Weapons of the Prophets

CHAPTER 1

JOURNEY, 1980

It was three-thirty a.m. The street in front of the Pilgrim Hotel just outside the old walled city of Jerusalem was dark and quiet except for the engine roar of a large red and cream colored Mercedes motorbus driven by a slight built young man in traditional Jordanian red and white keffiya head dress, loose cotton shirt and plain brown polyester pants.

The driver was exited and nervous. Today, he thought, I will either die or change my life forever. His mind was bursting with emotion, still fresh from the inspired briefing he had received last evening. Enlisted as a warrior in the secret army of liberation, his opportunity to become a founder of the new State of Palestine was at hand.

He steered the bus toward the front steps of the hotel and stopped abruptly at the stoop. Wake up, little brother! called the driver. It’s time to go to work.

In a seat near the back of the bus a young lad sat up, rubbing his eyes. I’m ready, Samir.

Without moving from his seat the driver pushed a control button to open the door. The younger one, hardly more than eight years old jumped down to the sidewalk. He carried a whisk broom and a small Oriental rug mat. Cleaning an area of sidewalk by the door he spread the mat onto the foot-worn curb and gestured to the driver.

Okay Samir.

Samir lit the interior lights and inspected the bus for cleanliness then stepped down from the bus onto the mat. He gave a nod of approval to his subordinate.

A rattle of chain and keys against glass and metal was heard as the hotel clerk opened the Pilgrim’s front door. Good day, Samir! the clerk giving the driver a little bow. Allah is good!

He strode in silence past the boy who showed displeasure at being snubbed.

Samir acknowledged the greeting with the customary gesture then leaned against the bus. The clerk stopped at Samir’s side and spoke to him in a low voice. Here, add this to your surprise package for our friends in Sinai. The clerk placed an old U.S. Army issue .45 caliber automatic pistol into Samir’s hand. Samir grinned broadly. He opened the luggage compartment and stooped inside. He pushed aside a false panel and stashed the weapon out of sight.

Take good care of it, Samir. said the clerk. It cost me a month’s pay.

Samir crawled out of the compartment and looked nervously around. He noticed the first of his passengers gathering in the hotel lobby. He double checked to see that the false panel was secure. Don’t worry, he answered. My passengers always get the best treatment.

A smallish fully bearded man in Greek Orthodox monastic black mantle and cassock came out of the hotel. He was followed by several old ladies cackling in Greek. They were bothering the monk with irrelevant questions all shouted at once.

Please, my dears calm down. Be quiet, said the monk, in English. He waved at them with an authoritative gesture. It’s bad enough that we have to start in the middle of the night to make it to Sinai today, but you don’t need to wake up the neighborhood.

The monk turned toward Samir. So, you are the driver for today?

Yes sir, Father. I am Samir, he said tossing a half smoked cigarette in the gutter and coming to attention.

Do you have children? the monk asked. Without waiting for a reply he patted Samir’s young helper on the head. And who is this fine lad?

This is my brother Ali, Samir replied with a grin. I have seven children.

The monk fished in his pocket. Here, take this for your children. The monk pressed seven crisp five dollar bills into Samir’s hand, then a ten.

Samir held the fives in one hand and the ten in the other. He held up the ten. The monk answered his quizzical look. For your wife, he said.

You are most kind, Father.

And this is for you, our excellent driver! the monk said handing Samir a twenty.

Yes, okay, thank you Father, Samir replied with a broad grin and a small bow.

You are from Greece? asked Samir.

No, we are from America. Boston, the monk replied.

Samir began loading luggage. He was vaguely puzzled. Not many Americans were even aware of baksheesh, the intricate system of palm-greasing required to assure good service in this part of the world. Even fewer knew how to use the system effectively. He reasoned that this father had spent some time in Jerusalem before. He also knew that the money was only a down-payment. More would come at the end of a successful trip.

Wait. Where’s your little brother? the monk called as if he had forgotten something.

Ali hustled to stand directly in front of the monk and held out his hand expectantly.

Oh my dear lad, I almost forgot you my little friend. Here, keep this. The monk pressed a piece of wrapped hard candy into Ali’s hand. The lad’s face brightened slightly. Then a five dollar bill dropped on top of the candy.

Thank you Father. Excellent! said the boy, imitating Samir’s words. He glanced proudly at his big brother then began furiously sweeping the sidewalk around the door mat.

Standing by the passenger door Samir oversaw the loading of the bus. This would be his first trip with a load of contraband. In a way he wished that this monk had been like the usual arrogant American clergy he usually had to endure on these trips. But this monk was different. He hoped this drive would go well for his own sake and for the sake of this kind holy man.

