“Even so, we shouldn’t have done it here, under a local. It should have been done in a hospital, with a general anesthetic. We nearly made a mess of it. We ought to think about it, Alfred.”

Wahrhaftig, in an altered voice, said:

“What? Are you worried?”

Eitan took his time. After a pause he said:

“No. Not now.”

Tamar hesitated, her mouth opened and closed twice, and finally she said warily:

“You look good in that white turtleneck, Gad. Would you rather have lemon tea instead of coffee?”

Eitan said:

“Yes, but no tail-wagging, please.”

Wahrhaftig, a clumsy peacemaker, hastily turned the conversation to current affairs:

“So, what do you say about that Polish anti-Semite? They’ve learned nothing and forgotten nothing. Did you hear on the radio what the cardinal in Warsaw said about the Auschwitz convent? It’s a straight replay of their old tunes: Why are the Jews so pushy, why are the Jews making such a fuss, why are the Jews inciting the whole world against poor Poland, why are the Jews trying to make capital out of their dead again? After all, millions of Poles were killed too. And our cute little government, with old-fashioned Jewish obsequiousness, turns a blind eye to the whole thing. In any civilized country we’d have sent their chargé d’affaires home with a good kick in the you-know-where.”

Eitan said:

“Don’t you worry, Alfred. We won’t take it lying down. One night we’ll drop airborne commandos on them. A lightning raid. An Auschwitz Entebbe. We’ll blow that convent sky high, and all our forces will return safely to base. Surprise will be total. The world will hold its breath like the good old days. Then Mr. Sharon and Mr. Shamir will gabble on about the long arm of the IDF and the renewal of Israel’s deterrent force. They can christen it Operation Peace for the Crematoria.”

Fima was instantly ignited. If I were prime minister, he thought, but before he could complete the thought, he had burst out furiously: