The two Centurions in the back seat looked at the Captain for a moment, then they both jumped out and ran after the man.
An ellipsoidal grey thing streaked out of the darkness, landed in the driver's lap and thudded to the floor of the car. The Captain threw open his door and started to climb out. The driver bent over to see what it was.
At that moment the driver, the command-car and the Captain blew up.
The silence that followed was broken by the blast of a submachine gun as it struck down the two centurions.
"Take their weapons," said a brittle voice.
The detachment of soldiers from the garrison at Tel Aviv stopped and looked around.
"Sir, what is it?" asked a guard anxiously.
"Terribly quiet out here; something's up," the Lieutenant muttered calmly.
There were seven of them. The Lieutenant, the Centurion, and five legionaries. They had grown accustomed to the quiet life of garrison men in a calm, conquered city. When there is nothing tangible to be guarded, a guard's life is a dull one. The guns they carried were the symbol of their authority, and had never been used for any other purpose.