Acts Of War by Jeff Rovin

Author:Jeff Rovin [Rovin, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2011-03-16T20:51:36+00:00

Falah went back into the apartment and snatched up the old, black dial phone.

"Which of my ladies is this?" he asked.

"Neither," said the man's voice on the other end.

The tall, dark-haired young man moved his heels together. His shoulders drew back. Coming to attention was conditioning which never left when your former commander addressed you.

"Master Sergeant Vilnai," Falah said. He said nothing more. After acknowledging a superior, the soldiers of the Sayeret Ha'Druzim responded with silent attention.

"Officer Shibli," said Sergeant Vilnai. "A jeep from the border guard will be arriving at your apartment in approximately five minutes. The driver's name is Salim. Please go with him. Everything you need will be provided."

Falah was still at attention. He wanted to ask his former superior, "Everything I need for where and how long?" But that would have been impertinent. Besides, this was an unsecured line.

"I have a job here--" Fallah said.

"Your shift has been taken care of," the sergeant informed him.

Just like my job, Falah thought. "Take this position, Falah," the sergeant had said. "It will keep your skills in good repair."

"Repeat your orders," said the NCO.

"Border patrol jeep, driver Salim. Pickup in five minutes."

"I'll see you around midnight, Falah. Have a pleasant ride."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

The caller hung up. After a moment, so did Falah. He stood there staring at nothing in particular. He'd known this day would probably come, but so soon? It had only been a few weeks. Just a few. He'd barely had time to get the burning sun of the West Bank out of his eyes.

Will I ever? he asked himself as he went back outside.

The question bothered Falah as he sat heavily in the chair and looked up at the brilliant stars. It bothered him almost as much as why he'd picked up the goddamned telephone. Not that it would have made a difference. Master Sergeant Vilnai would have climbed into a Jeep and come to the station house to get him. The Sayeret Ha'Druzim NCO always got what he wanted.

The charcoal-gray jeep arrived on schedule. Falah pushed off on his knees and walked around to the driver's side.

"ID?" he said to the baby-faced driver with a buzz cut.

The driver removed a laminated card from his shirt pocket. Falah examined it in the glow of the dashboard light. He handed it back.

"Yours, Officer Shibli?" the driver asked.

Falah scowled and pulled the small leather billfold from his pants pocket. He opened it to his police ID card and badge. The driver's eyes shifted from Falah to the photo, then back again.

"It's me," Falah said, "though I wish it weren't."

The driver nodded. "Please get in," he said, leaning across the seat and opening the door.

Falah obliged. Even before the door was shut the driver had swung the jeep around.

The two men headed north in silence along the ancient dirt road. Falah listened to the pebbles as they spat noisily from under the jeep's tires. It had been a while since he'd heard that sound--the sound of haste, of things happening.

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