65

ON A MOUNTAIN PATH west of Jerusalem, the two donkeys descend steadily. The shortcut takes their riders, both dressed in soiled Bedouin robes, from the secondary road where they were passed twice by an olive-green Cadillac flying the pennant of Egyptian headquarters staff to this narrow trail enfiladed by thick-trunked olive trees that bore fruit before the time of Jesus.

“Abed,” Cobi says, “my tuchis is about to fall off.”

“Why not let the donkey ride you?”

“Is this your idea of transportation, man? It’s the twenty-first century.”

“As it happens,” Abed says, “I possess a Ford pickup, four-wheel drive, AC. Beautiful machine. Despite Hollywood movies, the Bedouin is no enemy of the internal combustion engine.”

“So why in hell do we have to—”

“Because that vehicle is too big to negotiate this pathway. On better roads, we would be stopped, and questioned, and perhaps the Ford would be requisitioned. The Syrian sons of whores at the bottom, hidden in the foliage, they won’t bother stealing two donkeys.”

Cobi shades his eyes. “I don’t see any Syrians.”

Abed points to the rocky trail before them. “We’ve been following their tracks for two kilometers. Army officer, eh? Don’t they teach you anything?”