He runs, panting, gasping for air as they approach. He tries not to stumble and fall into the underbrush. They shout something unintelligible while dogs bark hysterically and light beams flash around him. Somebody is drumming…
The staccato-like pounding on the door rescues him from the depths of a nightmare. He wakes confused and, for a moment, has no idea where he is. He reaches across the bed, but, as is usual lately, she is not there.
The words coming from the other side of the door, at first muffled, are now clearer and sound hysterical.
“Sir, please open the door. I need to speak to you urgently.”
He recognizes Shimon Dotan’s voice. How could he not? The man shadows him, and the constant proximity irritates him no matter how friendly and polite he tries to be. And then again, the nagging knock. What can be so important that they need to scream and wake him in the night?
He finds his glasses and glances at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. It shows three twenty in the morning.
“Just a moment, Shimon. Give me a chance. I’ll open the door. Be patient.”
Rising from bed too quickly, he feels dizzy and loses his balance before leaning against the door to steady himself. He unlatches the security chain and turns the knob. The sight of Dotan in a dark suit, a size too large, holding a short-barreled automatic weapon, with two other plus-size armed bodyguards beside him, manages to be both comic and threatening. Instinctively, he takes a step back and tries to slam the door in their faces. Dotan’s stiff arm keeps it open.
“Shimon, have you lost your mind? What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry, and I apologize, sir. We received a flash order to set the ‘Steel Castle’ procedure in motion. This is not a drill. We need to move you to the underground facility at Shoresh ASAP. Anyone on the priority list who is in-country at the moment has been instructed to get there. We’ll wait for you outside, but please hurry.”
“It’s okay, Shimon, come in. Give me a few minutes to get organized.”
Searching for his clothes, he fires questions at Dotan.
“What happened? What does that order mean? Who the hell gave it? Nobody called me. Is there an incoming missile alert for Jerusalem? Where is the prime minister?”
“It isn’t an incoming missile alert, sir. The VIP protection unit sent me a general update and those orders. I don’t have much information, but it appears that at midnight, the rebels launched a series of coordinated attacks on the main centers of government control and the homes of ministers. I have no idea who was hit or what is happening right now. They only told me that the prime minister was at Lachish Farm and that communications with the farm are down since the attacks began. Nobody could reach you because the cellular and landline systems crashed once the major switching centers were sabotaged. They ordered me to get you to Shoresh immediately.”
As he fumbled with his pants, he tried unsuccessfully to slow his racing thoughts. Dotan took over the decision-making process. He handed him a white ceramic bulletproof vest. “Put this on now, sir. We need to move. There’s been an attack at your residence, too, and it’s only a matter of time before they find out you are at this hotel and head for it.” Dotan pushed him gently forward.
The panicked race down the stairway, all twenty stories, to the parking garage kept him from digesting the enormity of the horror. He had so many questions, but for the time being, there were no answers. He banged his head as they crammed him into a black SUV, and it sped off with squealing tires, bursting into the street without stopping. Two other vehicles joined them––one ahead and the other behind––as they barreled through the streets with their lights off. Dotan told him that the speed and extinguished lights would make it difficult for potential attackers to spot them.
He pulled the car window curtain back slightly and peered through the tinted glass as they drove through the streets of a city at war. Total blackout. A few shadowy figures groped their way in the dark, helped by the pale beams of handheld flashlights. Due to the early hour and the all-night curfew, other vehicles were a rare sight. Not that traffic was much heavier in daylight as fuel was scarce and strictly rationed. Once the Arrow Three and David’s Slingshot anti-missile batteries had expended their last ammunition, Iranian projectiles destroyed the Haifa refinery, a large section of the lower city, and the country’s principal port. When Tel Aviv was hit, flight en masse from the coastal towns began.
The refugee colony at Independence Park was quiet at this hour. Some early risers could be seen among the tents, lighting cooking fires to prepare the meager breakfasts from the remains of scrounged army rations. The retail food market had collapsed, and every grocery store and supermarket was looted. Many were burned-out shells. The police were no longer in control and had given up any pretense of law enforcement. Sporadically, the armed forces handed out food and drinking water. Birds in the parks and family pets fell victim to the needs of a famished population.
He stared blankly at those watching the luxury vehicles go by. Others, still clinging to the remnants of faith, gathered in prayer groups and begged for the Almighty to take pity. The sight reminded him of a loud argument he had had with Oren, the interior minister, soon after the government’s formation concerning emergency regulations that forbade the entry of Arabs and foreigners to the Jerusalem region. The weasel took cover behind the hackneyed excuse of “orders of the security services.” Oren also recycled the opinion of self-appointed experts, according to whom the Iranians refrain from targeting Muslim towns and holy places, making it inappropriate and unnecessary for Arabs to find safety near the mosques on Temple Mount. He insisted that such protection should be available to Jews alone.
