceled. Khabbani wasn’t sure he liked this thing he was doing. He shrugged.

One of his men gave a low call. Khabbani looked to where the man was pointing. Two Concordes, traveling in trail, were heading for Lod from the north. Khabbani studied them in his
field glasses. Such beautiful aircraft. He had read that they each held 113,000 kilograms of fuel. A quarter-million kilograms together. That would make an explosion that they would feel in Jerusalem.

The city of Lod, the ancient Lydda, baked in the early spring heat wave. The first
Hamseen
of the year was unusually early. The scorching, dry, Sirocco-like desert wind from the east blew across the city with increasing strength. The
Hamseen
would last a few days, then the weather would become balmy. According to Arab tradition, there were fifty such dog days a year—the Arabic word
Hamseen
meaning fifty. The only
Hamseen
that was welcome was the first, for with it, the wildflowers of the Judean and Samarian hills and fields opened and the air was thick with sweet scents.

At Lod International Airport, the tarmac shimmered. On the ramps, where the air liners were parked, an unusually large contingent of Israeli soldiers stood with their weapons slung. In the passenger terminal, security men in nondescript clothing and wearing sunglasses stood with newspapers held in front of them.

Throughout the day,
sherut
taxis and private cars, carrying well-dressed men and women, pulled up to the doors of the main terminal. The occupants were quickly ushered inside the
terminal and into the VIP lounge or the El Al Security office on the top floor.

At the far end of the field stood a cluster of military huts. Commandos in camouflage fatigues stood in various degrees of alertness. Behind the huts, a squadron of twelve American-made F-14 Tomcats stood on the concrete hardstands. Mechanics and armorers worked on the fighters and spoke to pilots and flight officers.

The road coming down from Jerusalem wound through Lod and the ancient Moslem quarter of Ramla on the way to Lod International Airport. Since morning, the inhabitants of Lod and Ramla had noticed the unusually heavy civilian and military traffic. In the past, such activity had been a prelude to yet another crisis. This time it was different.

In Lod, the Greek Orthodox Church of St. George was filled with Christian Arabs and other native Christians of indeterminate Crusader and Byzantine ancestry. No special service was being conducted, but people had come, drawn out of a sense of wanting to be in a special place with others—of wanting to participate in some small way in events that were to touch their lives.

In the city’s synagogues, men sat in small groups hours before the sundown service and spoke in quiet voices. In the market square, near St. George’s, Jewish women shopped for the Sabbath meal among the pitched stalls. There seemed to be a touch of lightheartedness in the bargaining and purchasing, more so than on a usual Friday afternoon, and people tarried in the market place much longer than was necessary to complete their business.

In Ramla, the square in front of the Great Mosque, Jami-el-Kebir, was crowded long before the Muezzin called the faithful to prayer.

The Arab market was as crowded, but noisier than the one in Lod. The Arabs, lingerers by nature, seemed more so as the market and streets filled with every manner of conveyance, from Land Rovers and Buicks to Arabian stallions and camels.

In Ramla Military Prison, Palestinian terrorists were able to hope that at least some of them might soon be free men.

The mood of Lod and Ramla was like that of the rest of Israel and the rest of the Middle East. Here in this part of the world, virtually every powerful, historical force had met at one time or another and had used the terrain as a battleground. Trying to
live in peace in this area, said one proverb, was like trying to sleep in the middle of a crossroad. Thousands of armies, millions of men, had marched over this small spot on the map known as the Holy Land. But more than just armies had met in those seemingly desolate hills and deserts. Ideologies and faiths had met, clashed, and left a legacy of blood. Nearly every culture in the East and West was represented by ruins, standing like gravestones over the countryside, or buried like corpses beneath it. It was difficult to dig in modern Israel without uncovering the ruins—and, mingled with the ruins, the bones.

Ramla and Lod typified the agonizing history of the ancient land; the divisiveness and the unity of modern Israel. They reflected the mood of the complex, multireligious state. Hope without celebration. Despair without weeping.

