The Glory (6 page)

Barak seized the moment to ask Halliday about Noah’s missile countermeasures. The airman listened with a knitted brow. “Well,
you can get that so-called chaff on the open market. Window, we term it. It’s a question of seaborne chaff launchers, which
I wouldn’t know about. As for the electronic stuff, that’s my bailiwick, more or less, and in the air force it’s highly classified.”
He shrugged, shaking his head. “About the navy, I can’t say. Send me a personal letter, not through channels, and I’ll bump
it to a good navy contact.”

“That will be very helpful.”

The cold drizzle fogging Barak’s windshield seemed to be drizzling into his spirit as he drove back to the embassy, angered
by the turndown on the Skyhawks — though he had more or less anticipated it — and still hungry, for he had eaten nothing all
day but that spongy Pentagon bread. Halliday’s few words about Emily Cunningham had raked open a healing scar, bringing all
too frustratingly to mind that strange winsome daughter of a decidedly strange CIA official, cut off from him by her own decision;
the slender yielding body, the enormous clever bespectacled eyes, the disorderly halo of brown hair, the antic wit of her
talk and her letters, the whole snaring presence which she had had even as a girl of twelve. Now she was reaching for a life
beyond that of a girls school headmistress, and he could only welcome that, but he was discovering that loving two women —
and he loved his wife as much as ever — did not halve the pain of losing one of them.

He had first caught sight of Emily Cunningham as a gamine with a tennis racket, scampering onto her father’s patio, and later
presiding gravely at the dinner table in her mother’s absence; then showing him the fireflies on their lawn overlooking the
Potomac, and prattling precocious romantic nonsense. Long afterward, in their rare encounters in Paris and in Jerusalem while
she was studying at the Sorbonne, she had declared and insisted that she had an unshakeable crush on him. For long he had
tried to laugh it off. But her beguiling and hilarious “pen pal” letters over the years had brightened his dogged army career
and the constricted life in Israel. Then had come his missions to Washington, and the start of the affair. The unlucky assignment
as military attaché had led to his getting in deep with her and — who could say? — perhaps even missing the war on that account
…

Never mind, never
MIND
, stay off that quicksand …

He could more or less forget his breakup with that haunting woman in the drudging workload at the embassy, where the optimistic
turmoil of victory still yeasted and bubbled. And why not? The Zionist organizations were happily swelling with members and
funds, and clamoring for war-hero speakers like Dayan and Rabin; and these were not readily available, so the military attaché
and the ambassador were winging all over the country as tolerable substitutes. That night Barak had to fly to Chicago to address
a Zionist luncheon next day, and as he drove he was trying to work up some fresh angle for the talk, and to keep his thoughts
from circling back to Emily Cunningham.

What could he say in Chicago that was really new? By now he had a memorized act. Quick review of the victory, to smiles and
applause; cautionary words about enemy infractions of the cease-fire, about soldiers manning the Suez Canal line getting killed,
about terrorists infiltrating from Jordan to mine and booby-trap the kibbutz fields — not what American Jews wanted to hear,
so make that part short; then the exciting windup picturing Jerusalem and the West Bank after Moshe Dayan opened the borders,
Arabs pouring peacefully into Zion Square to gaze with wonder at the shopwindows, Israelis thronging through the Old City
bazaars to haggle for bargains and taste exotic foods, or joyriding in hordes to Jericho and Hebron, singing “Jerusalem of
Gold”; all leading up to his personal anecdote of the graybeard Jew in a fur hat and ear curls, walking beside him through
the Old City in a stream of Israelis on the way to the Western Wall, joyously exclaiming,
“
MOSHIAKH’S TZEITEN
!”
(“
MESSIANIC TIMES
!”) He would certainly use that surefire finish again, however far he was from believing it.

He found on his desk a garbled telephone message from one Leon Barkowe, something about a son in Israel whose car had been
confiscated. It took Barak a moment to recollect those distant Berkowitz relatives in Long Island whom he had not seen or
spoken to in years. Another major task for the military attaché! But family was family, and even if the name was now Barkowe,
a Berkowitz was a Berkowitz. He was about to return the call when a buzz on his intercom summoned him to the ambassador.

