Chapter Forty-Six

ANAPA, RUSSIA

It was late autumn, nearly winter, and the day was cool, too cold for bathing in the waters of the Black Sea. Seen from the cabana on the sand, the clouds building over the water to the west seemed to speak of winter and of times when holidays are better spent indoors, next to the fire.

But the old rabbi appeared deeply pleased with his surroundings. True, he wore a heavy woolen suit, appropriate to the season, but he reclined easily in the wicker chair, and smiled as he was handed a steaming tea glass by his good friend, the president of the Russian Federation.

“Thank you, Sergei Nikitavich,” he told the younger man, his Russian voice still deep, still strong.

“And thank you for seeing me, Rabbi.”

“Seeing you?” The old man chuckled. “You, the president of the country, have traveled all the way from Moscow to Anapa for this visit, and you thank me for the ten-minute journey from my humble shul to here?”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and cupped his hot tea.

The president cleared his throat and leaned toward the old cleric.

“I heard of your illness,” he said.

“My cancer? It is nothing.”

“Nothing?” The president sat up, eyebrows raised. “But, I was told that it is . . .”

“Terminal?” The rabbi nodded. “Oh, yes; that, it is. The doctors tell me I will most certainly be gone by Chanukah. And that, too, is nothing.”

The president shook his head slightly and gazed at the old rabbi. “I don’t . . .”

“Sergei Nikitavich,” the rabbi laughed and patted him on the arm. “Have you forgotten your Scripture? Jews do not die. You learned that at your mother’s knee, and I affirmed that as we studied together. The body dies, but this?”

The old man waved a hand dismissively at his shrunken, bent form.

“This, my old friend, is not worth keeping. I was given it to use and I used it well; it is all worn out. And besides, what will you be doing on the first day of the Festival of Lights? Watching it snow on the crowds in Red Square and eating brisket? I tell you, I have by far the better of the two situations.”

The president looked unconvinced.

“I am old, Sergei Nikitavich,” the rabbi told him. “I creak when I awaken in the morning. Some days, I must sit in the bath for an hour before I can fully straighten up. I tell you the truth: the pain of the cancer is very little, compared to the pain of the arthritis.”

He pointed to his own face. “These eyes have seen eighty-seven winters, my friend. Eighty-seven! And believe me, they have no desire whatsoever to see their eighty-eighth, mild as the winters may be here. Jewish tradition ordains that I must go to be judged. And Jewish tradition also tells me that he who will judge is merciful. I am banking on the latter.”

He smiled. “I can tell this talk is distressing you, my old friend. Let us speak of something else. Your son; he is well?”

“He is,” the president told his old friend. “He was injured, ejecting from a multirole fighter, one of our Sukhoi stealth prototypes. But he has fully recovered.”

The rabbi smiled, his eyes bright spots among the creases of his face. “He is back on duty, then?”

The president’s face fell. “No, Rabbi. He resigned his commission.”

“Ah. The stress of the accident. Of course. It is completely understandable.”

The president looked down into his tea. “Actually, Rabbi, he resigned before the accident.”

“Before? But then what was he . . . ?” The old rabbi set his tea glass on the table. “Sergei Nikitavich, I do not understand. Is your son in some sort of trouble?’

“No, my old friend.” The president smiled thinly and shook his head. “It is nothing like that. In fact, last week, in a small ceremony in the Terem Palace, I personally conferred upon my boy the honor of Hero of the Russian Federation.”

“Hero of the . . . ,” the rabbi leaned forward. “I had not heard.”

“Nor has anyone except the eight who were there,” the president said. He began enumerating them on his fingers. “My wife, myself, the leaders of the air force and the secret service, and the Israeli, American, and British ambassadors.”

He took a breath as if to say more. But he did not speak.

“Sergei Nikitavich,” the rabbi said softly. “I have guarded all these years how you secretly reembraced your mother faith. I am also your friend and this worn-out old body will be cold and still as a stone within two months. If you wish a set of ears with which to share a confidence, then you could not choose more safely than mine.”

The president set his tea next to the rabbi’s.

“You remember when Iran launched their rockets,” the president said. “When the whole world thought others would launch their own missiles in retaliation, but they did not?”

“I remember,” the rabbi told him. “The response was limited to a single unmarked plane, and a single bomb. Not nuclear, but very effective. It eliminated practically everyone who had been holding Iran hostage; the talk is that a much more moderate government is forming there as we speak.”

“My son,” the president told him, “he was the pilot. No one could identify the plane because it was the Sukhoi, the stealth prototype. It will not go into production for another three years and, when it does, if someone makes the connection, we will claim the prototype was stolen, that we never announced it because of security concerns.”

He picked up his tea, sipped it, and set it down again. “My Mikhail dropped the bomb. Then he flew the Sukhoi south, avoided radar thanks to the stealth technology, crossed the straits into the Arabian Sea, and ejected—that was where he sustained his injuries. A British Royal Boat Service team picked him up and returned to a Royal Navy submarine. He was taken to the British base at Diego Garcia for treatment, and returned here courtesy of the CIA.”

The rabbi smiled broadly. “One man! Your Mikhail did all that, by himself!”

“No.” The president shook his head. “Not by himself. The ordnance Mikhail dropped was provided by Israel. And it was laser-guided. There had to be someone on the ground, someone near enough to designate the target with a laser of the proper spectrum.”

The rabbi leaned forward. “Who was it?”

The president leaned forward as well. “I do not know. Mikhail does not know. He spoke to him on the radio, but only a few words. All we know is that CIA and the Mossad told us he would be there, and he was.”

The president picked up his tea again. “But I know one more thing, my dear friend.”

The rabbi cocked his head. “What is that?”

“If ever I find out who it was . . .” The president sipped his tea. “I most decidedly assure you that I will confer the honor of Hero of the Russian Federation on one person more.”