any Israeli state secrets, and it wasn’t as though Israel and America were enemies. Gideon was wearing his honorable jut-jawed boy scout expression. Honorable prick! She dropped the subject.
“How about a walk on the beach after we put the girls down?” she asked.
“We can’t, honey. It’s off limits after dark now. Being patrolled. Let’s get downstairs before these little bastards eat us up.”
A FTER THE GIRLS’ lessons and dinner, there was a family rough-house. Gideon noted that it was becoming more difficult to wrestle with Roxanne and get a decent grip on her these days. She was filling out beautifully. Kisses and more kisses good night. Maybe a ride up to Jerusalem in a few days.
Then came an awkward, uncomfortable moment. Gideon had new pages. “I’d better get these into the hotel safe,” he said. “I’ll leave you the carbons. Oh, incidentally, I asked Shlomo to meet me at the hotel tonight. We’ve got to work out some appointments and next week’s travel plans.”
Valerie used to be privy to all the plans, but Gideon seldom talked them over with her anymore. Once upon a time, it had been a wonderful nightly ritual for her to read the new pages back to him while he took notes. She hadn’t read to him for weeks.
The pleasure had faded. Val didn’t laugh at his funny lines anymore, only the mistakes. She would get combative and argue over meaningless points. Val seemed very distant from what he was writing and trying to say. Her barbs left him fuming. Little by little, the pages stopped coming to her on one pretense or another. He’d leave the carbon for her to read on her own.
“I wouldn’t mind reading to you, tonight.” Val’s expressed desire was now a desperate attempt not to be shut out.
“Aw, hell. I’ve really got a ton of stuff to go over with Shlomo.”
They exchanged cold kisses and a “See you later, honey ... don’t wait up for me.”
G IDEON WHEELED the jeep through the breezeway of the Accadia Hotel and spotted Shlomo Bar Adon. Shlomo was an unpolished gem, a native-born sabra who coordinated all of Gideon’s interviews, travels, translations, and showed him every corner of the land. Shlomo knew Israel and taught it with the zeal of an ancient seer. For Gideon, Shlomo’s rough edges were more than compensated for by the breadth of his knowledge.
Valerie barely tolerated him and Roxanne generally mirrored her mother. Val had eased Shlomo out of coming to their home, but he had become indispensable to Gideon. Perhaps she was even a bit jealous.
Shlomo indicated that they should get out of earshot, so they walked to the bluffs.
“We’ve been invited to join an operation,” Shlomo said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Gideon registered a flush of excitement. “Reprisal? Jordan?”
Shlomo shrugged that he didn’t know.
Gideon had pestered, demanded, pleaded for a chance to go out on an action over the border. He knew there was something different about these soldiers, different from any others in the world. Their connection with the ancient biblical warriors intrigued him. The pieces of a six-thousand-year-old puzzle could not be found hidden away in an office drawer. He could only find them by going out and putting the puzzle together with his own hands.
Most of his prodding of the authorities had been done before Val and the girls arrived. They changed the picture. His embarking on such a risky adventure would be brutally unfair to them. But what the hell, writing is unfair. It takes from everyone—the writer, the wife, the children. Everyone’s blood ends up hidden in the pages. Was this beyond reasonable unfairness?
“So, what do you think, Shlomo?”
“Val?”
“Val.”
Shlomo’s black beard and head rolled from side to side: maybe yes, maybe no. “There’s going to be gunfire. People are going to get hurt ... killed ... maimed. You don’t have to smell gunpowder to write about it. Something else pushing you to go
“How about a walk on the beach after we put the girls down?” she asked.
“We can’t, honey. It’s off limits after dark now. Being patrolled. Let’s get downstairs before these little bastards eat us up.”
A FTER THE GIRLS’ lessons and dinner, there was a family rough-house. Gideon noted that it was becoming more difficult to wrestle with Roxanne and get a decent grip on her these days. She was filling out beautifully. Kisses and more kisses good night. Maybe a ride up to Jerusalem in a few days.
Then came an awkward, uncomfortable moment. Gideon had new pages. “I’d better get these into the hotel safe,” he said. “I’ll leave you the carbons. Oh, incidentally, I asked Shlomo to meet me at the hotel tonight. We’ve got to work out some appointments and next week’s travel plans.”
Valerie used to be privy to all the plans, but Gideon seldom talked them over with her anymore. Once upon a time, it had been a wonderful nightly ritual for her to read the new pages back to him while he took notes. She hadn’t read to him for weeks.
The pleasure had faded. Val didn’t laugh at his funny lines anymore, only the mistakes. She would get combative and argue over meaningless points. Val seemed very distant from what he was writing and trying to say. Her barbs left him fuming. Little by little, the pages stopped coming to her on one pretense or another. He’d leave the carbon for her to read on her own.
“I wouldn’t mind reading to you, tonight.” Val’s expressed desire was now a desperate attempt not to be shut out.
“Aw, hell. I’ve really got a ton of stuff to go over with Shlomo.”
They exchanged cold kisses and a “See you later, honey ... don’t wait up for me.”
G IDEON WHEELED the jeep through the breezeway of the Accadia Hotel and spotted Shlomo Bar Adon. Shlomo was an unpolished gem, a native-born sabra who coordinated all of Gideon’s interviews, travels, translations, and showed him every corner of the land. Shlomo knew Israel and taught it with the zeal of an ancient seer. For Gideon, Shlomo’s rough edges were more than compensated for by the breadth of his knowledge.
Valerie barely tolerated him and Roxanne generally mirrored her mother. Val had eased Shlomo out of coming to their home, but he had become indispensable to Gideon. Perhaps she was even a bit jealous.
Shlomo indicated that they should get out of earshot, so they walked to the bluffs.
“We’ve been invited to join an operation,” Shlomo said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Gideon registered a flush of excitement. “Reprisal? Jordan?”
Shlomo shrugged that he didn’t know.
Gideon had pestered, demanded, pleaded for a chance to go out on an action over the border. He knew there was something different about these soldiers, different from any others in the world. Their connection with the ancient biblical warriors intrigued him. The pieces of a six-thousand-year-old puzzle could not be found hidden away in an office drawer. He could only find them by going out and putting the puzzle together with his own hands.
Most of his prodding of the authorities had been done before Val and the girls arrived. They changed the picture. His embarking on such a risky adventure would be brutally unfair to them. But what the hell, writing is unfair. It takes from everyone—the writer, the wife, the children. Everyone’s blood ends up hidden in the pages. Was this beyond reasonable unfairness?
“So, what do you think, Shlomo?”
“Val?”
“Val.”
Shlomo’s black beard and head rolled from side to side: maybe yes, maybe no. “There’s going to be gunfire. People are going to get hurt ... killed ... maimed. You don’t have to smell gunpowder to write about it. Something else pushing you to go
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