Overhead lamps blaze in the tunnel. Powerful recessed fans suck the grit and debris clear. The commander and range officer step out from the bunker and cross to Manning on the firing line. Manning has tugged his ear protectors off. His face is black everywhere except where the goggles shielded his eyes.

Little by little, the tunnel becomes clear of dust.

MANNING

Where’s the car?

In the place where the Studebaker had been, we see only a smoking engine block, on its side, and the steel chassis frame, peeled completely of paint.

ARMORY COMMANDER

Exactly.

Manning takes three.

On the way out we pass a rack of Mossberg 500 ZMB shotguns, like the one that bowled me over during the warrant service at Brooklyn South.

MANNING

(to commander)

And one of these for my partner.

Ninety minutes down the road our convoy is halted by a skirmish in a migrant camp outside a town called Arad. It takes Israeli Special Forces units—Sayeret Matkal—working with their Palestinian counterparts almost two hours to restore order and clear the highway. Returning to board our Humvees, I see two of our young paratroopers giggling at something on a phone.

I look.

It’s the shower video, the one with Instancer cupping Rachel’s bare breasts in his soapy hands.

DANA

(to paratroopers)

Put that shit away!

The soldiers obey reluctantly. When I turn to Dana, she averts her gaze. Either Ben-David has told her more about our enterprise than she has indicated or she and the troops she commands have figured it out on their own.

28

EIN GEDI

OUR PARTY REACHES Kibbutz Ein Gedi at the peak of the late afternoon heat. Ben-David is waiting in the sun at the end of the entry drive. I’m startled at the depth of feeling produced by this reunion. Manning shakes Ben-David’s hand with real emotion. Ben-David has to pretend to wipe sweat from his eyes.

MANNING

Where’s Rachel?

BEN-DAVID

She’s safe. Don’t worry. We’ve heard nothing from you-know-who.

Ben-David shows Manning the latest from KAN 11:

Four new “LV” murders in the past twelve hours—two in Israel, one in Egypt, one in Turkey.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five.

BEN-DAVID

What number does that make me?

Ben-David leads us inside to the dining hall. He’s in uniform—boots and desert hat, rumpled khaki trousers and even more wrinkled utility shirt. The digital thermometer on the wall reads 45.5 Celsius (114° Fahrenheit) even with a breeze and a line of industrial fans cranking.

Dana returns from the office to tell us there’s been another “schedule alteration.” Two civilian tractor-trailers were supposed to pick up Ben-David’s equipment—prototypes of solar power generation gear—and take it to the port of Haifa, from which it will be transported by sea to Cyprus for the climate conference six days hence. But an emergency has called the vehicles away. We’ll have to deliver the stuff ourselves, using army trucks and repacking everything.

DANA