Now he remembered her.
“Shimon, what about my wife? Do you know where she is?”
Dotan acted like he hadn’t heard and fiddled with his crackling walkie-talkie. He always tried to avoid questions like this. Some members of the VIP protection unit allowed themselves to get close to their charges and kin. They felt themselves part of the family. On the other hand, he preferred to keep his distance from emotional and interpersonal matters. He went by the book––see everything, but keep your mouth shut.
According to the official regulations, Dotan was continuously informed of her whereabouts. She played by the rules, too. During the day, she stood beside her husband in the spotlight and in front of cameras. She carried out her duties down to the last smile and hug. Reporters and gossip columnists suspected something was off in their relationship but couldn’t prove anything. Even colleagues in the party and the government were in the dark. Only the bodyguards saw what they saw, protected the couple, and remained silent. At night, surreptitiously, she met with her longtime partner, soulmate, and lover––the widowed prime minister.
“Dotan, don’t play the fool with me. I’m not that stupid. You always know where she is. Her protection officer, Hannah, shadows her day and night. Your keeping quiet about it won’t save me from shame. I’m a big boy, and I can handle it. I know perfectly well that at three in the morning, she wasn’t taking a night class at Hebrew University.”
“Sir…”
“Enough with the sir already!” he reacted angrily. “You know my name, so use it. There’s a war going on, and I assume my wife is with another man. I have no time for empty etiquette. Speak up; I’m listening.”
“You’re making it very difficult for me.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be able to deal with much more serious challenges? You get all kinds of hazardous duty pay, don’t you? Go ahead. Where is she?”
Dotan couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eye. Finally, he cleared his throat, looked up at the car’s roof, and mumbled, “Based on the operations log, at nineteen hundred hours, she arrived at Lachish Farm. There is no report that she left the place after that.”
As the vehicle sped forward, Dotan chattered continuously with someone over the radio. His cryptic responses––“Yes,” “No,” and “I understand”––gave nothing away. They crossed the empty Sakharov Gardens intersection, and he remembered that a lifetime ago, on his way to work, the radio reported daily on “heavy traffic at Sakharov Gardens.” That was before “Operation Cyrus,” which left sites throughout Iran burning and destroyed. Many crowed, “We did it on our own!” And then the deluge of ballistic missiles began, and no more heavy traffic clogged the road at Sakharov Gardens. Missiles passed each other, flying in opposite directions, and cities emptied here and there. The government fell, and another arose, promising peace. He was appointed to a minor ministerial post as the first steps were taken to contact the Iranians. Promises were made to renew negotiations with the Palestinians but came to nothing as usual.
A heavily armed, violent underground movement led by radical, messianic former military officers emerged seemingly out of nowhere. Blessed and supported by the incantations of rabbinical figures, it claimed to be acting against “the peace criminals back-stabbing the nation.” Officers and other ranks deserted their units, taking weapons and large quantities of ammunition and reinforcing rebel units throughout the country. Attempts were made, some successful, to assassinate politicians, government officials, and police commanders, raising the level of paranoia and generating wildly ineffective responses by the police and the security services. The world looked on tut-tutting while the leading ally issued hollow statements supporting the so-called legitimate government. Washington secretly hoped that the warring sides would exhaust each other to the point where mutual accommodation could be achieved. The UN Security Council unanimously cranked out a Shakespearean damnation of all involved in the slaughter before leaving the stage.
Amid the storm, his wife and the prime minister found time to copulate in his country hideaway.
This, by itself, wasn’t shocking. He knew she was lost to him long before. But the fact that she chose the man with whom his friendship harked back to their days together in the student union at university was nevertheless painful. On the other hand, why not? He had taken her from Ya’ari’s arms so long ago without giving it a second thought. Didn’t he deserve the payback that had finally come? For years, he had focused everything on climbing the political ladder, radiating love and warmth to all and sundry, but leaving little or nothing for her. His feelings for her gradually faded, and hers, he believed, for him. Admittedly, the state of mutual apathy suited him.
“Shimon, are there any updates? What’s happening with the prime minister? Are there any reports from the general staff or military intelligence?”
Dotan was happy to leave the minefield of private affairs behind. “There’s nothing new from Lachish Farm. A brigade-size force surrounds the area, and Unit 269 is en route. Communications with the farm are still down, but there are reports of attacks on government ministers in other locations. The ministers of the interior and the economy were killed at their homes, and the defense minister, badly wounded, was evacuated by helicopter to Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital. The chief of the general staff is running the battle from the operations bunker at Southern Command HQ in Be’er-Sheva. We’ll be at Shoresh in a few moments, and you’ll be briefed there by the IDF and Shabak, the Security Service.”
