P. Deutermann - The Last Man

“Professor?” he asked. “Know anything about these vehicles?”

“I recognize the one,” Ellerstein said. “It confirms my suspicions. There’s something going on. Up there.”

As they both looked up the ghostly slope of the Roman ramp, the radio operator called to the officer to tell him that the Dimona security force was five minutes out.

“I used to work at Dimona, years ago,” Ellerstein said. “So why in the world would the Dimona security people be interested in something happening up here?”

“Beats the shit out of me,” the young officer responded with an elaborate shrug, “but once they get here, they can take over. I don’t like this place. Gives me the creeps.”

“This is where the Romans’ Tenth Legion camped,” Ellerstein said. “I suspect there’s a ghost or three down in that wadi on either side of the siege ramp. Do you know how they built that thing?”

The lieutenant did not. Ellerstein told him. “Don’t tell my troops that,” the lieutenant said, looking over the top of Ellerstein’s car. “These Metsadá patrols are spooky enough. Ah, here come the Dimona specials.” There was relief in his voice.

Ellerstein looked over his shoulder and saw a convoy of at least a dozen trucks grinding up the military track, their headlamps reduced to yellow slit beams. As he watched, trucks peeled off the line at the back and stopped to disgorge troops around the base of the mountain. Just like Roman times, he thought. Circumvallation. Except, of course, for the trucks. Who knows how far Rome would have gone if they’d had trucks. Or tanks. Lord.

He watched as the remainder of the procession came up the slope and spread out into the Roman encampment. He saw one of those American Humvees leading the column. It stopped next to Ellerstein’s car, and three officers climbed out. They were dressed in desert fatigues, and two were carrying submachine guns. They wore different hats from those of the desert patrol. The oldest-looking officer received the lieutenant’s salute and announced that he was now in charge here. Then he came over to speak to Ellerstein, but they had to wait until the rest of the trucks spread out over the encampment grounds. Once all the engine noises subsided, he asked Ellerstein for some identification, glanced at it perfunctorily, and handed it back.

“Now, Professor,” he asked, “would you mind if I join you?”

Shapiro, in his forties, was well built and looked as if he took things seriously. Ellerstein waved him in. They rolled up the windows to shut out the noise and the dust. The colonel immediately produced a cigarette and lit up. He rolled down his own window a few inches. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel David Shapiro. I’m in charge of the military security detachment at the Dimona laboratories. My information is that you think Colonel Skuratov is up on the mountain and that there’s a problem, yes?”

Ellerstein nodded, wondered for a second how much he should tell this sharp-eyed colonel, and then decided to give him the full background. When he was finished, Shapiro nodded thoughtfully as he exhaled a plume of bluish smoke out the window.

“Those two civilian vehicles over there — one’s the American’s, and the other belongs to this Dr. Ressner?”

“I know Ressner’s car; I’m assuming that the other is a rental and the American leased it. Shouldn’t be hard to find out.”

“No, it should not,” Shapiro said. He fished a particle of tobacco from between his teeth for a moment while he considered the story Ellerstein had told him.

“Begging your pardon, Colonel,” Ellerstein said, “but why does the mention of Colonel Skuratov bring out the Dimona military security force?”

The colonel just looked at him, his expression noncommittal. “You say that you know Skuratov?”

“Not exactly; he came to see me about the American’s expedition down here with Yehudit Ressner. I know he’s connected with Dimona.” That’s all I’m going to say, he thought. He dared not mention his own connection with Shabak, or the Zealot conspiracy. “I used to work there, years ago, and I remember him.”

“ You worked at Dimona?”

“Yes, but, as I said, it was many years ago. I’m a theoretical mathematician. I believe, however, that things at Dimona have probably passed the theoretical stage.”

The colonel laughed out loud, two sharp barks. “You’ve got that right, Professor,” he said. “Please wait here. As to your question, the answer is I’m damned if I know. A report was forwarded to our ops center that there was a problem up here at Metsadá and that it involved Skuratov. That report went to the laboratory director, who ordered us out to secure the site and to see what, if anything, was going on. So that, Professor, is what we’re going to do.”

Shapiro stubbed his cigarette out in the car’s ashtray, got out, and walked around the back toward his command vehicle. Ellerstein rolled his window down and called to him. Ellerstein said, “I need to make a phone call. Does anyone have a cell phone?”

“Probably, but there are no towers out here, Professor. It will have to wait.” He walked away and began shouting orders to his officers to deploy the force.

Ellerstein watched as the elite troops fanned out along the rim of the Roman camp. Some trotted down into the wadi on either side of the siege ramp, while others formed up and marched back down the military track toward the Dead Sea side of the fortress. One of the trucks was apparently a mobile communications station, and men began setting it up as a temporary field headquarters.

By now the original desert patrol group was sitting next to their truck on some rocks, smoking cigarettes and watching with the detached curiosity of soldiers who were happily on the sidelines. Colonel Shapiro took ten men and headed up the siege ramp. They set an impressive pace. The men carried submachine guns at port arms. Shapiro had a holstered pistol and a small tactical radio.

Ellerstein got out of his car and fished around for his pipe. The night was startlingly clear and cool, and he reached back in to retrieve a jacket. The gray battlements at the top of the mountain were etched in stark relief against the night sky. Behind him the black silhouettes of the Judaean hills stood guard. He could almost imagine that he could see pale, bearded faces flitting between the arrow slits up there, the ghosts of the Kanna’im keeping an eye on all the commotion in the Roman camp once again. He shivered despite himself. Colonel Shapiro and his team reached the western gate, stepped through the battlements, and disappeared. Ellerstein waited for half an hour and then decided to make his own move. The troops around the comms truck were all settled in, and the rest of the force was deployed out along the old Roman circumvallation perimeter of the site. Puffing gently on his pipe, he walked casually over to the base of the siege ramp, looked back once more, and then started up. No one seemed to notice.

With Judith’s help, David climbed back down from the altar and switched off his headlamp. Judith kept hers on.

“Well?” she asked.

“I can’t see anything up there that looks like an entrance. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one there, but if I can’t see it, I can’t work it.”

She sighed. They walked back over to the ledge on the side of the cave. “So now what?” she asked. Her voice sounded dull, and David realized she was still in shock over finding Dov’s remains.

“Well, for starters, I’ll get my rig back on and go retrieve those air tanks and the extra light.”

“That sounds like we’re just postponing the inevitable,” she said.

“That’s how survival works, Judith. You keep at it, and something might break our way.”