The train station was clean and neat and here too there were soldiers with M-16s or Uzi submachine guns. There was no place in the train station that you could be out of the gaze of one of the soldiers. On the train, they were able to get two seats together. They sat facing forward on the left side of the train. Two soldiers sat in the seat facing them. The soldiers wore very unremarkable uniforms and sat casually. Their hair was over their ears and they hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. What bothered Vialli most were the machine guns resting on their laps that were pointed directly at him.
The train lurched into motion and Vialli tried to take his eyes off the guns but found himself preoccupied; he had to know whether they were loaded and whether their safeties were on.
One of the soldiers began talking to Irit in Hebrew, which Vialli had no hope of understanding. She saw that Vialli’s eyes were focused on the gun of the soldier directly across from him. “I’d like you to meet Moshe Levitz,” she said to Vialli. She looked across at Moshe, who was staring at Vialli. “This is a friend of mine, Tony Vialli.”
“Hi,” Vialli said. The soldier nodded at him and extended his hand. Vialli took his hand and shook it with conscious firmness. “You a soldier?” Vialli asked.
“No,” the soldier replied, then laughed, saying something to Irit and his companion in Hebrew. “I am banker,” he went on, and laughed again, followed by more Hebrew. “This is what we wear in banks here. You never know when you’ll meet a bandit, like” — he looked at his friend then back at Vialli — “John Dillinger, or Bonnie and Clyde.” He laughed out loud, very proud of himself. His English was good, but heavily accented.
Vialli blushed. “Sorry. Stupid question.”
The soldier held up his thick hand and shook his head. “Not a stupid question, American. I am only in the Reserves. During regular time, I am banker!” he said, and once again broke out into laughter.
Through the window, Vialli could see the city as it went by. It was like New York on a smaller scale, and it also looked like Athens, or parts of Athens, and a lot of other places. There were children playing in the streets, cars driving generally in order — overall a rather nice place, he thought. He looked at Moshe Levitz again and saw the two small ribbons over the pocket on his mostly brown unremarkable unkempt uniform shirt. “Haven’t seen much action?” he asked.
“Why do you say that?” the soldier asked, looking at him intently.
“I don’t know. Two ribbons…”
“You are very observant, but very unknowing.” He glanced down at the two ribbons and pointed to the first one. “They are both for fighting. Those are the only ribbons I could get.” His eyes flashed. “There is another award, like your Medal of Honor, but most of us get that when we are… under the ground.”
Vialli looked at Irit. “You got any other stupid questions I could ask? I’m kind of running out.”
Irit smiled up at him and took his hand.
“You want to see it?” Moshe asked Vialli, lifting his weapon for Vialli to examine. “I saw you looking at it. You know how to handle a rifle?”
“Yeah,” Vialli answered. “I qualified as an expert in rifle and pistol.”
“Where?” Moshe asked, frowning.
“U.S. Navy.”
“You were in the American Navy?” he asked, surprised.
“Still am,” Vialli said, taking the rifle from Moshe. “What is this?”
“Galil.”
“Looks sort of like an AK-47.”
“It is sort of like an AK-47.”
“Where is it made?”
“Israel. In the late sixties, Israeli soldiers had only M-16s from America. They didn’t do well in sand and dust. Everyone said AK-47 from Russia — that all the Arab countries had — was better. Israel Galili, the chief weapons designer for Israeli Military Industries, decided to make an Israeli rifle that would be better than all of them.”
Vialli felt it, weighed it in his hands, and looked at Moshe. “It’s kind of heavy.”
“Heavier than the M-16, but lighter than the AK-47.”
“Is it better than all of them?”
Moshe considered the question. “I think it probably is. Very reliable, good weapon. Accurate.”
“Does it shoot the 7.62-millimeter NATO round?”
“You do know weapons. Most shoot the 5.56-millimeter, but there are some that shoot the 7.62. Mostly the ones sold to friends in other countries.”
Vialli checked the sights, and pointed it toward the window as the train rocked along. “Any other country in the Middle East use it?”
“We don’t have any friends in the Middle East,” Moshe answered.
Vialli aimed the rifle again and asked Moshe about the collapsible stock. Moshe wasn’t listening. He was talking to Irit. Vialli lowered the gun. “What’s he talking about?”
“He doesn’t believe that you’re a pilot. He thinks I’m pulling his leg.”
“That would be bad,” Vialli said, smiling as he leaned over and spoke quietly into her ear. “Tell him in Hebrew, quietly, I’m an F-14 pilot, and, given the chance, could kick any Israeli pilot’s ass. Anywhere, anytime.”
She looked at him, shocked, then smiled. She translated quickly to Moshe, whose smile faded as she went on.
“And tell him,” Vialli said, still whispering, as he looked at Moshe, “I could kick his ass too.”
Again she translated for Moshe. His face reddened and he studied Vialli. Then he saw the sparkle in Vialli’s eye, showing that he meant it, and that he was full of mischief and good humor. Moshe smiled broadly at Vialli, sizing up his muscular six-foot-two-inch frame. Moshe spoke rapidly in Hebrew, as his friend looked on, concerned. To Vialli Moshe said, “How many men you have killed?”
Vialli stared at Moshe unblinkingly. “Don’t worry, I won’t kill you.”
Moshe erupted in laughter and said to Irit in English, “I like your friend. He has courage. I don’t know whether of a lion or a donkey, but courage he has. When he is done with his Boy Scout tour, he can come join the Israeli Air Force after he marries you, an Israeli.”
Vialli saw that her neck was redder than usual. He laughed. “That’s pretty good.”
Irit blinked in surprise at his sudden laughter. “Why do you laugh?”
“Because I don’t think you’d marry me,” he said casually.
Her eyes clouded with concern and she turned toward him and spoke quietly, disappointment in her voice. “Then why are you here?”
Vialli was stung. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… I’m not… I don’t know, I’m not the guy your father is looking for, probably. We’re just getting to know each other. I didn’t mean it could never happen. I meant it like it isn’t close, it isn’t imminent.”
Moshe looked at her expectantly. “It’s none of your business,” she said sharply in Hebrew.
“Did you just tell him off?” Vialli asked, amazed.
“Sort of.”
“What for?”
“Because he wants me to tell him everything we’re saying — he only understands you about three fourths of the time. He wants to know everything he can’t hear or understand, and it’s none of his business. Don’t worry. I’ve known him since I was a little girl. He is a banker — in Nahariya. He’s going the same place we are.”
Vialli gave the Galil back to Moshe and took Irit’s hand.
The Sheikh paced in the stone-walled room. The dripless candles that he used for illumination could fight back only half the darkness. He insisted the fortress be lit with candles to save electricity for the things that needed it — the computers and communications equipment. They ran off a portable Honda generator that was two miles away, attached only by an underground cable. It pulled air through a tube that came up under a bush on the top of the mountain. Unless someone stepped on it, it would never be found. And if it was, and they closed it down, or the generator failed, there were five others in place waiting to replace it, ready to go at a moment’s notice. The generator could not be heard in the room where the Sheikh was finalizing the planning.