After struggling along for a few hundred feet, Nabil turned and stopped the donkey.

“This isn’t going anywhere.  We’ll turn back and try the other way.”

“We’ve come so far already,” Achmed said.  “Just a little further.  Let’s see what’s around that bend before we turn back.”

“All right.  To the bend and no more.”

They struggled farther along the narrow path, and as they were slithering past a jagged rib in the cliff wall, Nabil called back from the lead.

“You were right!  It ends here.  We can get past it here!”

As Achmed followed the donkey around the rib, he saw that the far side was just as steep as the near, with no gully or ravine to allow them passage to the top.  And worse, the leading edge of the outcrop was topped by an overhang of stone that would have daunted them even had there been a way to climb the face.

They had entered the mouth of a deep canyon.  Beyond the outcrop a broad dry wadi swept down from the upper reaches of the range; half a dozen feet above that, a small, raised field.  And beyond the field stood another sheer-faced cliff even more forbidding than the one they had just skirted.

Nabil stood in the moonlight, head back, hands on hips, staring at the cliff face.

“There’s no way up.”

Achmed’s voice choked on his disappointment.  He could only nod.  He’d been so sure...

Something stung his nostrils.  He blinked his suddenly watery eyes.  He couldn’t see it but he could smell it.  Smoke...riding the breeze that wafted down the wadi.

“Nabil...?”

But his brother had smelled it too.

“Achmed!  Follow!  Quickly!”

They drove the donkey up the gentler slope of the dry riverbed.  As they neared the small field the smoke became thicker.  Another hundred feet and Achmed spotted the flames.

“It’s here!” Nabil cried.  “It crashed here!”

They dragged and pushed the donkey up the far bank of the wadi and stopped at the top to stare at the tiny field that ran across the base of the canyon mouth.  Stunted fig trees reached their twisted branches heavenward at regular intervals across its narrow span.  A few of them were burning.  Dozens of tiny grass fires crawled along the field’s smooth surface.

“Let’s get to work!” Nabil said.

As his older brother tethered the donkey to the nearest tree, Achmed spotted a dark lump in the sand to his right.  He knelt and touched it, gingerly.  Hard, with sharp, twisted edges.  And warm.  Still warm.

“I’ve found a piece!” he cried aloud.

The first piece! he boasted silently.

Nabil pointed to a spot near the donkey’s feet.  “Drop it here.  When we’ve collected as much as we can carry, we’ll load up and head back to the herd.  And hurry, Achmed.  As sure as you breathe, we’re going to have company soon.”

Company?  Did he mean other Bedouin, or Israelis?  Not that it mattered.  Either way, they stood to lose whatever metal they gathered.

‡

Over Beit Shemesh

Chaim Kesev set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.  He wasn’t cold—far from it in this bulky flack jacket.  No, the incessant vibrations from the engine coursing throughout the helicopter’s fuselage were penetrating the padding of his seat, jittering up his spine, piercing his skull, and running to his teeth.  He was sure a couple of them would rattle loose if he had to take much more of this.

Man was not meant to fly.

Kesev hated flying, and he hated flying in helicopters most of all.  But after he’d watched the computer plot the course of the errant SCUD on the map, and seen the area encircled for maximum probability of impact—120 kilometers southeast of Tel Aviv—he knew he couldn’t wait in the city for the report from the crash site.  Everyone else in the tracking center had been relieved that the SCUD had landed in an unpopulated area of the Southern District wilderness.  Not Kesev.  Not when it was that particular area.

As soon as the all clear had sounded, he’d pushed his way aboard the reconnaissance helicopter.  His presence had raised eyebrows among the crew.  Who was this pushy little man, this swarthy, slight, five-eight, middle-aged, bearded wonder to elbow his way onto their craft?  But when he’d flashed them his Shin Bet identification they’d sealed their lips.  None of them had the nerve to challenge the wishes of a Domestic Intelligence operative when the country was under attack.

Kesev stared down at the mountainous terrain below and wondered where they were.

“How much further?” he asked the copilot lounging in the seat directly ahead of his.

“Not much longer now, sir,” the airman said, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sir.  It’s just that whenever my family used to take a trip, I’d drive my father crazy saying, ‘Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?’  And that’s the answer he’d always give me: ‘Not much longer now.’  And here I am, saying it to you.”

“I was not aware,” Kesev said icily, “that a question concerning our arrival at the crash site of a weapon hurled at us by one of our most vicious enemies, a weapon that might contain chemical or biological toxins, could be construed as childish.”

“Sir,” the copilot said, straightening in his seat and half turning toward him.  “I meant nothing like that.  I—”

He knew he was being unfair, but he was edgy and irritable and wanted to lay off some of that burden on this youngster.

“Nor was I aware that I was driving you crazy.”

“Sir, I was just—”

“Just keep us on course.”

“Yes sir.”

On course.  The missile in question had been anything but.  SCUDs had a reputation for being about as accurate as fireworks rockets, but this particular missile’s course had added a new dimension to the concept of erratic.  It had turned so far south that it never came within range of the Patriots the army had borrowed from the Americans.  For a while it looked as if it might crash into the Dead Sea, but its trajectory had flattened momentarily, carrying it into the Wilderness.

Near the Resting Place.

Kesev had no doubt that it had missed the Resting Place.  A direct hit was inconceivable.  But anything focusing attention on that area posed a threat to the secret.  He wanted to see the crash site himself, and wanted to be present when the inspection team arrived.  He’d be there to deal with any other intelligence service that might try to tag along.  Domestic intelligence was Shin Bet’s domain and Kesev was here to claim it for them.  He feared that if he didn’t stake out his territory now, Mossad and Aman would be horning in, and might wander into areas they shouldn’t.

One area—the Resting Place—was not to be disturbed.  Never disturbed.  He shuddered to think of the consequences...

Kesev tried to shake off the unease that had encircled his throat since he’d seen the computer MPI printout.

“I’m still waiting for the answer to my question,” he said to no one in particular.

“ETA twenty minutes, sir,” the copilot said without looking at him.

That’s better, Kesev thought.  That is the proper way to treat one of Shin Bet’s top operatives.

Then he reconsidered.  Perhaps he was being too hard on the youth.  He’d been a young upstart once.

Dear Lord, how long ago had that been?

Never mind.

“Who do you think aimed this missile?” Kesev said, trying to lighten the leaden mood that had settled on the cabin.  “A blind man?”

“Yeah,” the pilot said.  “Ayatollah Stevie Wonder.”

The copilot laughed and Kesev forced a smile, all the while wanting to ask, Who is Stevie Wonder?  But he feared sounding out of touch.  He was ever on guard against sounding out of touch.

“Yeah,” the copilot said.  “Someone put a mean hook on that SCUD.”

“Hook?”

“You ever play golf, sir?”

Kesev had tried it once or twice but had been unable to comprehend the fascination the game held for so many of his countrymen.