The vehicles were waved through into the tunnel at Shoresh leading to the government and the Prime Minister’s Office underground compounds. Braking in a vast parking area filled with black government and olive-green military SUVs, Dotan helped him from the car. The pervasive exhaust fumes hanging in the air made him slightly nauseous. Drivers congregating there and armed guards in combat gear stared in silence as he passed, following the protection unit down a long, dimly lit corridor. Doron ushered him into a large, garishly lit conference room. A group of mute officials awaited his arrival. The government chief secretary, the prime minister’s military secretary, a few ministers of his party, and others unknown to him were there. The speaker of the Knesset, Oleg Lewandowski, approached and, with an undisguised look of dislike, hugged him.
“Deputy Prime Minister, thankfully, you have arrived safely. We need your wise leadership at this tragic hour.”
He disregarded Lewandowski’s characteristic combination of obsequiousness and disgust toward him.
“Oleg, this isn’t the time for brown-nosing. Can anyone tell me what is happening at Lachish Farm? Has the prime minister been rescued? Where is he now? When will we get a detailed briefing?”
Lewandowski’s face grew pale, and he stared at the floor.
“Speak up, Oleg. I’m waiting.”
“Sir, I’m sorry to be the one bringing terrible news,” the speaker croaked, trying to clear his throat. “As far as we know, the army crushed the rebel force at Lachish Farm and entered the compound not long ago. It had been utterly destroyed, and there were no survivors. Senior officers positively identified the prime minister’s body, and it will be flown to Jerusalem soon.”
After a moment of shocked silence, Lewandowski continued.
“Fighting continues in other areas. The chief of staff and the head of military intelligence will arrive here as soon as possible to give a detailed briefing.”
He tried to hide the tone of panic in his voice. “And my wife? What about my wife?”
Nobody spoke. Only the growl of a nearby generator filled the room. Antebbi, the military aide, was the first to break the silence. “There were no survivors, sir, and most of the bodies have yet to be identified.” Adopting a rare note of naivete, the officer asked, “Where was she supposed to be? Why do you think she may have been at Lachish Farm?”
He ignored the question. What else could he say?
“Sir,” Lewandowski continued, attempting to take control of the scene, “the situation is complicated, and now that the prime minister is dead, a constitutional vacuum has developed. As the Basic Law requires, we must swear in a replacement prime minister. Please follow me to the Knesset compound. We will hold the swearing-in ceremony there. Approximately half of the members of the Knesset managed to get here. After the swearing-in, we can bring the cabinet together and decide on our next steps.”
None of those present remarked that the cabinet in its former makeup no longer existed.
He paid no attention to the annoying hum of Lewandowsky’s words. His mind was elsewhere. When the speaker took him by the arm, he followed reflexively.
In the cavernous space occupied by the Knesset, tens of members stood in groups assembled by party affiliation. His entry brought a sudden stop to the cacophony. The silence was strangely suffocating, and sobbing was heard from an unidentified section of the crowd. He saw a combination of fear, sadness, confusion, and helplessness in their faces. Here and there, he noticed looks of animosity. Pity, which he may have needed most of all, was nowhere to be seen. Had he not been surrounded, he would have tried to escape. But he was left with no option other than to deny the reality of the situation and attempt to postpone what was about to happen.
“Oleg, I’m not sure that this is the right thing to do now. Maybe we should wait? Perhaps the information is wrong? Why don’t we first talk to the President or the attorney general?”
Lewandowski burst the bubble of his wishful thinking. “Sir, honestly, I never imagined we would get to this point. I would do anything to find a better solution. But there is no alternative. As you know, President Mizrahi is in the United States and won’t be able to return soon. The attorney general informed me by phone that swearing you in is critical for the continued functioning of the government and the defense and security apparatus. This is especially true during a state of war and insurrection. You know very well that I’ve never been one of your devotees, but I am a man of the law, and I will do as the law demands. We will all support you in the coming days, but you must do your duty. It is not the time for hesitation or cowardice.”
He let them guide him to a small platform where he stood facing the speaker. Two faded, wrinkled flags served as backdrops to the ceremony. Somebody set up microphones. The barrage of flash photography blinded him momentarily. The only thought that bothered him as he faced history was that he hadn’t shaved. He wanted to think of her, to feel the pain of loss, but somehow, he couldn’t conjure up her face. Death was quickly erasing her image.
Lewandowski’s voice suddenly broke through to him. The speaker of the Knesset handed him a piece of paper. “Sir, please read the oath of office.”
All eyes were upon him, but the words stuck in his throat. There was some uncomfortable movement in the audience. Finally, he put on his reading glasses, coughed, swallowed, and spoke. That was all that remained.
“I… George Boutros Sabah… swear as Prime Minister… to be faithful to the State of Israel…”