Abe Harman, a paunchy deathly pale man who sat in a perpetual slouch, and whose sleepy manner belied a razor-sharp alertness
to every nuance of America-Israel relations, greeted him with a groan. “Always something. My wife’s down with a stomach flu,
and she’s supposed to address a WIZO tea at the Mayflower this afternoon. She called me and said Nakhama should do it —”

“Nakhama? Abe, Nakhama’s never made a speech here, her English isn’t that good. Anyway, she’s no speaker, forget it!”

“Zev, I’ve already talked to Nakhama, and she jumped at it. Sorry, but at three hours’ notice I had little choice.” With a
foxy side-glance Harman added, “Will the world go under if she isn’t a big hit? What did you accomplish at the Pentagon?”

“In one word,
bopkess
[goat shit].”

“Ah, so the goats are still grazing there.” Harman heavily nodded. “Expected. Still, you lodged our protest against the breach
of contract. Americans believe in contracts, live by them. They’ll feel the pressure. So, you’re off to Chicago tonight? I’ve
got a major misery here at the Shoreham. Speech to a thousand Conservative rabbis. You’re sure you don’t mind about Nakhama?”

“Of course not. I’m surprised she’s doing it, that’s all.”

“Zev, just when you think you have them figured out, they cross you up.”

“Wisdom of Solomon, Ambassador,” said Barak, and he went back to his office, where he began a letter to Colonel Halliday about
missile countermeasures. He had not gotten far when a coding clerk phoned him. “Sir, General Pasternak is calling on the scrambler.”
It was like a red light flashing on an engine dial. Sam Pasternak, high in the Mossad and perhaps its secret head by now,
had not used the secure telephone since the end of the war. Hurrying to the coding room, Barak shut himself into the soundproof
booth, and Pasternak came through clearly.

“Zev? We have a serious development here.” Deep solemn Pasternak tones, no trace of his usual irony. “I’m sorry to be breaking
this news to you. The Egyptians have sunk the
Eilat
with a missile attack.” Barak caught his breath, and Pasternak went on briskly, “Don’t be too alarmed. Helicopters are out
there right now picking up survivors, lots of them. Patrol boats are speeding to the scene. Chances are very good that your
son is okay.”

“Where and when did this happen, Sam?”

“Off Port Said around sunset. The missiles came from the boats in the harbor, no question. Abe Harman and Gideon Rafael have
to be told right away.” Rafael was Israel’s ambassador to the United Nations. “The whole picture has changed, Zev. The balance
of forces has shifted, and we’re in a new situation. A new era.”

Words from the Book of Job flashed into Barak’s mind.
“The thing that I greatly feared has come upon me.”
He had on file the intelligence about the missile boats in Port Said, and the navy chart which showed where the destroyers
were patrolling off Egypt and Sinai. It had seemed to him a risky and provocative showing of the flag, and he had been concerned
about Noah in that spot, but sea strategy was not his business.

“Have you been monitoring the Egyptians?”

“Yes. They’ve picked up the distress and rescue signals, and they’ll call for a UN Security Council meeting tomorrow to claim
the ship was in their territorial waters. Which it wasn’t. They’re bubbling with joy.”

“Not for long,” Barak said.

“Well, that’s the big question now, how we respond. The Prime Minister is meeting now with Dayan and Foreign Minister Eban.”
The brisk dry tones of the intelligence man slowed and warmed. “I’ll stay in close touch, Zev. I’ll track the survivor list
and let you know any news of Noah, the minute I hear.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

That was like Pasternak. Their friendship went far back to service together in a paramilitary youth group. Sam was a Czech
by birth, the toughest of the tough, yet in his way a good Jewish boy, devoted to his mother and sisters, if not to an estranged
wife. They had come a long way together in the army, before Sam had detoured into the Mossad.

Ambassador Harman’s pouched eyes reddened and his pallid face turned a shade grayer when Barak told him the news. He said
with a thick sigh, “So they haven’t learned their lesson yet? Well, they will, believe me. I hope your son is all right. Ah,
Zev, what a sad, sad business.” He gestured at a typescript on his desk. “My speech is out the window. My title was ‘The Coming
Peace.’ I meant every word, too.” Narrowing his eyes, the ambassador went on slowly, half to himself, “I may be hearing from
the State Department any minute. From senators, from Jewish leaders. Maybe I should call Dean Rusk myself. I’ll think about
that. Let me have a quick military analysis, Zev, the complications, the reprisal options. Something I can have in hand —”

“At once, Ambassador.”

