“What’s that?”
“Bugs in the control circuitry. The spheres must be launched within microseconds of each other to be effective. But we haven’t been able to do this yet.”
Jan threw the cannonball back onto the bench and smiled. “Let me see your documentation and your diagrams and I’ll do my best to get rid of your bugs.”
“Instantly! You will win this war for us yet!”
Seventeen
“The fruit is ripe for harvesting,” the old man said. “The longer we leave it the more we will lose.”
“There are a lot more important things you can lose,” his daughter said. “Like your head, maybe. Come on, Tata, the others are all waiting.”
The old man sighed with resignation and followed her out to the kibbutz truck. He was the last one to arrive and the others pushed over to make room for him on the crowded wooden benches. The firebox had been loaded with resinous pine logs an hour earlier so there was a good head of steam. As soon as he had the signal that they were all aboard, the driver opened the throttle and they moved out. Past the buildings where the lights still burned warmly and down the winding lane through the orchards and out onto the main road. They drove in darkness, but the smooth surface was easy to see in the dim light from the star-filled sky.
They crossed the Syrian border a little after midnight, the transponder in the truck answering the request from the detection circuits with its identification code; the computer in Tel Aviv made a note of its departure. Just before they reached El Quneitra the truck turned in to a deep wadi that wound back from the road. The darkness was intense between its high walls and the driver felt his way along, stopping suddenly when a light blinked ahead. There were camels waiting here and murmured guttural greetings as the passengers disembarked. The driver waited in the cab as they went by, some of them reaching up to pat his arm, others murmuring a few words. When they had all vanished in the darkness he reversed out and drove the truck back to the empty buildings of the kibbutz, reaching there just before dawn. He was the volunteer who was staying on.
“Like a city of the dead when I came through on the way here,” the painter said. “A very frightening proposition to one of any imagination at all. Streets empty of children, only a few vehicles moving, one or two other pedestrians. It was dusk and the lights were coming on in the houses which at first I found very cheering. That is until I looked into the windows of one as I passed and saw that it was empty. It was the computers doing it, and I felt even more uncomfortable. Hold that corner of the stencil tight, if it’s not asking too much, Heimyonkel.” He swung the spray gun back and forth with practiced skill. “When do you go?”
“Tonight. The family is already out.”
“Kiss your wife for me and tell her to think of a lonely bachelor in her dreams, alone and preparing for destiny among the shadowy hangars of Lod Airport.”
“You volunteered.”
“So I volunteered. That doesn’t mean I have to be laughing with joy does it? All right, take it down.”
The painter stepped back and admired his work. On both swelling sides, and the wings, of the Anan-13 heavy transport the six-pointed star of Israel had been painted over. In its place was a starkly black cross.
“Symbolic, and not too nice,” the painter said. “If you read history, which you don’t, because you’re a yould, you would recognize that cross. Do you?”
Heimyonkel shrugged and poured silver paint carefully into the spray gun.
“It’s the cross of Germany, that’s what it is, obliterating the Mogen David of Israel. Which is not nice and also, I wonder what the hell it is supposed to mean. Does the government know what it’s doing? I ask you but you don’t know and, P.S., I don’t know either.”
Large sheets of paper were fastened into place with tape to cover the new insignia. After this had been painted silver there was nothing visible at a distance to indicate that the work had been done.
Amri Ben-Haim was very worried. He sat slumped in his favorite chair, staring at nothing, while the glass of lemon tea grew cold before him. Only when the sound of an approaching copter drew his attention did he sit up alertly and look toward the door. He sipped some of the tea and wrinkled his lips with displeasure. As he put it down Dvora came through the door with a package.
“Another one, and delivered by a Security policeman as well. Made my flesh crawl. He just smiled when he handed it over and wouldn’t say a word.”
“Reflex sadism,” Ben-Haim said, taking the thick envelope from her. “He can have no idea of its contents. Those kind of people just enjoy making others suffer.” He shook out the familiar sealed metal box and tapped out the combination. When it snapped open he took the disc it contained and put it into the computer. Thurgood-Smythe’s unsmiling features appeared in the screen.
“This is our final communication, Ben-Haim,” he said. “By now your troops and planes will be ready to begin the operation as instructed. The exact date will be given to you later this month, and you have your departure and flight plan. You will be flying in darkness all the way, so that will take care of visual and satellite observation. You have your instructions about the radar nets. Never forget that this is a coordinated attack and exact timing is the only way to prevent disaster.”
Thurgood-Smythe glanced down out of sight of the camera and smiled very slightly.
“I have a number of reports here that inform me that you seem to be moving a great deal of your population out of the country at night. Very wise. There is always the chance of a nuke or two, even if things go perfectly. Out of spite you might say. Or perhaps it is that you don’t trust me? Nor should you have reason to. Nevertheless you are taking the correct course of action and victory is its own reward.
“I hope to be at Spaceconcent in Mojave when you arrive. Do arrange with your troops not to have me shot, if you don’t mind. Good-bye then, Amri Ben-Haim. Pray for success in our ventures.”
The image vanished. Ben-Haim turned away from the screen shaking his head. “Don’t shoot him! I’ll flay him alive if anything goes wrong with this plan!”
Fryer panted heavily as he dragged his bad leg up the stairs, climbing a single step at a time. He carried the gun over his shoulder in order to leave one hand free to clutch onto the banister. It was a hot, close day, and sweat cut runnels through the dust on his face. The boy struggled along behind him with the heavy case of grenades.
“In here,” Fryer said, opening the door carefully and looking in first to be sure that the curtains were still closed. “All in order, my lad. Put them there under the window and go on about your business. I’ll give you ten minutes to get clear. Go slow and don’t get stopped at any checkpoints. If you do it will get into the London computer that you were in this area, and that will be the end of you.
“Can’t I stay, Fryer? I could help, help you get away too with that bum leg.”
“Don’t worry, lad, they won’t get the old Fryer. They got me once, right and proper, give me this leg and a tour of the camps in the Highlands. Once was more than enough of that, let me tell you. I’m not going back. But you’re getting out, now, and that’s an order.”
Fryer sat down on the case with a wheeze of relief and listened to the footsteps retreating back down the stairs.
Good. One less thing to worry about. He dug out a joint, thin and black and almost pure hash. A few good lungfuls had him feeling better so that he didn’t even notice the pain in the leg. He smoked slowly and carefully, and waited until the roach was burning his lips before he spat it out, grinding it under his heel into the plank floor. Then he drew the curtains aside and carefully lifted open the window. A light breeze blew in from Marlybone, carrying with it the sound of heavy traffic. A military convoy was passing and he drew back against the wall until it had gone by. When the sound had dwindled and vanished he pulled open the lid of the case. Taking out one of the grenades he bounced the chunky cylinder in his palm. Made by hand from scrap metal, shaped and filed and loaded with care. When he had tested the gun out in the wasteland only one in twenty had misfired. And they had improved the things since then, he had been told. He hoped so. Holding the gun with the base down he let the grenade slide down the tubular barrel. It hit the bottom of the barrel with a solid chunk. Good. Fryer leaned forward and looked across the road at the gray cliff of Security Central.