Finally with everyone on board, as if on cue a car sped up to the curb and parked in front of the bus. A short Arab man with a black briefcase stepped out and approached the monk. Ah, good morning Father Arsenius, How are you this day?

Hello, Mister Yuseef. Glory be to God I am well. I suppose you’re here to make sure we’re happy. The monk knew that his first challenge of the day now faced him.

Well there is a small matter that I must straighten out with you now, Father.

Father Arsenius feigned surprise. Oh? What small matter might that be?

With everyone on board the bus and anxious to get started Yuseef knew that this was the proper moment to exert the squeeze. Father, there have been some difficulties with the passports. The Egyptians sent a telex that you may not be allowed to cross the new border today. He was referring to the temporary border station about twenty kilometers from their destination, St. Catherine’s monastery at the foot of Mount Sinai. Of course I can set it straight, Yuseef continued, but I will need to do a lot of work while you are traveling and...

And you will need more money? interrupted Father Arsenius anticipating the argument which he had experienced so many times before.

Yes, yes a lot more money. Not for me of course but for expenses! The bureaucrats and the agencies and...

No! said the monk emphatically. Not one shekel more! We have an agreement Mister Yuseef!

Samir leaned back against the bus and casually lit another cigarette while the inevitable haggling ensued. He tried to appear disinterested but secretly strained his senses to hear.

What he could about Egyptian border guard activity. This might not be the day to try his luck at smuggling.

Just give us the passports with all the visas and we will handle the border crossing, said Father Arsenius with an exasperated expression. He directed a younger monk to take the briefcase that held the papers. The monk sorted and checked the papers while Yuseef made a hasty retreat, realizing that he might lose the whole deal if he pushed any harder.

Finally when all was judged to be in order Father Arsenius turned to Samir. Please, let’s get going. It’s a long ride, he said.

It was now about four a.m. Samir pulled the bus away from the curb working hard at the wheel. The big machine lumbered through the narrow streets, a noisy behemoth.

The first hints of dawn shed an almost spiritual glow on the Old City of Jerusalem and its environs. Near the Sheep’s Gate the bus slipped onto the main road and began to descend towards the Kedron valley. The Moslem chanters began their plaintive call to morning prayers through blaring loudspeakers atop their mosques. Ahlaaaaaaah is Goooood! they droned in the whine and wail of Islamic chant. It is better to praaaay than to sleeeeep!

The bus passed Gethsemane and climbed out of the Kedron valley around the edge of the Mount of Olives toward Bethany. Soon it was on open road heading through small Arab towns toward the Palestinian desert and the Jericho road.

On the side of the highway a work gang of laborers was gathering for their day’s work on the roadbed. Bent, dark skinned Arab men with calloused and dusty hands would spend the hot day in constant toil. How fortunate I am to be a driver, thought Samir as he waved to the workers as if they were comrades. He had just received more in baksheesh than these poor ones would make in two weeks.

The bus passed by a Christian Orphanage and school. Two of Samir’s children would soon arrive at this school for their lessons. He considered how lucky he was to have them enrolled there. Many more children applied for that school than could possibly be accommodated by the staff and facilities, mostly Muslim children. Their families preferred to send them to this place where Arabic was spoken and taught. It was better than sending them to public schools that taught the Israeli version of history, in Hebrew. Many Palestinians paid more than half their income to keep their children from the ‘poison’ of Jewish culture, even at the risk of exposing them to ‘infidel’ Christian values.

Now only open road and desert sand were visible ahead. The rising sun cast a multicolored glow over the Palestinian desert. They were constantly descending now, headed down the Jericho road towards the Dead Sea several hundred feet below sea level. Samir knew they would soon approach the first of many Israeli Army checkpoints: Barriers of sharp tire-piercing spikes staggered so that vehicles could only pass at a crawl. Most who passed here would be stopped for questioning and searches by the soldiers. His nerves tightened.

Samir had made this run ten times in the past thirty days noting carefully the questions, search patterns and approximate locations of these movable roadblocks. But this was the first run he had made with precious cargo. In the seats he carried a cargo of U.S. tourists making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Mount Sinai. Underneath them he carried a cargo of M-16 assault rifles stolen from the Israelis, AK-47’s purchased from the Red Chinese, ammunition and grenades smuggled from various points around the world. Several times today Samir and his little brother would face potential arrest and death. Today his passengers these pilgrims could be blown to their heavenly reward by a mere traffic accident. Today, a tiny piece of history might be written in this tattered land.

