Acts of War

TWENTY-SEVEN

This is better, thought Falah Shibli.

The swarthy young man stood in front of the dresser-top mirror in his one-room apartment and adjusted his tribal red-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. He made sure the headdress sat squarely on his head. Then he brushed lint from the collar of his light green police uniform.

This is much, much better.

After serving seven long and difficult years in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim, Israel's Druze Reconnaissance unit, Falah had been ready for a change. Before joining the local police force, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd worn a clean uniform., His darker Sayeret Ha'Druzim greens had always been crusted with dirt or sweat or blood. Sometimes it was his own blood, more often than not it was someone else's. And he'd usually worn a green beret or helmet, rarely his own headdress. If only his head were sticking up from a foxhole or over a wall, he didn't want an overanxious Israeli mistaking him for an infiltrator and shooting at him.

Falah took one last look at himself. He was as proud of his heritage as he was of his adopted land. He turned off the dresser light, shut off the fan on his nightstand, and opened the door.

The cool night air was refreshing. When the twenty-seven-year-old first joined the small police force in this dusty northern town, he'd asked for a night job directing traffic. His work with the Sayeret Ha'Druzim had been so intensive, not to mention so damned hot, he needed the break. Let the years of sunburn fade a little so the wrinkles around his eyes didn't stand out quite so much. Let the old wounds heal — not just the torn muscle from gunshot wounds, but the still-calloused feet from the long patrols, the flesh ripped by crawling over sharp rocks and thorns to capture terrorists, the spirit rent by having to shoot at fellow Druze.

Very few terrorists came through this kibbutz town. They picked their way through the barren plains to the east and west. Except for the occasional drunk driver or stolen motorbike or car accident, this job was blessedly uneventful. It was so quiet that on most nights, he and the owner of a local bar, a former Sayeret Ha'Druzim gunner team commander, were able to spend a half hour trading gossip. They did so in special forces fashion, standing under streetlights on opposite sides of the road and blinking the information in Morse code.

As Falah stepped onto the wooden stoop that was too small to be called a porch but had a folding chair on it anyway, the phone rang. He hesitated. It was a two-minute walk to the station house. If he left now, he'd be on time. If it was his mother calling, it would take at least that long just to tell her he had to go. On the other hand, it could be his adorable Sara. She'd been talking about taking a day off from her bus route. Perhaps she wanted to see him in the morning

Falah went back into the apartment and snatched up the old, black dial phone.

"Which of my ladies is this?" he asked.

"Neither," said the man's voice on the other end.

The tall, dark-haired young man moved his heels together. His shoulders drew back. Coming to attention was conditioning which never left when your former commander addressed you.

"Master Sergeant Vilnai," Falah said. He said nothing more. After acknowledging a superior, the soldiers of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim responded with silent attention.

"Officer Shibli," said Sergeant Vilnai. "A jeep from the border guard will be arriving at your apartment in approximately five minutes. The driver's name is Salim. Please go with him. Everything you need will be provided."

Falah was still at attention. He wanted to ask his former superior, "Everything I need for where and how long?" But that would have been impertinent. Besides, this was an unsecured line.

"I have a job here—" Fallah said.

"Your shift has been taken care of," the sergeant informed him.

Just like my job, Falah thought. "Take this position, Falah," the sergeant had said. "It will keep your skills in good repair."

"Repeat your orders," said the NCO.

"Border patrol jeep, driver Salim. Pickup in five minutes."

"I'll see you around midnight, Falah. Have a pleasant ride."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

The caller hung up. After a moment, so did Falah. He stood there staring at nothing in particular. He'd known this day would probably come, but so soon? It had only been a few weeks. Just a few. He'd barely had time to get the burning sun of the West Bank out of his eyes.

Will I ever? he asked himself as he went back outside.

The question bothered Falah as he sat heavily in the chair and looked up at the brilliant stars. It bothered him almost as much as why he'd picked up the goddamned telephone. Not that it would have made a difference. Master Sergeant Vilnai would have climbed into a Jeep and come to the station house to get him. The Sayeret Ha'Druzim NCO always got what he wanted.

The charcoal-gray jeep arrived on schedule. Falah pushed off on his knees and walked around to the driver's side.

"ID?" he said to the baby-faced driver with a buzz cut.

The driver removed a laminated card from his shirt pocket. Falah examined it in the glow of the dashboard light. He handed it back.

"Yours, Officer Shibli?" the driver asked.

