By the Rivers of Babylon Read Online Free PDF Page B

not going to drink any more of this swill. I’ll take you to breakfast and drop you at The Citadel on my way to my embassy.”
    Laskov nodded. He walked into the bedroom. He slipped on a khaki cotton shirt that might have been civilian except for two small olive branches that designated his rank. He pulled the automatic from his waistband. He buttoned his shirt with one hand and held the .45 with the other as he walked to the window. Below, the two men, whoever they were, looked quickly down at
their shoes. Miriam got into a waiting taxi and sped off. Laskov threw the .45 on the bed.
    He felt uneasy. It was the wind. Something to do with an imbalance of negative ions in the air, they said. The ill wind went by many names—the
Foehn
of Central Europe, the
Mistral
of Southern France, the
Santa Ana
of California. Here it was called
Hamseen
or
Sharav.
There were people, like himself, who were weather-sensitive and suffered physically and phychologically from the effect. It wouldn’t matter at 19,000 meters, but it mattered here. It was a mixed blessing, this first hot wind of spring. He looked into the sky. At least it was turning out to be a perfect day for flying.

 
     
2

    Abdel Majid Jabari sat staring at a cup of black Turkish coffee laced with arak. “I don’t mind telling you I was badly frightened. I came very close to shooting a security man.”
    Miriam Bernstein nodded. Everyone was jumpy. It was a time of celebration, but also a time of apprehension. “My fault. I should have realized.”
    Jabari put up his hand. “Never mind. We see Palestinian terrorists everywhere, but in fact, there are not many left these days.”
    “How many does it take? You especially should be careful. They really
do
want you.” She looked at him. “It must be difficult. A stranger in a strange land.”
    Jabari was still high-strung from his dawn encounter. “I’m no stranger here. I was born here,” he said pointedly. “You weren’t,” he added, then regretted the remark. He smiled in a conciliatory manner and spoke in Arabic. “‘If you mingle your affairs with theirs, then they are your brothers.’”
    Miriam thought of another Arabic saying. “‘I came to the
place of my birth and cried, “The friends of my youth, where are they?” And Echo answered. “Where are they.”’” She paused. “That applies to both of us, I suppose. This is no more your land now, Abdel, then it was mine when I landed on these shores. Displaced persons displacing other wretched persons. It’s all so damned . . . cruel.”
    Jabari could see that she was on the verge of slipping into one of her darker moods. “Politics and geography aside, Miriam, there are many cultural similarities between the Arabs and the Jews. I think they have all finally realized that.” He poured a glass of arak and raised it. “In Hebrew, you—we—say
shalom
alekhem
, peace unto you. And in Arabic, we say
salaam
aleckum
, which is as close as we’ve gotten to it up to now.”
    Miriam Bernstein poured herself a glass of arak. “
Alekhem
shalom
, and unto you, peace.” She drank and there was a burning in her stomach.
    As they sat at breakfast they spoke about what might happen in New York. She felt good talking to Jabari. She was apprehensive about sitting face to face with Arabs across a conference table at the UN—the long-heralded confrontation— and Jabari was a good transition for her. She knew he had been far from the mainstream of Arab thought for thirty years, and his loyalties were with Israel; but if there were such a thing as a racial psyche, then perhaps Abdel Jabari reflected it.
    Jabari watched her closely as she spoke in that husky voice that sometimes sounded weary and often sounded sensuous. Over the years, a bit at a time, he had come to know her story as she had come to know his. They had both known what it was to be the flotsam and jetsam of a world in upheaval. Now they both sat at the top of their society and they were both in a