Father Arsenius began talking with Samir from his seat directly behind the driver’s. He was keen to establish a rapport. Things could really get tough in the Sinai desert, as he knew from experience. Between the washboard dirt roads, the unmerciful heat and dust, the Egyptian soldiers, the Israeli soldiers and the Bedouin, the bus ride could turn into a very unpleasant experience. Having a willing and friendly driver was important.

After some semiformal and guarded exchanges about family and even some acquaintances they had in common, they progressed to more personal talk about common beliefs and aspirations along with some very clever allusions to Israelis as oppressors. Soon they were chatting like two old friends and Father Arsenius knew he had accomplished his goal. I’ve heard that there were heavy rains last week in Sinai, the monk said. Are there washouts?

One of the drivers returning from St. Catherine told me yesterday that the roads are impassible in spots. His bus became stuck several times. But I am a good driver, my Father. I’ll get you through! Samir was not really sure they could get through but he was not about to hesitate trying since this was his very first mission for the Palestinian People’s Army, the PPA. He was not going to let his apprehension show to the monk.

The sun was just beginning to glow from behind a line of hills to the east as they passed down a long straight stretch toward an army roadblock. Samir slowed the bus and stopped at the place indicated for tourist busses. A few sleepy-looking young soldiers were loitering around, their weapons loosely slung over their shoulders. A small military truck was parked just off the road. At the far side of the truck several other soldiers sat around a campfire taking psychological refuge from the cold desert night air. Soon the fire would be more hindrance than help as the sun quickly heated the sand, so the glowing embers were being allowed to die.

One of the soldiers stepped forward to the open door of the bus holding his M-16 with both hands. He motioned with the gun for Samir to step down. The soldier asked him a few questions in Hebrew, which Samir understood. Samir answered them in Arabic, which the soldier understood. They spoke in low even tones, perhaps out of deference to the passengers or maybe because of the early hour and the natural quiet of the desert. After a few minutes the soldier motioned to two of his comrades who stepped aboard the bus. They walked up and down the aisle scanning the faces of old ladies half-asleep, young children wide-eyed at the rifles and others trying to appear nonchalant but inwardly nervous. It was as if the mere presence of the soldiers accused them. And they felt guilty, criminals of an unspecified nature, somehow unclean.

Father Arsenius broke the silence. Shalom, he said to one of the intruders, purposely using the Hebrew greeting.

Shalom, spoke the polite but official sound of the soldier’s young voice.

Father Arsenius noticed that outside the bus Samir and his little brother were handing their Jordanian passports to the other soldier. Do you wish to see our passports? asked the monk.

No, said the soldier. You’re all Greeks?

We’re Americans. Of Greek extraction mostly, the monk replied.

Where are you going? asked the soldier.

Father Arsenius knew that the soldiers would cross-check his replies with those of Samir. We are going to Saint Catherine’s Monastery in Sinai, he replied

Then you pass out of Israel, said the soldier.

Yes.

This day, said the soldier, half asking and half declaring.

Yes, this day, said Father Arsenius.

Really you know, you should stay overnight at Eilat, the soldier said. It is very pleasant and the swimming is great.

Well, I don’t swim and I say my prayers better in the desert.

The soldier seemed not to notice the monk’s retort. The officer interrogating Samir and Ali had finished and was motioning for the other two to get out of the bus. The two soldiers walked slowly to the door.

Shalom, they said.

Shalom, good-bye, murmured a few of the passengers. Samir, still tense closed the door and moved the bus slowly through the barriers, around the truck and the other soldiers. Finally the bus began to pick up speed. A relaxed expression slowly returned to Samir’s face.

The bus soon approached the only fork in the road since clearing Jerusalem. The left fork went to Jericho. The right fork went toward Eilat, through the Negev Desert.

Samir swung the bus to the right and resumed speed. The sun was higher now and the air was becoming uncomfortable in spite of the few open windows. Samir decided to keep the air conditioning off as long as the passengers didn’t complain. Less to go wrong, less to cause a stop that might arouse suspicion. The trip became more boring now, desert scenes flowing by the bus in constant repetition. Many of the tourists dozed-off, a few sang songs. The monks said their prayers. Samir and Ali conversed in animated Arabic punctuated with laughter.

After two hours the scenery began to change. Here and there a sudden brilliant splash of bright green landscape would burst into view. Its presence amid the drabness of the desert was almost offensive to the eye at first. The Israelis had toiled here for years, turning this wasteland into productive farmland through the dual miracles of modern irrigation and hard work. Both were accomplished by the thousands of kibbutzim, young commune workers whom the Jews brought here from all over the world as well as from the native Israeli citizenry. Every respectable Jewish family in Long Island it seemed had at least one teenager working here on behalf of Eretz-Israel, the homeland longed for through many generations in Diaspora. Among American Jews, it was a status symbol.

