55

DESPITE THE WORLD’S CONTEMPORARY dependence on technology, not all communication requires electric current. This is evident in any prison, where within hours, sometimes minutes, news can be transmitted via relay, either through voice or agreed signals. The prison that is Ghetto Tel Aviv is no different. That the State of Israel has come under new management becomes known in every part of the crowded city so quickly that it is difficult to believe this is the same Israel once dependent for information on radio broadcasts and newspaper reports amplified by a network of cell phones that kept every citizen in a constantly refreshed loop of fact, rumor, innuendo and, inevitably, falsehood. A photo of any prewar Israeli street would show a cell phone pressed to the ear of every pedestrian; it was not uncommon for Israelis to be seen strolling down Dizengoff Street, Tel Aviv’s main drag, with a cell phone at either ear. Such a nation of communicators can hardly stop communicating despite no electricity, no radio, no Internet, no mobile telephony. The chief of staff learns of Yigal’s coup in an hour.

Twenty minutes later, Pinky and twelve of his most senior officers—minus Major General Ido Baram, who is under guard in a tent at Camp Yarkon—pull up to the office tower that headquarters Isracorp, formerly the nation’s most successful corporation, now just a brass plate outside a bank of elevators stalled in their shafts.

The lobby desk holds a familiar sign, with one alteration:

Government of Israel
RECEPTION
Unauthorized Entry Prohibited

The desk is manned by a white-bearded old-timer in a skullcap reading Psalms—the study and discussion of biblical texts has become a common pasttime in a city with no newspapers or magazines, even among the secular, many of whom now crowd Tel Aviv’s once underused synagogues. “Peace be unto you,” the receptionist says. Now in wide use, the once casual greeting has taken on a kind of bottomless urgency.

The chief of staff’s adjutant, a colonel, has no interest in pleasantries. “Where’s Yigal Lev?”

“Has the distinguished officer an appointment, sir?”

“This is the chief of staff, you fool. Tell us where Yigal Lev is or I’ll shake it out of you.”

Before he can grind out another threat, the very compelling sound of multiple guns being cocked echoes in the two-story lobby.

As one, the officers look up and around them. From doorways on the same floor and from the circular balcony above, a collection of Misha’s gangsters point their firearms like accusing fingers.

The man at the desk stifles a bemused smile. “Please allow me to try the prime minister’s secretary.” He picks up a pink battery powered walkie-talkie bearing the insignia My Little Pony. “Alona? Mendel downstairs. The Chief of Staff is here. Shall I...?”

In the silent lobby, the voice on the other end is tinny and laden with static. “Yigal has been expecting him. Please send him up.”

The receptionist turns to the visitors. “For the moment, our elevators are in a state of rest. Fourth floor. Kindly leave your firearms in the basket.”

Pinky raises his hand to his officers, then places his Tavor, Israel’s standard-issue rifle, into the large straw basket to his left. One by one, the officers follow suit.

“Please, gentlemen,” the receptionist says. “Side arms as well.”

Moments later, the group exits four floors of emergency stairs onto an office floor buzzing with people on computers. Alona Yarden, Yigal’s longtime secretary, whose husband may or may not be a prisoner of war in one of the victorious army’s detention camps, greets them. Like the families of some 400,000 IDF personnel not heard from since war broke out, she has no idea whether her husband is a prisoner or dead. “General, so nice of you to stop by. The prime minister will see you immediately. Let me show you to the cabinet room.”

Pinky gives her a look of exasperation, but follows, his staff in tow. Their entrance to the floor causes some to look up, but otherwise the room continues its work. Alona opens a door to a conference room where a dozen men and women sit around a table strewn with papers. She stops. “Your officers will wait outside.”

The chief of staff nods, enters.

Yigal stands. “Pinky! I knew you’d come. Let me introduce you to my—’

“Yigal, what the fuck is going on?”

“Well, right at the moment we are allocating electricity for the next ten days, by which time hopefully we can get some coal delivered to Reading 4—the turbines? We scrounged up some coal dust.”

“I know what Reading 4 is. You have electricity and the army doesn’t?”

“Put in a request. Pinky, this is Rochele, minister of power. We’re looking for a minister of defense. So far it’s fallen to me. Rochele, Pinky used to be the world’s best tank commander. Now...it’s hard to say.”

“Yigal,” the chief of staff blurts out. “Who made you prime minister?”

“I did. Winston Churchill was not available.”

Pinky is now staring at the man to Yigal’s right, who is also on his feet. “Do I know you?”

“Misha Shulman, staff sergeant, IDF reserves. You fired me along with Yigal and Noam here.” He points to a thin man of thirty wearing a single gold earring. “Funny how things work out. One day this bastard is operations officer in a tank brigade. Now he’s head of the Mossad.” Pinky’s eyes roll. It has finally dawned on him. “You’re Misha Shulman!”

“I told you that.”