Falah scowled and pulled the small leather billfold from his pants pocket. He opened it to his police ID card and badge. The driver's eyes shifted from Falah to the photo, then back again.

"It's me," Falah said, "though I wish it weren't."

The driver nodded. "Please get in," he said, leaning across the seat and opening the door.

Falah obliged. Even before the door was shut the driver had swung the jeep around.

The two men headed north in silence along the ancient dirt road. Falah listened to the pebbles as they spat noisily from under the jeep's tires. It had been a while since he'd heard that sound — the sound of haste, of things happening. He decided that he didn't miss it, nor had he expected to hear it again so soon. But they had a saying in the Sayeret Ha'Druzim: Sign for a tour, sign for a lifetime. It had been that way ever since the 1948 war, when the first Druze Muslims along with expatriate Russian Circassians and Bedouins volunteered to defend their newborn nation against the allied Arab enemy. Then, all of the non-Jews were bunched together in the infantry group called Unit 300 of the Israel Defense Force. It wasn't until after the 1967 Six-Day War, when Unit 300 was a key to turning back King Hussein's Royal Jordanian Army on the West Bank, that the IDF and the Unit 300 leader Mohammed Mullah formed an elite Druze reconnaissance splinter group, known as Sayeret Ha'Druzim.

Because they were fluent in Arabic, and because they were parachutist-qualified, it was common for Druze recon soldiers to be recalled into active service and dropped into Arab nations to gather intelligence. These assignments could last anywhere from a few days to a few months. Officers preferred to draw on retired soldiers for these assignments since it saved them from having to raid active units. They preferred most of all to draw on soldiers who had fought with the IDF when they invaded southern Lebanon in June of 1982. The Sayeret Ha'Druzim were in the front lines of the battles around the Palestinian refugee camps. Many of the Israeli Druze were forced to fight their own relatives serving in the Lebanese armed forces. Moreover, the Sayeret Ha'Druzim were obliged to support the fierce historic enemies of their people, the Maronite Christian Phalangists, who were warring against the Lebanese Druze. It was the ultimate test of patriotism, and not every member of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim passed. Those who did were revered and trusted. As Sergeant Vilnai had wryly observed, "Proving our loyalty gave us the honor of being first in line to get shot at in subsequent conflagrations."

Falah had been too young to serve in the 1982 invasion, but he'd worked undercover in Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq, and dangerously in the open in Jordan. The Jordanian assignment had been the last, not to mention the shortest and most difficult. While patrolling a border sector in the Jordan Valley after a terrorist attack on the town of Mashav Argaman, Falah had gone ahead of his small force of soldiers. He noticed that a hole had been cut through the thick rows of concertina wire which had been stretched along the border — a sign of infiltration. The single set of tracks led back into Jordan. Afraid that he might lose the terrorist, Falah raced ahead alone, pushing a quarter mile into the desert hills. There, following the footprints and his nose, he entered a gully. Moving ahead cautiously, he spotted a man who fit the description of the assassin who had shot a local politician and his son. Falah didn't hesitate. One couldn't in this part of the world. He swung his CAR-15 around as the Jordanian turned and aimed his AK-47. The guns fired simultaneously and both men went down. Falah had been wounded in the shoulder and left arm. The Jordanian had been killed.

Hiding from a Jordanian patrol which had heard the shots, Falah waited until nightfall before crawling back toward the border. He was pale and weak when his unit finally found him inside Jordan.

Falah was told he'd get a medal. All he wanted was coffee laced with cardamom. He received both — the coffee first, happily. He recovered quickly, and in nine weeks was back on active patrol. When his hitch ended, Falah decided it was time to pursue another line of work. He hadn't considered becoming a police officer. Though there was a great demand for military-trained personnel, the pay was low and the hours long. But Master Sergeant Vilnai had arranged this job for him. It was such an open display of personal concern that Falah could hardly decline the position — even though he knew that Vilnai's real motive was to keep his dischargee in good physical condition and close to the Sayeret Ha'Druzim's regional base at Tel Nef.

The ride to Tel Nef took just over a half hour. Once inside the nondescript base, Falah was driven to a small, one-story brick building. It was empty. The real office was in a bunker ten feet below reinforced concrete. There, it was safe from Syrian artillery, Iraqi Scuds, and most any other conventional weapons which might be hurled at it. During its twenty-year history, most of those weapons had been fired at the base.