The bus rolled in to a crossroads oasis that boasted shade trees, a restaurant and the now much needed restrooms. The passengers got out to stretch and lounge around, eating the box lunches packed for them in Jerusalem. The intense heat of the sun immediately gave way to the coolness of shady areas with picnic benches under the trees.

Suddenly a jeep carrying two armed soldiers sped into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in front of Samir’s bus. One of them, a young officer, got out and banged on the side of the bus near the door which Samir quickly opened. He was frightened. He recognized them from the group of soldiers at the road block eighty miles back. Images of arrest and death flashed in his mind. How did they know? What had they seen? The officer asked for Samir Bakhar Ali Mahmet, his full and formal name, as if reading from a warrant. Samir blanched.

Father Arsenius was just approaching the bus as the soldier proclaimed the full family name of the driver. His heart jumped and he stopped in his tracks. Would he lose the driver to an arrest? How would he get the pilgrims to Sinai?

Samir stood at attention before the soldier and replied that he was the person named.

Give me your passport, the soldier demanded.

Samir fumbled in his clothes, his mind racing. Should he run? Should he try to kill at least this one soldier so his life which seemed about to end would not be wasted? He was just deciding to try the latter when his hands surprised him by producing the passport. The soldier opened it to check the name.

Samir eyed the other soldier, who had moved just to his left and a little behind him. He could get that one quickly with his arm around the throat. Then he could grab the pistol loosely slung in the officer’s holster. With any luck he could kill them both and make a run for it into the desert.

The officer glanced around. He was trained to be constantly aware of all surroundings regardless of any expectation of danger. Father Arsenius, staring at the confrontation began to move slowly toward the bus. The officer took a small step backwards, his instinct prodding him to keep all moving bodies within his field of view. Samir felt a heightened sense of panic. He did not mind dying for the just cause of his countrymen but he didn’t want to see harm come to this kind monk. He had to move now, before Father Arsenius got close enough to be in harm’s way.

Where’s your brother? the officer demanded.

What do you want of him? Samir managed to say. The complexity of the situation was now getting hard for Samir to handle.

Your brother needs to learn that his passport is very important to him, said the officer gruffly, reaching into his shirt. He held out Ali’s passport. We had to chase you for two hours in this heat! Without this you’d have lots of trouble at the border in Eilat. Your passengers don’t deserve the obvious result of his stupidity. Where is he? I want to give him a lecture so he’ll remember to take better care.

I’ll get him right away, said Samir in a shaky voice. Suddenly drained of adrenaline, he tried not to let his rubbery legs show as he walked toward the shady grove behind the bus.

Waiting for Samir to return with his brother the soldier nodded to Father Arsenius who had now come close enough to converse. These young Arabs have no sense of responsibility, he said. "You should reprimand the driver. You know father, they would turn you away at the border and maybe even confiscate the bus. You never know what those Egyptians will do.

Thank you for your concern, said Father Arsenius. He wondered what was behind the inordinate fright that he was sure he had perceived in Samir’s eyes.

Samir soon returned with the young offender. The officer gave Ali a dressing down that could only have been learned in tough military training such as that received by the Israeli Defense Forces. The lad received it sheepishly and without comment. He knew he would soon face even more severe verbal abuse from his older brother.

Hours later the bus approached Eilat, on the Gulf of Aquaba. It was a tourist center and the only Israeli port providing access to the Red Sea. Only a few miles from Jordan, this small city and the region around it provide military basing and a defensive buffer. Without it the IDF could not afford incursions into Golan or Lebanon without leaving their rear seriously weakened. Without Eilat the constant psychological threat by Israeli gunboats to keep Jordan quiescent would be neutralized. The border would soon change as a result of Israel’s decision to give Sinai back to Egypt. Maintaining Eilat was the key to keeping the delicate balance of power in the Middle East where subtle changes can bring drastic effects.

CHAPTER-2

SAND, 1980

After rumbling through the outskirts of Eilat and passing easily through the IDF checkpoint just outside the city, Samir slowed the bus and turned in at a small roadside area which contained a fuel station, shady grove and necessary facilities. Samir asked everyone to get out and stretch since this would be the last stop for several hours and he wanted a mechanic to check the bus before they left paved road.

As soon as the bus was empty Samir wheeled it behind the service area and stopped in the shade. Soon he was joined by two other men wearing mechanic’s jumpsuits. They began to check tires and fluid levels. One of them climbed into the luggage storage area. He pushed some pieces out to the ground and moved others to gain access to the rear of the compartment. There he removed a small panel and disappeared through the opening. He soon emerged from the manhole, replaced the panel and repacked the luggage.