El Al’s Security Chief, Jacob Hausner, dropped the ornate French telephone receiver back into its cradle. He turned to his young assistant, Matti Yadin. “When are these bastards going to stop bothering me?”

“Which bastards, Chief?” asked Yadin.

Hausner brushed a speck from the top of his satinwood Louis XV desk. He had decorated his office out of his own funds, and he liked to keep it neat. He walked over to the big picture window that overlooked the aircraft parking ramp and opened the heavy velvet drapes. Fabric-fading sunlight poured in. “All of them.” He waved his arm to indicate the world at large. “That was The Citadel. They’re a little concerned.”

“I don’t blame them.”

Hausner regarded Yadin coolly for a second.

Yadin smiled, then looked at his boss with an expression of sympathy. It was a tough job at the best of times. For the past few weeks it had been hell for everyone in Security. He studied Hausner’s profile as the man stared out the window, lost in thought.

Jacob Hausner was a child of the Fifth
Aliya
, the fifth wave of immigration to Palestine. This
Aliya
had been made up mostly of German Jews who had left their old homeland to return to their more ancient one after Hitler came to power in 1933. They were a lucky or, perhaps, farsighted group. They had all escaped the holocaust in Europe while it was still possible to do so. They were also an affluent, well-educated group, and they had brought with them much-needed capital and skills. Many of
them had settled around the older German colony in the seaport of Haifa, and they prospered. Hausner’s early years were typical of the rich German Jews in Haifa during the prewar period.

When World War II broke out, Hausner, just seventeen, had joined MI-6, British Secret Intelligence Service. Being trained by the British in that occupation, he approached it in much the same fashion as his teachers—with the attitude of a dilettante. But also like so many British spies with this attitude, he was exceedingly good at his job. If he considered it only as a necessary wartime hobby, so much the better. He was a rich young man who looked and acted like anything but a spy, which was the idea.

Outside of Haifa, he easily passed as a German. The job called for a lot of party going and social climbing among the German colonies in Cairo and Istanbul, and Hausner was good at it. His mind grasped the most intricate details of that strange and shady business of leading two lives, and he loved it almost as much as he loved Chopin, Mozart, and
Sachertorten.

Hausner had joined a private British flying club in a fit of boredom before the war and had become one of the few licensed civilian pilots in Palestine. Between intelligence assignments, he pestered the British to let him log hours in Spitfires and Hurricanes so that he could keep his skills sharp.

After the war, he went to Europe and bought scrapped warplanes for the illegal Haganah Air Force. He had bought the first British Spitfire that General Laskov had flown in, but neither man was aware of the fact.

After the 1948 war, it was natural that Hausner, with a background of intelligence work and flying skill, should become one of El Al’s first security men.

Compared to most Jews who came of age during that period, his life had been one of relative ease. He now lived in Herzlya in a small villa on the Mediterranean. He kept a series of mistresses and more casual acquaintances there but still faithfully visited his family in Haifa on the religious days.

In appearance, he reminded most people of a European aristocrat. He had a thin, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and thick white hair.

Hausner looked at Yadin. “I hope they let me go on this flight.”

Yadin shook his head and smiled. “Who would they crucify if the planes blew up, Chief?”

"We don't use the words
blow up
in the same sentence as the word
plane,
Matti.” He smiled. He could afford to smile. Everything was going well. He had a perfect record and he saw no reason why Concordes 01 and 02 should spoil that record.

Matti Yadin got up and stretched. “Do we hear any rumblings from our intelligence services?”

Hausner kept staring out the window. “No. Our Palestinian friends are very quiet—whatever is left of them.”

“Too quiet?”

Hausner shrugged. He was a man who refused to make guesses based on no information. No news simply meant no news. He had faith in his country’s intelligence services. They had rarely failed him. If an insect hit any part of the web of Israeli Intelligence, the web quivered and the spider, at the center, felt it. Anything outside the web was too far removed to worry about.

