I will send David to you now, he said, and her response was swift and
vehement.
No. She gripped his hand hard. No, I can't meet him now. I have to
think about this first.
The Brig went back to the waiting-room and David stood up expectantly,
the pure lines of his face seemingly carved from pale polished marble,
and the dark blue of his eyes in deep contrast.
The Brig forestalled him harshly. No visitors. He took David's arm.
You will not be allowed to see her until tomorrow.
Is something wrong? What is it? David tried to pull away, but the Brig
held him and steered him towards the door.
Nothing is wrong. She will be all right, but she must have no
excitement now. You'll be able to see her tomorrow.
They buried Hannah that evening in the family plot on the Mountain of
Olives. It was a small funeral party attended by the three men and a
mere handful of relatives, many of whom had others to mourn from the
previous day's slaughter.
There was an official car waiting to take the Brig to a meeting of the
high command, where retaliatory measures would certainly be discussed,
another revolution in the relentless wheel of violence that rolled
across the troubled land.
Joe and David climbed into the Mercedes and sat silently, David making
no effort to start the engine. Joe lit cigarettes for them, and they
both felt drained of purpose and direction.
What are you going to do now? David asked him. We had two weeks, Joe
answered him. We were going down to Ashkelon, his voice trailed off. I
don't know. There isn't anything to do now, is there? Shall we go and
have a drink somewhere? Joe shook his head. I don't feel like
drinking, he said. I think I'll go back to base. They are flying night
interceptions tonight.
Yes, David agreed quickly, I'll come with you. He could not see Debra
until tomorrow, and the house on Malik Street would be lonely and cold.
Suddenly he longed for the peace of the night heavens.
The moon was a brightly curved Saracen blade against the soft darkness
of the sky, and the stars were fat and silver and gemlike in their
clarity.
They flew high above the earth, remote from its grief and sorrow,
wrapped in the isolation of flight and lost in the ritual and
concentration of night interception.
The target was a Mirage of their own squadron, and they picked it up on
the scanner far out over the Negev.
Joe locked on to it and called the track and range while David searched
for and at last spotted the moving star of the target's jet blast,
burning redly against the velvety blackness of the night.
He took them in on a clean interception creeping up under the target's
belly and then pulling steeply up past its wing-tip, the way a barracuda
goes for the lure from below and explodes out through the surface of the
sea.
They shot past so close that the target Mirage broke wildly away to
