Free By the Rivers of Babylon by Nelson DeMille Page A

sheep dogs, or else the wolves get them. No matter how many sheep in the flock seem to be getting picked off by the wolves, I assure you, it is worse trying to go it alone. Now, the analogy is not exact, but you get the message.” He tried a fatherly look, but Avidar was having no part of it. Laskov shrugged and turned toward Becker. “David? Anything on your mind?”
    “No, General. I think that wraps it up, except for the call signs on the tactical frequencies.
    Laskov stood up. “Right. I am the Angel Gabriel plus my tail number, which is 32. My squadron is Gabriel with their tail numbers, You, David, are the Wings of Emmanuel. Asher, you are the Kosher Clipper. Well, anyway, it will be Emmanuel and Clipper on the air.” Laskov looked at his watch. It was just two P.M. “One more thing. In addition to the regular peace mission delegates who appear on your passenger manifest, you might get a few extra VIP’s. There will be an American on board, too. John McClure. Some sort of embassy man going home on leave. Tell your Chief Stewards to expect an addendum to the manifest.”
    Becker flipped through his clipboard and found the manifest. “There’s another compatriot of mine coming, too, General. Tom Richardson, the air attaché. You must know him. He has some business in New York.”
    Laskov paused. That must have been a last minute development. Laskov knew it meant something, but he didn’t know what. Maybe just a friendly gesture. He nodded. “He’s sort of a professional acquaintance—a friend when he’s not trying to tell us our business. If he doesn’t like the kosher food, kick his ass out over Rome. Avidar, if he’s on your flight, don’t try to argue politics or religion with him. He has neither.”
    Becker smiled. “He asked to be on my ship. I’ll take good care of him.”
    “Do that,” said Laskov, absently. He walked toward the connecting door to the Dispatch Room where he could see Talman talking to the Chief Dispatcher. He turned around and faced the men who had all stood up again. “David, You said he
picked
your ship?”
    Yes, sir.” Becker handed Laskov the manifest.
    Laskov looked at it. Next to Richardson’s name, which was penned in at the bottom, were the numbers “02.” He knew the combined manifest showed neither plane nor seat selection at this point. Plane selection was a state security matter and would be decided at the last moment. Seat selection was to be left to the individual delegates so that they could group into committees and get some work accomplished on the flight. Laskov wondered why Richardson requested a specific plane since he didn’t know if any friends or acquaintances would be on that plane. Why not wait until he saw how the delegation broke up? Both planes would only be a little over half full. Maybe he wanted to fly with Becker. He looked up. “Did he know you were flying 02?”
    “I think so. I guess he figured he could sit in the jump seat and chat on the way over. He doesn’t speak Hebrew that well.”
    “I guess so. All right, men. Have a good flight. See you at about 5,000 meters.
Shalom.
”
     
    The VIP lounge, down the corridor from both the Operations Room and Hausner’s office, was crowded with about a hundred people. The drapes had been drawn to help the air conditioners, but the lounge was still warm. The darkness, however, gave an illusion of coolness. Every minute or so, someone would part the drapes a bit and look at the two Concordes, standing by themselves and ringed by soldiers.
    Yaakov Leiber, the Chief Steward on Becker’s aircraft, walked into the VIP lounge. Little Yaakov Leiber, as almost
everyone called him, was very nervous. He wished someone else were briefing the passengers on this flight. He was used to giving his little speech in the VIP lounge, but this group was different. He recognized many of the faces and names.
    In addition to the twenty Peace Delegates, there was an unusually large support group of aides, research