Hausner drew the drapes and turned away from the window. He straightened his tie and jacket in a wall mirror, then walked across the office and opened the door into the adjoining conference room.

Yadin followed him and moved off toward the far wall, where he found a seat.

The conference room, which was crowded and noisy, became quiet. Everyone turned toward Hausner.

Around the large circular table sat some of the most powerful people in Israel. There was Chaim Mazar, head of Shin Beth, Israel’s Internal Security Service; Brigadier General Itzhak Talman, the Air Force Chief of Operations; General Benjamin Dobkin, representing the Army’s Chiefs of Staff; Miriam Bernstein, Deputy Minister of Transportation; and Isaac Burg, head of Mivtzan Elohim, “The Wrath of God,” the anti-terrorist group.

There were also five members of the Knesset present besides Bernstein. Along the walls, junior aides sat in chairs and a secretary was preparing to take notes at a small desk. Hausner came toward the table.

The group was an
ad hoc
committee put together to ensure the safety of the Concorde flight. One of their jobs was to question Hausner, and they meant to do it.

Hausner noticed that he was the only one present who was wearing a suit, as usual. He looked at Miriam Bernstein directly. Those eyes again. Nothing. Why, then, did he feel that she was
always judging him? And then there was her sexuality. Hausner did not wish to admit to himself that she did not so much
use
it as that it was simply there. A fact. A sensual woman. He looked away from her. Strictly speaking, the Minister of Transportation was his boss. Perhaps, he thought, that produced the tension. He remained standing and cleared his throat. “I agreed to be at this meeting so that we wouldn’t have any more doubts about my ability to get an airplane off the ground.” He held up his hand to stifle a half-dozen incipient protests. “Okay. Forget it.”

The sparsely decorated room was illuminated by a large picture window with the same view as from Hausner’s office. He walked to the window. At the far end of the parking ramps, away from the other planes, the two long, sleek Concordes, each with a Star of David on its tail, stood gleaming in the bright sunlight. Around the aircraft stood Hausner’s security guards, armed with Uzi submachine guns and sniper rifles. The army had sent over a ten-man squad of infantry, too, which did nothing to improve Hausner’s mood.

Everyone was conscious of the quiet. Hausner pointed dramatically. “There they are. Pride of the fleet. They cost a mere eighty million dollars each, with the spare tire and radio. We charge all passengers first-class fare, plus a twenty-percent surcharge, and yet we haven’t made a
shekel
from them, as you know.” He looked at Bernstein, who was one of his severest critics in the Knesset. “And you know one of the reasons El Al hasn’t made a profit? Because
I
demand the tightest security that is humanly possible. And good security has a high price.” Hausner moved a few feet down the length of the bright window. Squinting eyes followed him. “Some of you,” he began slowly, “were worried about profit a few short months ago, and you were willing to let security become lax because of it. Now, the same people,” he looked at Miriam Bernstein, “are concerned that I have not done enough.” Hausner walked back toward an empty seat and sat down. “O.K. Let’s get this over with.” He looked around the table. He spoke in a fast staccato voice. “We’ve had those birds on the line for thirteen months. Since the time that we got them, they have never left the sight of my security people. We’ve had the bulkheads and baggage holds armored while they were being built at the factories in St. Nazaire and Toulouse. All maintenance is done only by El Al mechanics here at Lod. Today, I personally checked the fuel
going into the craft. It was pure Jet A kerosene, I assure you. When we first got the Concordes, I demanded and got an auxiliary power unit installed in the front wheel well. The rest of the world’s Concordes have to be started by an external ground power unit. By installing the APU, I can dispense with two trucks going up to my birds at foreign airports—the preconditioned air truck and the ground power unit truck. We can start our own engines anywhere, any time, after which the birds are self-supportive. We took the extra weight penalty of the nine-hundred kilogram APU, as we’ve always taken the extra weight penalty in the name of security. You can’t make money that way, of course, but I won’t have it any other way. And neither will you.”