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THROUGH THE DUST OF his office window, Yigal sees the first wave of F/A-18s flash across the morning sky over Tel Aviv, then head out to sea before turning back to cross the city once more. There are fifty-eight. In twenty-five minutes, two more will appear, escorting what is now El Al 201. For the less well-informed citizens of Tel Aviv, who are aware that an attack on the city is inevitable, the planes spark resigned panic, very similar to the reaction of Londoners during the Blitz, who moved quickly to the shelter of Underground stations in determined desperation.

But there is no subway in Tel Aviv, and though by law each apartment house must contain a below-ground shelter, in total these are designed to protect the population of the city, not the entire country. Still, chaos does not ensue: like the residents of wartime London, the people of Ghetto Tel Aviv hurry, for the most part stoically, to previously chosen locations as though they are simply late for a date: the lee of abandoned buses and trucks; the underground shelters of public parks and office buildings; beneath the city’s trademark white apartment buildings, which are built on pillars so as to provide parking spaces; within cafés and shops whose doors were forced by the endless flood of refugees seeking shelter and anything they might barter for food.

By the time the waves of Kuwaiti aircraft double back over the city, there is no one on the streets but Misha’s police force, together with medical teams already well distributed in first aid stations across the city. There is no other way to deal effectively with the huge numbers of expected wounded; no vehicles are available to bring the victims to the city’s hospitals. In groups of three, doctors and nurses are stationed where the wounded are expected to be.

There are no wounded.

One by one, the city’s residents poke their heads out from their hiding places as the F/A-18s return east.

“Phase one, check,” Yigal says to no one, though Misha and Alon Peri are with him. He turns to Peri. “This is really going to work?”

“Absolutely,” Peri says. Then: “All things being equal.”

“I never know what that means,” Yigal says. “What if their tin cans take other routes?”

“On the narrower streets, their turrets can’t turn,” Misha says. “All they can shoot is the tank ahead. Unless they’re totally incompetent, they’ll stick to the boulevards.”

“And the...devices?”

Peri beams with confidence. “Couldn’t be lower tech. They’ll be fine.”

“If not, this guy’s dead,” Misha says.

Yigal turns back to the window as the last of the F/A-18s flashes by. “If not,” he says, “we’re all dead.”