When the compartment was once again secured from the outside, the mechanic walked slowly towards Samir who was speaking in relaxed tones with the other mechanic. Is it all in order? asked Samir.

Yes, it’s okay. I added some extra things that we have recently acquired. One is a brand new Makarov pistol, Red Army issue. It’s a present for Mahmoud.

The other man interrupted. Be careful in the desert, Samir. I hear that the flash flood last week washed the road out just where the rise starts up the dry river bed by the border. Then he added, You’d better get moving before they stop you. Yesterday the soldiers on afternoon watch turned back all the busses.

I’ll be careful. Will Mahmoud be at Saint Catherine’s?

Yes he’s there now, at the Mosque. Did you know Sadat was there last month? He’s making political gains in the eyes of the world by negotiating the return of Sinai to Egypt. Soon even this ground we are standing on will be part of Egypt!

And when the border moves here, we will make some gains of our own, eh my friend? said Samir. He patted the mechanic on the back, who nodded assent.

Samir and the mechanic now checked out the various systems on the bus especially the air conditioning which would become a necessity in the afternoon desert sun.

The tourists were loaded again and Samir rolled on open road toward the point where they would leave the paved road. His mind kept reviewing his remaining agenda. Only one more road block and then the border station remained. His only other concern was the seventy kilometers of bad and washed out road to be negotiated without blowing the bus to kingdom come.

Soon Samir turned the bus away from the pavement and struck out across a desert road of hard packed gravel. It was a washboard, full of potholes and ridges that constantly shook the big vehicle and everything in it. Dust crept in through the rattling windows even though they were closed and locked. The air conditioning began to lose ground to the hot desert sun. The passengers fell silent, leaving off the singing and boisterous chatter of the easier morning travel. The noise from the rattling drowned out most attempts at communication. They were all getting sweaty and dirty and wishing that this part of the trip would soon be over.

Here and there along the way, the remains of trucks and military vehicles of the nineteen-forties could be seen half buried in the sand and dust. They had long since been stripped of anything useful but they still kept their shapes, hardly even rusted. The desert seemed to have a way of preserving such relics. They appeared as dinosaurs preserved by some ice age freeze, only to be thawed and put on display as if still ready to move. But now they were just the habitation of wasps, snakes and birds along with the tormented spirits of those who had died victims of personal valor, some General’s incompetence or political expedience.

The bus raised its cloud of dust through a tiny Israeli settlement that resembled a desert version of some little run-down Appalachian town. No sense trying to improve real estate that would soon be handed over to your enemy.

The road rose now into hills, following dry creek beds and finally a wider dry river bed up towards the mountains of Sinai. Samir began fighting the effects of the recent flash flood. When it rained in Sinai, it really poured. Several inches of rain could fall in the space of an hour or two then rain would not come again for months. The run-off from those deluges brought five foot walls of water and debris racing down the riverbeds washing out anything in their path and finally spilling out onto the flat plain to dry up. Where the riverbeds bent, the inside of the turn was washed to hardpan while the outside of the turn became piled high with soft mushy sand deposited by the torrent.

Samir wrestled the bus up the dry side of these areas to keep his wheels on dry ground. The bus rocked violently back and forth. Most of the pilgrims became busy with their prayer ropes, hoping to obtain divine guidance for their driver.

The bus rounded a turn into a flat spot between two rises. The way ahead was completely covered side to side with thick sand. Samir, wide-eyed, downshifted and floored the powerful diesel engine. The bus smashed into the sand and gradually slowed to a crawl. Thirty yards from the return to hard ground the big vehicle stopped and dug holes in the sand with its big double rear wheels. Samir tried to rock it out slamming gears until the smell of burning clutch plate fibers told him it was hopeless. He got out to survey the situation, joined by Father Arsenius and the young monk.

After some discussion they organized the tourists into two groups. The men and older boys would push the bus. The women and children, along with the older men would lighten the bus by walking. Shovels appeared from a storage compartment and several young men found some shards of plywood and some rocks. After much hard work in the boiling sun the plan finally began to work and the bus inched its way toward hard ground. Finally as the bus rocked its way onto the hard surface the women gave a little cheer.

Samir’s brother Ali had been sent to scout the road ahead. He reported that there was an endless series of such traps as far as he was able to see ahead.

Samir figured they were about thirty kilometers from Saint Catherine’s monastery. He was terrified at the thought of being stranded out here in a bus loaded with illegal arms. Discovery would surely mean his death. He was also afraid to return to Eilat. The IDF there had the habit of making extremely thorough searches of idle vehicles.

After several minutes of solitary contemplation, he summoned Father Arsenius. Father, he began, You must make it to Saint Catherine’s today, yes?