First Barak called Gideon Rafael in New York. Taking the news in stride, the UN ambassador asked businesslike questions about
the attack, and said he would summon his staff that evening to plan Security Council tactics. On Barak’s desk lay the start
of his letter to Halliday. Too late, too late! He had an impulse to tear it up, but at that moment Nakhama came in. She wore
a dark gray suit, and a feathered red hat was perched on her thick glossy black hair. “Like my hat? Zena Harman said the women
at these things all wear hats. I just bought it at Garfinkel’s. It was on sale. It isn’t too much? Too
red
? Is the feather too silly?”

Should he tell her of the sinking? She was made up as for a party, and her eyes snapped with excitement. The idea of substituting
for the brilliant Zena Harman had put her in high spirits. “It’s a nice hat. What will you talk about?”

“About Noah. You know, how it feels to be a mother of a son fighting for Israel. About how we reacted when he first showed
up in uniform. How we worried during the war, and were so glad when it was over. And for a laugh, about his capturing a fortress
with nobody in it. How does that sound? Too personal?”

Rapid estimate before answering her: the tea should be over by five, the hatted ladies heading home for dinner. Even if the
Egyptians claimed the sinking in the next hour or two, it would not make the network news right away. “Well, the question
is, are you nervous?”

Nakhama threw back her head and laughed, and the hat fell off. “L’Azazel, how I hate hats!” she said, retrieving it. “Nervous?
Why? It’ll be fun. What have I got to lose? Don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you. Where is there a mirror?” She plopped the hat
on her head, tilted it, and it looked very chic. “How’s that?”

For answer, impelled by a pulse of love for her, he came and kissed his wife. Why panic her? Noah might well be in a helicopter
right now, soaking wet but safe. That she was prettier than Emily Cunningham was an old story, but she was rarely this animated
nowadays. Twenty-three years ago the sort of sweet faintly mischievous charm with which she now glowed had bewitched him into
marrying a Moroccan waitress after knowing her for a week, over his parents’ anguished objections. “Well, it sounds like a
first-class speech. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Poor Zev, off to Chicago tonight, aren’t you? Will you have time to eat at home first? Galia and Ruti volunteered
to cook dinner.”

“That’s a novelty I won’t miss.”

When she left it lacked a few minutes of three. He turned on his desk radio, and listened tensely to the bulletins. Not a
word about the Middle East. Fine. The letter regarding the countermeasures still lay before him, and tearing it up, he realized,
would be foolish. The
Jaffa
still sailed, and missiles could hit torpedo boats and patrol craft as well.

Awareness bore in on Barak that not only had the war with the Arabs entered a new phase; so had warfare at sea. No vessel
had ever been sunk by a ship-to-ship missile until now, nor had any western country even tested such a weapon. Russia, the
arsenal of the Arabs, had leaped at a stroke into the world lead in waterborne missile combat. Hard times ahead for Noah’s
navy, and a major shock on the global scene. The Soviet Union’s massive edge in land armies was balanced off by superior American
air and sea forces; but the Styx was suddenly a proven threat to the Sixth Fleet, and for that matter to all of NATO’s surface
warships.

Meantime, the wait for news. Zev’s father had told him more than once that his hair had begun to turn white during the long
silences of Zev’s service in the British army, fighting Rommel in North Africa. At the time Zev, in the flush of soldierly
youth, had shrugged off the old man’s anxiety with some amusement; and now he was the old man worrying about his son. It had
all happened fast. Who could have predicted that Noah would be hit at sea, by the first Arab blow after the Six-Day War? Nobody
would be mothballing uniforms soon, that was now clear.

And what to say tomorrow in Chicago? By then the Egyptian coup would certainly be in the news. His standard act required drastic
revision, and
“Messianic times”
was out for sure. On the other hand, it occurred to him that in this changed picture the forty-eight Skyhawks might be forthcoming.

He began scrawling rapidly in his clear Hebrew script on the green pad.

Sinking of the
Eilat —
Implications and Options

Egypt is militarily prostrate. In reprisal for this attack on the
Eilat
, our air force can sink every single Egyptian naval vessel afloat. It can level any targets in Egypt, from military bases
to whole cities. Our armor forces can roll unchecked to Cairo. How then could Colonel Nasser have dared to violate the cease-fire
with such a major act of war? Is it suicidal lunacy?