“The hoodlum!”

“Currently minister of police.”

Misha is having too much fun to quit. “In Hebrew, everything’s backwards. Other places the police become crooks. Here crooks become the police.”

Yigal has let this go on too long. “Pinky, have a seat.” As space is made, the new prime minister works his way around the table, introducing his staff. “Most of the people in this room have worked with me for a while, so I know them and trust them. Roberto here got our computers running. Only he knows how. Something to do with car batteries. Limited access to the outside world, but that only means the outside world can’t tap our lines. Pinky, Sharona—minister for food. We don’t have any yet, but we’re working on it. The children have no milk.”

“Tonight we’re sending out our first patrol to bring some back,” Sharona says. “Tell your boys not to shoot us.”

“You’re sending people behind the lines to steal milk?”

“Milk?” Sharona says, as though talking to an imbecile. “We’re bringing back cows.”

“You’ve got six million people. How many cows can you steal?”

“With all due respect,” Sharona says, “they’re our fucking cows. We’ve got 2,300 children between newborn and eighteen months. They need milk. About half the mothers are just dry.”

“How do you know how many children?”

“We counted,” Yigal says. “We’re also starting a program for mothers with sufficient milk to suckle a second child whose mother is not so fortunate.” He points. “This guy with the glasses, Tzvi, is minister for logistics. Somehow he knows how many of everything we have, including pistols, rifles, and shotguns.”

Tzvi seems shy. Eventually he begins. “Tw-tw-twenty-s-s-seven thousand, six h-h-hundred and t-two.” He smiles in relief. “As of y-yesterday.”

“Ronny is our minister of health. Used to be my cardiologist.”

Cardiologists everywhere come in two formats: excessively fit and trim, and soft and overweight. Herzberg is the latter becoming the former. He likes to say the population of Israel has lost more cumulative weight in the past several weeks than the total tonnage of the population of Rhode Island, a fact no one questions but which, in a moment of medical bravado, he made up. “Outside of the military, three thousand doctors, twelve thousand nurses. We’re reopening Assuta Hospital tomorrow.”

“You want to know how much antibiotics?” Yigal asks. “Ronny can tell you. For three days, we’ve been inventorying every possible medical asset.”

The chief of staff is confused. “Why?”

“So we can move to phase two.”

“Which is?”

Yigal laughs. “Counterattack.”

“Counterattack? With what?”

“The short answer, Pinky, is with everything we’ve got.” Abruptly Yigal’s tone becomes formal. “General Pinchas Harari, as prime minister I am authorized to give you sixty seconds to swear allegiance to the interim government.”

“Or...?”

“Be relieved of command.”

“Command of what? I need planes and tanks. And ammunition. And fuel. What do the Americans say?”

“You know how they say ‘fuck you’ in Washington?” Yigal says. “‘Trust me. He pauses. “Pinky, I’m giving the order to go nuclear. You need it in writing?”

The chief of staff is silent for a while, then simply lets go a long sigh. “I don’t need a signature. I need capability.”

“Surely we must have one plane?”

“Mr. Prime Minister, that’s the least of it. We don’t have one bomb.”

“Pinky, you have my full attention.”

“They’re hidden safely underground. That’s the good news.”

“I can’t wait,” Yigal says.

“The bad news is they’re a hundred meters under the Dimona garbage dump in what is now Egyptian-controlled territory. No one expected Israel would be reduced to just Tel Aviv. The order you want to give, I gave it.”

“We have 182 nuclear bombs and no access to them?”

“176,” Pinky says. “Wait a minute. Who told you 182?”

“Wikipedia,” Yigal says. “Every taxi driver in the country used to be able to tell you that. Usually they’d swear you to secrecy. Eight are missing?”

“Six months ago, I sent two submarines, each carrying four nuclear missiles, into Iranian waters. It was one of those orders you give you don’t even know why. Just having them cruising between Haifa and Marseilles didn’t make sense. Your predecessor—the real one, the elected one—put up a stink. Pinky, this could be construed as an act of war. You could say she torpedoed the idea.”

“And.”

“And so I was compelled to deploy the subs on my own authority. My responsibility was—is—the security of the State of Israel. No fucking politician was going to screw that up.”

Yigal nods. “So you understand why—”

The chief of staff cuts in. “I understand exactly why you committed treason—it is treason, you know—in replacing the legally sanctioned government of the state. Actually, I should have done it myself, but to tell you the truth, and I’m not really proud of this, all I could think of was my fighting men, my tanks, doing my job.”

“Don’t give it a second thought, Pinky. So we do have nuclear capability.”

“In theory.”

“What is theoretical about eight nuclear warheads pointed at Iran?”

“The subs are deep,” Pinky says. “We’ll have no contact until they surface.”

“Which is when?”

“Six days.”

“So,” Yigal says. “Six days to win a war.”

The chief of staff allows himself a wry smile. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”