If you think we can, by all means yes, said the monk. We have no place to stay in Eilat and we can’t afford the big resort hotels at the beach. But your bus, Samir, what if you ruin your bus? He knew that Yuseef would hold Samir personally responsible for damage.

For any other I would turn back, Samir said emphatically with a typical Arab air of finality. His face then changed to an expression that signaled egalitarian self-sacrifice, But for you, my Father, for you I will go on. Samir paused, knowing he was in control.

The monk thanked him profusely and began herding the passengers back onto the bus. Samir smiled inwardly. He now knew these pilgrims would push his load of arms all the way to Egypt if necessary.

Samir revved the bus and started up the road with new determination. He successfully negotiated three more patches of deep sand. Then he found a narrow strip of hard ground that pitched the bus at a constant twenty degrees to the right side. He slid along at this dangerous angle for about two kilometers thoroughly frightening the passengers. He knew that soon the road would begin to rise sharply. Then he could make his way by splaying from side to side again all the way to the border station.

One last wide strip of sand suddenly loomed up. He stopped the bus and got out to have a look at the lay of the land. There had to be a route through. About half way across and to his left was an abandoned bus. He recognized it as one belonging to the Israeli tour bus service. It was buried up to the frame. All four wheels had sunk squarely into the mush. The sand near this stranded machine was streaked and piled from efforts to dig other busses out of the mire.

To his right, Samir noticed a small rise of hard ground that would give him a sling-shot start into this massive final obstacle. He carefully backed the bus up the rise and across a small plateau to the edge of another small sea of sand. From this perch he could see a shallow way through to the right of the paths attempted by other vehicles. It was his only chance.

The pilgrims were unloaded again and the women clambered across two small rocky hillocks to the other side of the bog. Men were stationed in small groups across the obstacle. Samir shouted commands to Ali in Arabic hoping to position them so they could push at the right moments. All was now ready for the assault.

He was about to put the bus in gear when an Israeli military vehicle appeared at the other side of the draw. The truck stopped and the lone occupant, a young soldier, jumped down from the cab waving and shouting for Samir to stop. The truck was a big half-track. Half tank and half truck, it was the perfect vehicle for this terrain. The truck had a small boom on the back with pulleys and cable along with a winch on the front bumper.

Samir sensed that the soldier would turn him back. He quickly slammed the bus into gear and shot down the rise slamming into the sand at top engine speed. The bus wobbled, skidded, slid and balked its way aided by the pushes of the passengers. About a hundred meters from victory, it struck something hard under the sand. The big vehicle stopped abruptly, nearly pitching Samir through the windshield. It came to rest at an awkward angle tipping toward the right, nearly broadside to the road.

Samir got out of the bus after forcing the door which had sand piled tight against it. He was unsteady on his feet, partially from the impact and partially from excited exasperation.

You’re crazy shouted the soldier, how did you make it this far? The road has been closed for days! Didn’t they try to stop you in Eilat?

Samir stumbled out of the sand and stood before the soldier. Those stupid fellows he shouted, your soldier friends! he asserted, summoning all his ability to act upset. They told me the road was repaired! He used English so the soldier would know that the passengers understood his tirade.

Okay, okay! I’ll try to pull you out, offered the soldier. It looks like you are on a rock. I’ll have to lift you off it first."

Samir crawled under the left side of the bus, which had lifted slightly upon impact with what was now revealed as a large piece of ledge. His heart leaped as he saw the bottom of the bus ripped open. A large slit in the metal shed daylight into the concealed compartment. Several gunstocks were plainly visible through the crack. The roar of the truck’s engine told him he had little time to react. He grabbed a small rock and began pounding, trying to unroll the gnarled aluminum. Then he found a small piece of plywood sticking up from the moist sand. He stuffed it in the hole hoping it would conceal certain death.

The truck had now backed to the bumper of the bus and the soldier came round to the side to survey the situation. Samir scampered out from under the bus keeping himself between the soldier and the problem. Let’s have a look here, the soldier said, already crawling under the bus past Samir. Samir stood woodenly. In the hundred degree heat of the desert afternoon, he shivered.

After what seemed like an eternity, the soldier emerged. Not too bad, he said. Give me a hand with that cable. Where is your attachment point for towing? The soldier walked past in front of the bus and climbed into his truck. The crane’s motor groaned signaling slack in the cable. Samir quickly hooked the line to the towing hooks under the front of the bus and shouted to the driver. Relieved, he suddenly felt hot and sweaty again.

Stand clear, shouted the soldier as he took up the slack.

