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Authors: John Trenhaile
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parts. The envelope also contained some black-and-white photographs, but these he put aside, knowing instinctively that by doing this he was leaving the best for later.
He began to read. The first and longest section detailed the measures taken to establish the identity of the terrorists who had killed his daughter. With some of this material he was already familiar, some was new to him; some enraged him because he realized it must have been known to others, supposedly on the same side, for a long time, yet they had never shared it with him or recognized his need to know.
At an indeterminate point, while the shadows of afternoon softened and dissolved into one another, bringing down the short dusk, Avshalom Gazit left. Raful did not notice.
Only when he had finished reading the first section of the report did he turn to the photographs. Each was identified at the bottom by means of an adhesive-backed color-coded label. He spent longest on a full-face shot of a woman, and by the time the last of the light had gone, Leila Hanif’s features were impressed on his brain as clearly, as indelibly, as his own daughter’s.
Raful went to switch on the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling by a few inches of flex before turning up the second section of the report.
Someone—the report did not state who, but Raful knew it must have been Avshalom Gazit—was proposing that a Wrath of God team be sent to kill Leila Hanif. The reason he knew that this proposal must have originated with Gazit was that normally Director Sharett would have had to be informed about any Wrath of God activities, but he had learned nothing of this and only Gazit could have kept it from him. Why would he do that? His way of neutralizing the poison that was eating its way through Sharett’s soul like the acid that ate through his stomach wall? Gazit had guessed that Raful would have insisted on accompanying the Wrath of God; guessed rightly, too. Raful would have died for very shame if anyone else had succeeded in killing Leila Hanif.
Gazit’s proposal had been rejected, for unspecified “operational” reasons. Strange, Raful thought, how in his mind this old friend had suddenly become Gazit. No longer Avshalom. Gazit.
He would get that rejection overturned. He would.
There were more photographs. A husband, Colin. And a son, Robbie. Raful sat in the pale yellow light for a long time while he committed to memory the features of the other two members of the Raleigh family, now all legitimate targets for him and the awesome forces at his command.
“What are you doing here?” Gazit had asked. At last Raful knew.
20JULY: 0600: HEATHROW
“ASI bugs and pitch index?”
“Checked.”
Captain Simon Thorneycroft made a tick on his checklist.
“Clock, engine, and TLA bugs?” “Checked.”
Thorneycroft lifted the internal phone and dialed Alex Perkins. “All set,” he said. “You?”
“Everyone’s boarded, Captain. Ready for safety demonstration.”
Thorneycroft nodded to his second officer. “Start clearance.”
The copilot reached for the radio. “London Ground, November Quebec zero-three-three on stand Juliet Fourteen, for start-up?”
The hiss changed. Then—"November Quebec zero-three-three, clear to start. Call on one-two-one decimal nine for push-back.”
At first Halib wasn’t sure if the plane’s rudder had really moved or if it was his imagination. He jammed the sight rings of his binoculars against his eyes until they smarted. A few seconds later, there could be no doubt: NQ 033 was heading for the taxiway.
He fetched the phone, placing it on a table in front of the window, and began to dial while keeping the glasses to his eyes, not looking at the digits, not needing to.
There were thirty more checks to perform during taxi. Then the aircraft held on the threshold of the runway, awaiting its turn for the sky. So early in the morning, traffic was light, and before long the passengers heard a murmur over the speakers:
He began to read. The first and longest section detailed the measures taken to establish the identity of the terrorists who had killed his daughter. With some of this material he was already familiar, some was new to him; some enraged him because he realized it must have been known to others, supposedly on the same side, for a long time, yet they had never shared it with him or recognized his need to know.
At an indeterminate point, while the shadows of afternoon softened and dissolved into one another, bringing down the short dusk, Avshalom Gazit left. Raful did not notice.
Only when he had finished reading the first section of the report did he turn to the photographs. Each was identified at the bottom by means of an adhesive-backed color-coded label. He spent longest on a full-face shot of a woman, and by the time the last of the light had gone, Leila Hanif’s features were impressed on his brain as clearly, as indelibly, as his own daughter’s.
Raful went to switch on the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling by a few inches of flex before turning up the second section of the report.
Someone—the report did not state who, but Raful knew it must have been Avshalom Gazit—was proposing that a Wrath of God team be sent to kill Leila Hanif. The reason he knew that this proposal must have originated with Gazit was that normally Director Sharett would have had to be informed about any Wrath of God activities, but he had learned nothing of this and only Gazit could have kept it from him. Why would he do that? His way of neutralizing the poison that was eating its way through Sharett’s soul like the acid that ate through his stomach wall? Gazit had guessed that Raful would have insisted on accompanying the Wrath of God; guessed rightly, too. Raful would have died for very shame if anyone else had succeeded in killing Leila Hanif.
Gazit’s proposal had been rejected, for unspecified “operational” reasons. Strange, Raful thought, how in his mind this old friend had suddenly become Gazit. No longer Avshalom. Gazit.
He would get that rejection overturned. He would.
There were more photographs. A husband, Colin. And a son, Robbie. Raful sat in the pale yellow light for a long time while he committed to memory the features of the other two members of the Raleigh family, now all legitimate targets for him and the awesome forces at his command.
“What are you doing here?” Gazit had asked. At last Raful knew.
20JULY: 0600: HEATHROW
“ASI bugs and pitch index?”
“Checked.”
Captain Simon Thorneycroft made a tick on his checklist.
“Clock, engine, and TLA bugs?” “Checked.”
Thorneycroft lifted the internal phone and dialed Alex Perkins. “All set,” he said. “You?”
“Everyone’s boarded, Captain. Ready for safety demonstration.”
Thorneycroft nodded to his second officer. “Start clearance.”
The copilot reached for the radio. “London Ground, November Quebec zero-three-three on stand Juliet Fourteen, for start-up?”
The hiss changed. Then—"November Quebec zero-three-three, clear to start. Call on one-two-one decimal nine for push-back.”
At first Halib wasn’t sure if the plane’s rudder had really moved or if it was his imagination. He jammed the sight rings of his binoculars against his eyes until they smarted. A few seconds later, there could be no doubt: NQ 033 was heading for the taxiway.
He fetched the phone, placing it on a table in front of the window, and began to dial while keeping the glasses to his eyes, not looking at the digits, not needing to.
There were thirty more checks to perform during taxi. Then the aircraft held on the threshold of the runway, awaiting its turn for the sky. So early in the morning, traffic was light, and before long the passengers heard a murmur over the speakers:
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