10

IN THE PASSENGER SEAT of a white Volvo sedan speeding south to Tel Aviv from his home in Caesarea, the ancient port that was at one time the Latin-speaking capital of Roman-ruled Palestine, Lieutenant General Pinchas Harari listens carefully to what is being explained to him on the phone. Harari is one of those officers who refuses to delegate but hates being bothered by details, an impossible contradiction that wears him down and earns his staff sleepless nights. If he were the head of a corporation instead of an army, he would long ago have hired a psychologist to help him resolve this conflict, but as chief of staff of the IDF he has no such luxury. If a secret like that ever got out, it would end his career. His predecessor—the most capable officer of his generation, who liked a drink from time to time—was branded an alcoholic and lost his job as a result.

“Repeat.”

General Harari listens even more carefully than before. “Coincidence is not conspiracy,” he says. “But I’m on my way. Continue monitoring.” To himself he mutters: “Sissies.”

“Commander?”

General Harari turns to his driver. “Gingy, I said something to you?”

“I don’t know, commander. I thought maybe—”

“How long have you driven for me?”

“Six years, sir. Almost seven.”

“In that time, when I gave you an order, did you ever consider I was asking about your taste in ice cream?”

“No, sir.”

“In simple Hebrew,” the general said, pissed off that they awakened him to leave his soft bed and warm wife to fly on a fool’s errand to Israel Defense Forces headquarters in Tel Aviv before four in the morning. He has no one to scold but his driver. “When I have something to tell you, you’ll know it.”

“I understand, commander.”

“And stop calling me commander.”

“Sorry, Pinky,” the driver says. “Pinky, it’s just when you’re in a mood, it puts me on edge.”

“How the hell do you think it makes me feel?” the general asks. “Interrupted sleep, it’s part of my job.” He laughs despite himself. “Yours too. Forgive me, Gingy. It seems in the entire IDF, bristling with communications devices and computers and who knows what more, no one has bothered to read the papers.”

“The papers?”

“The papers. Everyone knows we’re on the verge of peace.”

“That’s what they say, Pinky.”

“That’s what they say, Gingy. That’s what they say.”