All the bystanders tensed as the bus creaked and began to straighten. Glory be to God, exclaimed Father Arsenius as it became clear they would be able to continue their journey. Samir watched carefully as it lifted clear of the rock. Allah be praised, he mumbled as the hastily covered gash disappeared from sight under the upright vehicle.

The bus was towed slowly through the sand like a wounded beast. The half-track lumbered up onto the harder ground and stopped. The bus was lowered to the ground and the military vehicle drove clear. The soldier came down from the cab to survey his work.

There is no road ahead, only more like this, he said to Samir and Father Arsenius who stood together in front of the bus. You should turn back and come with me to Eilat. I can pull you out if you get stuck again. Otherwise you’ll be on your own because I must be at Eilat tonight.

I will get through, Samir stated. I will get my good father and his pilgrims to Saint Catherine’s.

You’re a fool! declared the soldier. Then he said to Father Arsenius, This crazy Arab will get you stuck with all your passengers overnight, mister. By morning the Bedouin will have all your possessions, if not your lives!

Samir repressed an impulse to rebuff this Jew. I will get through, he re-stated in a slow and even voice.

It’s all right, said Father Arsenius to the soldier. Thank you for your advice. I trust my driver. Come, Samir it’s getting late. Let’s load the bus.

The soldier shrugged then turned to mount his truck amid thanks and cheers from the pilgrims. Shalom! he shouted as the diesel roared. Good luck. I hope you make it.

The truck plowed off and was soon out of sight. Samir gave Father Arsenius a nod of thanks for having faith in him. Father Arsenius wondered if it was justified.

The people filed onto the bus. Ali, having again scouted the way ahead was last to climb aboard. It doesn’t look too bad, he said hopefully, lots of rocks but not much sand.

The rest of the trip up the rise was, as Samir had hoped just a lot of side-to-side dodging of rocks and patches of sand. Near the top of the pass they came to the devastated remains of the Egyptian border station, totally destroyed by the flood. So that’s why we found plywood below, Samir thought.

One kilometer further along on top of the ridge was a new, makeshift border station. The Egyptians had simply pitched a few tents and parked a truck across the road as a gate. On the side of the truck was a splintered piece of plywood with letters in Arabic and Hebrew that said STOP! ENTERING EGYPT.

The border police were a study in inefficiency. For more than an hour they fumbled with the passports and visas. Twice the lieutenant in charge told Samir he would have to turn back to Israel. Finally Samir beckoned the lieutenant to take a walk up the road out of earshot. A few minutes later they came back laughing and conversing merrily in Arabic.

Father Arsenius, distraught at the prospect of being turned away and totally harassed by the old women, little children and the others of his flock breathed a sigh of relief seeing the two acting like long-lost brothers. He now knew his faith in Samir was justified. After a few shouted orders by the lieutenant, the passports were distributed and the bus was allowed to pass.

The road got steadily better and three kilometers after the border station they reached fresh pavement. The bus heaved onto the highway with a race of its engine. The clutch was still emitting a burnt odor, nearly destroyed altogether by their harrowing journey.

Father Arsenius took up a collection for Samir to pay for a new clutch which he said he could get at the airport facility near Saint Catherine’s. There was a bus depot there with mechanics. Samir thought that the new clutch would cost around four hundred dollars American. Father Arsenius handed him seven hundred dollars along with a little speech of thanks.

After a brief stop at the airport where passports were checked yet again, they drove the last five kilometers to the gate of the ancient monastery of Saint Catherine at the foot of the summit trail to Mount Sinai. It was now dark and the monastery was closed for the night. The Bedouin who lived just outside the monastery wall had been protectors of the monastery since the sixth century A.D. Arrangements to enter were made by bribing the chief Bedouin guard who fetched the abbot.

Samir helped the weary travelers unload then left ostensibly to make arrangements for the new clutch. Five hundred meters from the airport road he turned right. He followed a narrow dirt road leading to a small courtyard. There were several buildings around the perimeter of the courtyard. Several men milled around a military truck. Samir stopped the bus and stepped down into the darkness of the courtyard. Two of the men embraced both Samir and Ali. Is Mahmoud here? asked Samir. My brother wants to meet him.

I am here my friend, said a gentle voice from the shadows. I hear you had a difficult trip.

CHAPTER 3

FRIENDS, 1981

The hazy summer sun was already heating the air at eight-fifteen am. Uzi Drott stood in the shade watching his wife Ziva and their two beautiful children drive off in her old Peugeot. She always took the children to school on her way to work at the day-care center for their neighborhood. He returned to the sparkling white high rise building which they had all just left sipping the last of his second cup of French-style filter coffee. On the elevator leading to his seventh floor penthouse apartment Uzi closed his eyes, holding in his mind an image of his beautiful Ziva. Her blonde hair and European features, her blue eyes and light skin that captivated most Israeli men. He thought of her loving care for their little family, her status in Israeli society as a holocaust survivor, her great cooking! What more could a man ask for?

