91

ON THE LARGE TELEVISION screen in the conference room of what was once the main Jerusalem branch of Israel Discount Bank, a soaking wet Connie Blunt can be seen doing a stand-up from the beach at Tel Aviv.

“As you can see, Damian, aid in the form of food, clean water, and medical supplies is now being distributed to the hungry population of what people here call Ghetto Tel Aviv, a reference to the Warsaw Ghetto where the Nazis concentrated a huge population so that they could be killed off. But today, through the generosity of American private citizens and church groups, the men, women, and children of this ghetto have the chance to live another day.”

She presses her earpiece, leaning forward. “I’m sorry, Damian—can you repeat?”

The screen splits. “What can you tell us, Connie, about the footage we’ve just shown of that aerial attack on the beach?”

“Well, Damian, it wasn’t precisely an attack on the beach. It was an attack on innocent civilians. Five or six aircraft, which I’m told are Syrian, attempted to—”

Tupikov cuts off the television. “Regrettable.”

General Niroomad is seething. “Syrians are not particularly good at warfare, that is the problem.”

Syrian Field Marshall Al-Asadi stands. “When the chariots of Damascus ruled the Eastern Mediterranean, the Persians huddled in caves.”

“Always a history lesson. As from my distinguished Egyptian colleague, allow me to quote: ‘All Israeli planes were destroyed.’ Yet there they were, on television no less, sinking three warships. Not one—three.”

“It is unaccountable,” Field Marshall Haloumi says, almost sputtering. “Three pink Super Hornets that come from nowhere and return to nowhere. Our intelligence has no sign of them.”

“Perhaps you would like also to tell me of the accomplishments of the Egyptians in history. All fiction.”

“The pyramids are fiction? You have only to look at them.”

“My dear field marshal, the Hebrews built your pyramids. Now they have destroyed your fleet.”

“I tell you all Jewish warplanes were destroyed.”

“Like the Jewish tanks that wiped out my son’s armored division, destroyed, I was assured, by—”

“No Israeli tanks survived!” Marshal al-Asadi shouts. He bangs on the table. “No doubt they were American!”

“Oh, yes, field marshal,” the Iranian says. “And then they went back into a hole in the ground!”

Tupikov raises his hand. “Gentlemen...”

“Gentlemen?” General Niroomad says. “Gentlemen do not prevaricate. We are blessed with mysterious planes, mysterious tanks. Now the door is open to a resupply of the Jews we so carefully herded into Tel Aviv to starve. Now, through unspeakable incompetence, our enemy will fatten to create some further Jewish cleverness. We are the victors and they make fools of us. On CNN no less. On world television.”

This is Tupikov’s opportunity. The only way to unite these disparate forces is through their common enmity. “Then what must be done?”

“There is no question what, my friend,” General Niroomad says. “The question is when.”

“Exactly,” Marshall al-Asadi says. “We have a proverb: a Jew lives, the problem grows.”

“So it is agreed?” General Niroomad asks. It is rhetorical, a gesture.

“Syria votes yes.”

“The Kingdom of Jordan agrees. As per plan, the Hashemite tanks will have the honor to be the first to enter Tel Aviv.”

“Allah go with them,” Field Marshal Haloumi says. “Egyptian infantry will follow. The streets will run with blood.”

“Our Syrian heroes will seal the city,” General al-Asadi confirms. “None will flee. Not an infant. Neither a Jewish cat nor a Jewish dog.”

Field Marshal Haloumi turns to the Russian. “The Americans, will they not come to the aid of the Jews? Will they not send the Sixth Fleet?”

“The wings of the American eagle are soaked in oil,” Tupikov says. “It is a dodo, a flightless bird. Our satellites display no action, no movement, not even a breeze. The Americans don’t care for the Jews, neither for the Palestinians. They care only for oil.”

“Again the Palestinians,” General Said says. “Squash one bug, up comes another.”

Tupikov shakes his head. “The Palestinians are history. Brief history, convenient history, but history nonetheless.”

“The Palestinians deserve their fate,” General Said says with finality. “They were never a people and never will be.” He rises. “The army of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan must prepare for the siege of Tel Aviv.” His hand on the hilt of his sword, he marches out.

The Syrian commander slowly rises. “Let the Jordanians drown in Jewish blood,” Field Marshall Al-Asadi whispers. “Later, at our leisure, we shall deal with them as well.” He nods, then he too leaves the conference room.

After his footsteps can no longer be heard resounding in the hall, General Niroomad turns to Tupikov. “Arab heroism. Tanks against pistols. If that. And then treachery.”

“The cats eats the mouse,” Tupikov says. “The dog eats the cat. Will the lion devour the dog?”

“Iran does not nourish on dog.”

“I am sorry to hear that, general.”

Niroomad smiles. “But dogs have their uses.”

“General, it is an interesting business doing pleasure with you.”

“Russia will control the Suez Canal,” Niroomad says. “Iran will control the Arabs. And their oil.”

“Together,” Tupikov says. “We will remake the world.”