Falah passed through the staircase checkpoint and walked into the small office shared by Major Maton Yarkoni and Master Sergeant Vilnai. An orderly shut the door behind him and left the two men alone.

Major Yarkoni was not present. He was usually in the field with his troops, which was why Vilnai spent so much time here. Falah was convinced that whereas everyone else in the brigade got too much sunlight, Vilnai got far too little. That would help to account for his chronic bad humor. Studying maps and communiques, keeping track of troop movements, and processing intelligence in this dark, stuffy hole would have made even a Desert Prophet cross.

The barrel-cheated Vilnai rose when Falah entered. The former infantryman accepted the sergeant's hand as he offered it across his metal desk.

"You're not in the service anymore," Vilnai reminded him.

Falah smiled. "Am I not?"

"Not officially," he admitted. He held his hand toward a wooden chair. "Sit down, Falah. Would you care for a cigarette?"

The Israeli frowned as he took a seat. He knew what the offering meant. Falah only used tobacco when he was among Arabs, most of whom were chain-smokers. He selected a cigarette from the case on the desk. Vilnai offered him a match. Falah hacked as the first drag went down.

"You're out of practice," the sergeant observed.

"Very. I ought to go home."

"If you'd like," Vilnai said.

Falah looked at him through the smoke. "You're too kind."

"Of course," Vilnai said, "you'll have to crawl under the barbed wire and through the minefield around the base."

"I used to do that for my daily warm-up," Falah smiled.

"I know," Vilnai said. "You were the best."

"You flatter me."

"I find it helps," Viltrai said.

Falah took another drag on the cigarette. It went down more smoothly. "The master puppeteer works his marionettes," he said.

Vilnai smiled for the first time. "Is that what I am? A master puppeteer? There is only one puppeteer, my friend." He shot a look at the white ceiling as he sat down. "And sometimes — no, most times — I feel as though Allah cannot decide whether we're performing in a tragedy, or in a comedy. All that I do know is that the play is as unpredictable as ever."

Thoughts of his own well-being evaporated as Falah regarded his former superior. "What's happened, Sergeant?"

The master sergeant splayed his fingers on his desk and looked at them. "Shortly before phoning you, I was on a conference call with Major General Bar-Levi in Haifa and an American intelligence officer, Robert Herbert of the National Crisis Management Center in Washington, D.C."

"I've heard of that group," Falah said. "Why?"

"They were part of that New Jacobin takedown in Toulouse."

"Yes," Falah said enthusiastically. "The neo-Nazi hate games on the internet. That was a beautiful piece of work."

Vilnai nodded. "Very. They're a good outfit with a superb young strike force. Only they managed to stumble down a well in Turkey. You heard about the terrorist attack on the Ataturk Dam."

"That's all they're talking about in Kiryat Shmona," he said. "That and a raw diamond old Nehemiah found in the sand at the kibbutz. It was probably dropped by a smuggler, but everyone's convinced there's a vein under the settlement."

Vilnai looked up sharply.

"Sorry," Falah said. "Please continue."

"The Americans were field-testing a new mobile intelligence facility in the region," Vilnai said. "Very sophisticated, able to access satellites and listen to every form of electronic communication. On their way back to Syria, the Ataturk terrorists — at least, the Americans believe it was the same terrorists — came upon the facility and captured it. Along with this Regional Operations Center, the Syrians were able to take its crew." Vilnai consulted his notes. "There were two strike force soldiers, a General Michael Rodgers, a technician who helped to design the mobile unit and can help the Syrians run it, two NCMC officials, and a Turkish security officer."

"As the Americans would say, a grand slam," Falah obselved. "Damascus will be celebrating tonight."

"Damascus does not appear to have been behind this," Vilnai said.

"The Kurds?"

Vilnai nodded.

"I'm not surprised," Falah said. "There have been rumblings about a new offensive for over a year now."

"I've heard those rumblings too," Vilnai admitted. "But I discounted them. most everyone did. We didn't think they could put aside their differences long enough to make any kind of effective union."

"Well, they have. And this was an impressive show for them."

"An impressive first act," Vilnai corrected. "Our American friend Mr. Herbert believes that the van containing the equipment and his people is still in Turkey but headed toward the Bekaa Valley. A strike team has been dispatched from Washington to try and take it back."

"Ah," Falah said. "And they need a guide." He pointed to himself.

"No," Vilnai said. "What they need, Falah, is someone to find it."