The elevator stopped. The door opened directly into his foyer. Uzi trotted to the bedroom and put on sandals and a freshly ironed short-sleeve shirt. Picking up his electric razor he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The figures in a photo on his dresser smiled at him from under a shady tree in Tiberius on the Sea of Galilee: Tall, dark Uzi with his curly black hair, angular features and muscular frame; Shorter, radiant Ziva with blond hair falling around her bare shoulders. Pixie-faced Shoshanna was hanging on mommy’s arm while baby Ezra sat on daddy’s shoulders.

Only five years since this picture was taken, he thought, and how Shoshanna has become a big girl, almost a woman. Mazel-tov," he murmured while holding up his coffee cup as a toast.

Turning to fetch a belt, Uzi paused to survey the bed. Bed clothes were strewn about, tossed away in the heat of last night’s passion. The next two weeks would be Army time for Uzi. He would miss Ziva’s warmth beside him. Unlike most of the IDF citizen-soldiers, Uzi would not be coming home each night while on duty. Israel would be served and Ziva would long for his return.

Leaving the building again, this time with a brief case and his army gear Uzi got into his new Audi 80. The streets of Tel-Aviv were cluttered with morning traffic as usual. He skirted around the outside of the city on bits of the unfinished perimeter highway and made his way toward the coast. A right turn along the main road to Haifa would take him to his posting for the next few days. But first, he had to stop at his office to give last minute instructions to his employees.

Uzi Drott was the epitome of a successful Israeli. He was one of the few native-born Israelis, called Sabras, after a kind of cactus that grew wild all over the country and was hard to kill. His family claimed four generations of forebears on this soil. He was the son of a freedom fighter. His father had been a leader of Haganah, Israel’s famous terrorist group which did much to help win Israeli statehood in the nineteen-forties. As a member of the Haganah his father had fought alongside Menachem Begin, twice Israel’s leader.

A brilliant student at the university, Uzi had spent five years in the U.S. working as an electrical engineer. After returning home he had landed a lucrative job as the sole representative in Israel for a U.S. company specializing in military and cryptographic hardware and software. The job was all the more lucrative because his salary was linked to the U.S. Dollar. Israel’s steep inflation through the nineteen-seventies had not diluted his buying power. He now ran an independent business as well which controlled most of the remaining military computer importing business in the country. He held the rank of Major in the IDF as an intelligence officer. Married to a holocaust survivor, he sat atop the Israeli social structure.

Uzi pulled in to his reserved parking place along side the building he had recently purchased for the business. Gaela, Uzi’s American educated and very efficient secretary greeted him as he entered the office. Shalom, she said cheerily. Dani is here to see you. He’s in the back.

Shalom, Gaela, Uzi replied with a smile. Don’t get too involved with anything. I want to review the Elta proposal before I go.

Good, she answered. I think they really need the PDP-11 for this application, not the IBM. I have the file right here.

That’s exactly what I was thinking, Uzi said. Can you work it in?

I’ll have it for you in half-an-hour, Gaela announced already moving paragraphs around using her word-processor. Coffee’s ready, she added. Dani’s got a cup. Shall I get you some?

I’ll get it myself. Just keep working on Elta. Uzi paused in the hallway to pour coffee. Shalom, Dani!" he shouted.

Good morning Mister Drott, sir! chanted Dani in a mock British accent. I hear you will be about the countryside harrying the fox. Tally Ho, Pip, pip and all that bloody rubbish!

You’d make a lousy Brit, announced Uzi, entering the well-appointed office. Dani Goldschmidt sat behind his friend’s desk, feet on the blotter.

That’s a ‘roger’ old buddy, said Dani now sliding into his John Wayne impersonation. Besides big fella, it’s kinda hard to drink tea from those little cups and saucers when you’re out here riding the range on horseback. Dani made no effort to get up, so Uzi settled into the guest chair.

To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from my best friend this morning? Uzi reached out and closed the door. He figured Dani had something private to say.

I wondered if you had been invited to the party that Zev Freiman is giving for the brass at the Knessett. In their coded idiom, Party meant briefing. I’ll be there, so I thought we might get together for old times sake.

Will I be there! exclaimed Uzi, I’m giving part of the presentation!

That’s great, Dani replied. "We’ll have some beer and remember the good old days. By the way, Nilli wants to get together with you and Ziva when we come back from playing soldier. She thought that place in the Yemeni quarter