saw the brightness of the blade, and he saw the cook crumple to his knees, then slide to his face. He realised at once the enormity of it. Their cover was gone. He was hiding, but Crane had no hiding place. He thought the cook might even have stepped on Crane, he thought the cook had been close enough to Crane to have actually put his boot onto the back of Crane's camouflaged head or the back of Crane's camouflaged body.
Holt watched Crane. The hugeness of the tunnel vision seemed to give him an intimacy with Crane who was four hundred yards further down the hillside. He believed he could see the turmoil of decision in Crane's features. Crane looked back down the hillside, down the slope towards the tent camp. Holt followed his eye line, flashed the tunnel view of the binoculars towards the tent camp. The recruits were streaming towards the entrance between the coiled wire. Back to Crane. Holt saw the hands of Noah Crane fumbling at his waist, then he saw him crouch. Sharp movements now, decision taken, mind made. Crane back onto his feet.
Holt saw that he no longer wore his belt. He peered again to be sure. Crane no longer carried his belt on his waist. According to Crane's bible the belt was never taken from the body, not to sleep, not to defecate. Crane no longer wore his belt. Crane had his back to Holt. He gazed up high onto the hillside as if his eyeline was a half a mile higher than the rock overhang, as if his eyeline was far to the south.
Holt heard Crane's shout. Crane's hands were at his mouth, cupped to amplify his shout. Crane bellowed towards a place on the hillside. Holt thought that Crane shouted in Hebrew, that he called a warning.
Crane started to run at an angle on the hillside.
More understanding, but then a child could have understood.
They were young, the pursuers. They were fast on the hillside. They were swarming amongst the rock outcrops, over the broken ground. He was taking them away. His warning was a deception, he was leading them away from Holt.
There was the first ranging burst from the machine gun. Three, four rounds. There was the first red light of a sighting tracer bullet.
Holt could not take his vision, his magnified gaze, away from Crane. The pursuers, teenagers, half the age of Crane, must gain, would gain, on the quarry. A second burst, a second flailing flight of tracer. Holt could no longer see Crane's face, could see only the heaving shake of his back as he ran, away from Holt, ran for his life. Holt saw the puff pecks of the bullets striking rock and scree and stone.
Crane sagged. He stumbled, he fell. He rose again.
Out aloud, Abu Hamid shouted his triumph.
Three, four round bursts of 12.7 mm ammunition.
Aimed bursts from a tripod. Muzzle velocity nine hundred yards a second. He had seen his target go down, rise again, collapse, rise again. He had his hit.
Holt saw Crane go forward.
He seemed to hobble. He was ducking and weaving as he went, but slower, each step deeper into pain. He understood. The vixen's loyalty to her cub. A scarred, world weary, bitchy old vixen giving life to a wet-behind the- ears cub. The gunfire had stopped. No more shooting. Holt could see that the pursuers were now too close to Crane to make it either safe or necessary to fire again.
The pursuers bounded over the diminishing ground, hunted down their man. He heard Crane shout again, make another pretence at a warning to phantom men in a position ahead of him.
Holt saw the cave mouth.
Holt saw the first head, shoulders, appear at the mouth of the cave. The mouth of the cave was a hundred yards ahead of Crane's line. It was the edge of Holt's vision. It was the place that was half masked from him.
Four men came out of the cave's mouth. One man wore only the grey whiteness of underpants upon the pink whiteness of his body. Chaos on the hillside, chaos for Crane who was wounded, chaos for three men of the Hezbollah who were discovered and flushed out, chaos for a hostage prisoner. The three men ran. The hostage prisoner stood alone. The gap between Crane and his pursuers narrowed.
Holt watched. Crane was engulfed.
He let the binoculars fall from his eyes.
His head drooped, down into the dirt floor of the rock overhang.
The tears misted his eyes, ran bitter to his lips.
Crane was dragged down the hillside. The hostage prisoner was escorted after him.
A moment when the lights seemed to go out, when hope was lost.
The argument was ferocious.
'I wounded him, my shooting. My boys captured him. I should take him.'
'You've work here.'
Abu Hamid and Lieutenant Fawzi face to face.
'It was us who caught him… '
'Me who will take the Jew… '
'You want to take the credit from us.'
'You have men to choose, you have a mission to perform. You will stay.'
'So that you will take the credit.'
'So that you can prepare your mission.'
In the hand of Fawzi was the dog tag ripped from the neck of the prisoner, kept safe in Fawzi's hand just as the prisoner would be safe in Fawzi's possession.
'I should take him to Damascus.'
'I order you to stay here. You will perform your duty.'
Fawzi walked away. He went to the knot of recruits that had gathered round the prisoner. He shouldered aside the man kicking the prisoner. He thought that by now they would all have had their turn with the boot.
He saw the blood seeping from the knee of the prisoner.
He saw the mouth twisted to stifle an agony. He told the recruits that the prisoner should not again be kicked.
He went to his tent. He knew enough of the English language that was common between them to receive the garbled thanks of the hostage prisoner.
He sat at the table that was set between his bed and the bed used by Abu Hamid. He switched on the battery power for the radio. He waited. When the lights glowed, when he had transmission power, he broadcast his success to Damascus.
Holt watched.
The body of the cook was carried down the hillside on a stretcher made of rifle slings and the wood he had been collecting, and along with the body was the Armalite rifle that Crane had carried. A second search party had scoured the cave and brought down to the camp boxes of food and weapons and bedding.
Holt saw all that. He was undisturbed. The recruits of the Popular Front had no interest in that part of the hillside where Holt lay under the rock overhang and the screen of scrim netting.
Holt watched the camp. He could see Crane lying prone on the earth, he could see the blood on his legs.
He could see the rifles that covered Crane's every pain spasm.
They had not found Crane's belt. The belt lay amongst the rocks, deep amongst them, at the place where Crane had begun his decoy flight. Holt tried to memorise the place, tried to recall each detail of Crane's movement so that he could remember that exact place where Crane had crouched to conceal his belt.
Major Said Hazan swivelled his chair so that his back was to the traveller, so that he faced the wall map. He studied the two red-headed pins that he had set into his map. It was Major Said Hazan's style to repeat each piece of information given him so that there should be no possible error, no missed inflection, no false interpretation.
'And the information came from an Englishman?'
'An Englishman of middle years, staying at the guest house of the Kibbutz Kfar Giladi, and he said, 'How did you know about the infiltration last night?' That is what he said.'
'And that 'last night', that was the night that Olaffson said the Israelis had fired flares to blind the night equipment?'
'That is correct, Major.'
He spoke to himself, he ignored the traveller. He stared at the red-headed pin that marked the unsub- stantiated interception.
'Why are the British going into the Beqa'a?'
