“Thank God you’re here!” Rachelle is breathless as she pulls Sharon into the vestibule. “I’ve just heard very disturbing news. The editor ordered us not to publish it, but your team should be aware of it.”

“What is it?”

“The RG commander has sent a confidential memo to his superiors in Paris reporting unusual activity on the boats. He suspects that the sale to Norway is fictitious and that instead of sailing next month, the boats will be leaving as early as next week—going to Israel, not Norway.”

A shiver travels down Sharon’s spine. Operation Noa has been exposed. The elaborate ploy has failed. And the ramifications? Beyond her imagination.

Her voice trembling, she asks, “What’s RG?”

“The intelligence arm of the police.”

“Did you see the memo?”

“A carbon copy of it. The original was mailed at noon.”

“Do you know anyone in the post office?”

“My old schoolmate is the assistant manager. Why?”

“Run over and see whether you can intercept that memo. Call me at the office.”

Rachelle jumps into her car, and Sharon takes the steps two at a time, unlocks the apartment door with shaking fingers, and lunges at the phone. Luckily, the operator puts the call through, and when Kadmon picks up, Sharon breathes into the mouthpiece code words that an Israeli educated in Passover culture would understand. “The maiden Noa is naked.”

By the time she reaches the office in a taxi, the top brass is there, including Moka Limon, who must have stayed in town.

Rachelle calls a few minutes later. “He’ll delay it—” she begins, and Sharon cuts her off. “Say no more over the phone. Thanks.”

“If La Presse de la Manche got a copy of the memo, other newspapers may have one too,” Yaniv says. “We’ve run out of time.”

“Any journalist who sniffs out the Oslo address of Starboat will find that it’s only a mailbox,” Kadmon adds.

Only a mailbox? Sharon assumed that the subterfuge had a tighter foundation—at least the address was someone’s office, with typewriters clicking. A company with a functioning front. Why such a flimsy, amateurish game plan that can easily be exposed?

Smoke hangs below the ceiling as the men puff on their cigarettes, grind out the finished ones, and light others. The air is as thick as the tension in the small room.

“It’s twenty-four hours to Christmas Eve.” Limon scans the team, locking eyes with each man. “If the memo is delayed until tomorrow, we’ll be in luck—if there’s no one at the other end to move it up through the channels. However, one astute clerk who has the ear of a cousin high up in government will kill us.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s no choice. The five boats must escape tomorrow night, when the town is busy having Christmas Eve dinner.”

“All five?” Kadmon asks. “The fresh paint in Saar Twelve smells so strong that our hidden guys must sleep in the other boats.”

“And there’s a leak in the gun deck,” Danny adds. “Plus, we’re still waiting for some navigation equipment from Italy.”

Vaknin, the military strategist who hasn’t yet spoken, now says, “We’d be better off taking only four boats rather than risking all five getting stuck because of this one.”

“Four or five boats, the radio system to communicate among them is not yet installed,” Kadmon says.

There is silence as the men contemplate this hurdle.

“Would walkie-talkies do?” Sharon says, then feels silly at her unsophisticated suggestion.

Kadmon, though, perks up. “Check first thing in the morning if there are five still available in the toy stores,” he tells her. “And get two hundred batteries for each. My son runs out of them in an hour and a half of play.”

Where can she find a thousand batteries?

And all this, Sharon thinks, will happen only if Limon gets Golda’s and Dayan’s clearance. The heavy smoke in the small office makes it hard for her to breathe. She rises and steps out for fresh air. Just before she closes the door behind her, she hears Limon speak.

“Operation Noa is on,” he announces. “The Gabriels are ready back home. The Saars will break out tomorrow before midnight. All five.”

Sharon walks away in a daze. The Gabriels. These are surely the new missiles that were tested and are now powerful weapons. Limon has just blurted out top secret information believing she was out of earshot. She recalls Danny hinting in Tel Aviv that something “more exciting than the Saars” was in the works. Now she knows for sure. Israel’s new missiles must be a match for the Russians’. Nothing less will do. Their launchers will be mounted on all twelve Saars, readying them for battle.

The signs are all there. A war is coming. That’s why Limon wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up even one boat.

*  *  *

Christmas Eve is tonight. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon when Sharon crosses the canal on foot on her way home. In spite of the bitter cold, she breaks into a sweat in anticipation of what’s coming tonight. Without the French navy’s accurate weather service, the team relies on public reports from Radio France and the BBC across the English Channel. Both predict a gale-force-nine storm.

Sharon’s day has been hectic; she traveled to toy shops everywhere to find walkie-talkies, doubles of each of five sets in case one breaks. The two reservists helped procure some of the batteries and did the final food shopping. The huge quantities will be loaded onto the boats only when the town settles down for its Christmas Eve meal. Sharon is designated to deliver a bottle of cognac on behalf of the Israeli team to the lone sentry at the port’s watchtower, who will be missing the holiday at home. With all the men on alert confined to the boats, those who double as the security teams won’t be on the lookout for the occasional police cruiser making its rounds.

Most daunting, how can five boats moored in the center of town slip out unnoticed? The blasts of the engines alone should alert even a drunken sentry.

The wind has died down despite the forecast. Sharon is wrapping her scarf to cover the bottom of her face against the cold when she catches sight of three Israeli seamen hauling bicycles into the water.

“What in the world are you doing?” she calls.

“Getting rid of the bikes,” one replies. “By order.”

“Whose order?”

“Danny Yarden’s.”

“Dump the bikes here? Are you nuts? Stop it right now.” She scans the boats. “Where is he?”

“At the Hotel Sofitel.”

She bursts into the hotel’s bar and to her surprise finds Danny perched on a barstool, chatting with Moka Limon and two Frenchmen.

“Here you are,” Limon says to her in French. He’s rarely spoken to her; she is way below his rank. “Would you join us for hot spicy wine?”

“Thanks.” Sharon turns and addresses Danny in Hebrew. “Your guys are dumping bicycles in the canal in full sight. Supposedly by your order.”

“Idiots.” He bristles. “They’re supposed to be discreet. We can’t just abandon dozens of bikes on the dock.” He motions to a junior officer and orders him to handle the crisis. “And remind the men that anyone who says goodbye to his local girlfriend will be subject to court-martial.”

He doesn’t leave his spot, though, and the interrupted conversation with the Frenchmen resumes. Sharon is piqued but sips her mulled wine and listens as the men chat about a new lottery method in the United States to select draftees to Vietnam; a Rolling Stones concert in California at which a woman was trampled to death; and Charles Manson announcing that he’ll defend himself in the Tate-LaBianca murder trial in a few months.

How can Danny suddenly have time for idle chitchat when he’s been avoiding her for weeks? Clinking glasses with the Frenchmen, he and Limon toast the sale of the boats to the Norwegian company. Sharon gets that they are making a public show of being unhurried. But how can they be so insouciant? Not only the boats but also the fate of one hundred and ten men hang in the balance.

After the two Frenchmen depart, Limon tells Sharon, “Nine o’clock tonight, we’re having a celebratory dinner. No spouses. Just our team.” He excuses himself and joins a group of French officers at a table across the room. Danny remains seated, his eyes on Sharon, examining her features.

“What?” She wonders if her mascara is smudged or if this is related to his phone message.