It was Private Grossman who saw the footprint. Lieutenant Wilentz was leading the other men to the truck after they’d stopped for a ten-minute break when Grossman called out: ‘Sir!’
‘What is it?’ the lieutenant shouted irritably. They’d been out here on the Golan Plateau for over six hours, and everyone wanted to get back – to hot showers, hot food, and cold air-conditioning. The dry season had been unusually prolonged and the temperature was an unseasonal eighty-five. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks of the Mount Hermon range shimmered in the heat like a tempting icecream.
‘There’s a footprint here,’ said Grossman, pointing to the dust lying thickly on the packed earth of the track.
Wilentz came over at once. They were two miles from the Quneitra Crossing, the one official access point between Israel and Syria, though it operated strictly one-way – young Syrians living in the occupied Golan Heights were allowed into their former homeland to pursue their studies, but could only return to their families once a year.
There were frequent incursions; most recently Hezbollah had been active in the area, even setting off landmines on the Syrian side in an effort to ratchet up the tension between the neighbouring states. There was growing concern among the Israeli army command that Hezbollah would venture onto the Israeli side as well, which was why Wilentz and his patrol were there.
The officer studied the print, Grossman beside him. ‘It’s pointing towards the border,’ said the younger man, trying to sound analytic. He was only eighteen.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Lieutenant Wilentz, who tried to be tolerant with the soldiers under his command. Most of them were kids like Grossman, doing their National Service. ‘But,’ he added, ‘that’s not the most important thing. Look at the footprint. Does it tell you anything else?’
Grossman looked down at the indentation in the dust, wondering what he was missing. ‘It looks freshly made,’ he said.
‘Yes. What else?’ Suddenly Lieutenant Wilentz stamped down with his boot, about six inches from the print. ‘Look,’ he ordered.
Grossman peered down, and then he saw it. ‘It’s almost identical.’
‘Exactly. It’s an army boot that made this print. An Israeli army boot.’
Wilentz called to the other men in the patrol and barked orders. They left the truck where it was and moved on foot, Wilentz out in front. As they got further from the road, the footprints became clearer and Wilentz, following the tracks, walked without hesitating.
After half a mile they came to a small rise with a mix of large boulders and loose shingle on its lower slope. The officer signalled his men to halt, then walked back to the group to issue more orders. Five minutes later Private Grossman was clambering up the rocky slope accompanied by Alfi Sternberg, a Haifa conscript he knew from college. Why would a soldier be out here on his own? he wondered. Gone AWOL? But then why was he heading for the Syrian border?
He saw the water bottle first, lying beside a boulder in a small dip in the rock. As he moved towards it, he realised that behind the boulder, sheltered by a larger boulder balanced above it, there was a big space. He gestured with his hand to Sternberg, and together they moved cautiously towards the spot, their rifles at the ready.
Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed the water bottle, then a man rose to his feet from behind the boulder. He was tall and lean and wore fatigues. He stood facing them with the assurance of a veteran soldier, cradling a T.A.R. assault rifle in his arms.
‘Glad to see you,’ he said laconically. ‘I’ve been watching you out there for some time.’
Sternberg laughed in relief and relaxed his grip on his rifle. Grossman hesitated; he didn’t understand what this man was doing here. ‘Who are you?’ he blurted.
‘I’m Leppo,’ the man said at once. ‘Sammy Leppo. I’m out here on Special Patrol. You’ll know what that means, I’m sure,’ he added meaningfully.
Sternberg nodded, but Grossman was still uneasy. With Hezbollah in the vicinity, he could understand why Leppo had hidden when he first heard them moving along the plateau – but something about the situation seemed odd. He said, ‘I’ll need to check that out.’
Leppo nodded easily, but then he said, ‘That’s not really a good idea.’
‘Why?’ asked Grossman, his suspicions returning.
Leppo suddenly swung his rifle round and covered him and Sternberg. ‘Drop your weapons,’ he ordered. There was nothing relaxed about his voice now. Sternberg dropped his rifle at once, and Leppo pointed his rifle at Grossman. ‘Drop it.’ Grossman obeyed, suddenly certain this man would kill him without hesitation.
Then a voice said, ‘You drop it.’
Behind Leppo, Lieutenant Wilentz appeared; he’d circled the rise and climbed down. Now he stood on top of the boulder behind Leppo and snapped his finger. The four other members of the patrol appeared, weapons pointing at Leppo’s back.
Wilentz said, ‘You’d better come with us. There will be plenty of time for you to tell us all about this Special Patrol.’